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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: ACT IV. SCENE I. Cyprus. Before the castle. Enter Othello and Iago. IAGO. Will you think so? OTHELLO. Think so, Iago? IAGO. What, To kiss in private? OTHELLO. An unauthorized kiss. IAGO. Or to be naked with her friend in bed An hour or more, not meaning any harm? OTHELLO. Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm! It is hypocrisy against the devil. They that mean virtuously and yet do so, The devil their virtue tempts and they tempt heaven. IAGO. So they do nothing, 'tis a venial slip. But if I give my wife a handkerchief-- OTHELLO. What then? IAGO. Why, then, 'tis hers, my lord, and being hers, She may, I think, bestow't on any man. OTHELLO. She is protectress of her honor too. May she give that? IAGO. Her honor is an essence that's not seen; They have it very oft that have it not. But for the handkerchief-- OTHELLO. By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it. Thou said'st--O, it comes o'er my memory, As doth the raven o'er the infected house, Boding to all--he had my handkerchief. IAGO. Ay, what of that? OTHELLO. That's not so good now. IAGO. What, If I had said I had seen him do you wrong? Or heard him say--as knaves be such abroad, Who having, by their own importunate suit, Or voluntary dotage of some mistress, Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose But they must blab-- OTHELLO. Hath he said anything? IAGO. He hath, my lord; but be you well assured, No more than he'll unswear. OTHELLO. What hath he said? IAGO. Faith, that he did--I know not what he did. OTHELLO. What? what? IAGO. Lie-- OTHELLO. With her? IAGO. With her, on her, what you will. OTHELLO. Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on her, when they belie her. Lie with her! 'Zounds, that's fulsome! Handkerchief-- confessions--handkerchief! To confess and be hanged for his labor-- first, to be hanged, and then to confess. I tremble at it. Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion without some instruction. It is not words that shakes me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips. Is't possible? Confess? Handkerchief? O devil! Falls in a trance. IAGO. Work on, My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught, And many worthy and chaste dames even thus, All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! My lord! My lord, I say! Othello! Enter Cassio. How now, Cassio! CASSIO. What's the matter? IAGO. My lord is fall'n into an epilepsy. This is his second fit; he had one yesterday. CASSIO. Rub him about the temples. IAGO. No, forbear; The lethargy must have his quiet course. If not, he foams at mouth, and by and by Breaks out to savage madness. Look, he stirs. Do you withdraw yourself a little while, He will recover straight. When he is gone, I would on great occasion speak with you. Exit Cassio. How is it, general? Have you not hurt your head? OTHELLO. Dost thou mock me? IAGO. I mock you? No, by heaven. Would you would bear your fortune like a man! OTHELLO. A horned man's a monster and a beast. IAGO. There's many a beast then in a populous city, And many a civil monster. OTHELLO. Did he confess it? IAGO. Good sir, be a man; Think every bearded fellow that's but yoked May draw with you. There's millions now alive That nightly lie in those unproper beds Which they dare swear peculiar. Your case is better. O, 'tis the spite of hell, the fiend's arch-mock, To lip a wanton in a secure couch, And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know, And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be. OTHELLO. O, thou art wise; 'tis certain. IAGO. Stand you awhile apart, Confine yourself but in a patient list. Whilst you were here o'erwhelmed with your grief-- A passion most unsuiting such a man-- Cassio came hither. I shifted him away, And laid good 'scuse upon your ecstasy; Bade him anon return and here speak with me The which he promised. Do but encave yourself And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns, That dwell in every region of his face; For I will make him tell the tale anew, Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when He hath and is again to cope your wife. I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience, Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen, And nothing of a man. OTHELLO. Dost thou hear, Iago? I will be found most cunning in my patience; But (dost thou hear?) most bloody. IAGO. That's not amiss; But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw? Othello retires. Now will I question Cassio of Bianca, A housewife that by selling her desires Buys herself bread and clothes. It is a creature That dotes on Cassio, as 'tis the strumpet's plague To beguile many and be beguiled by one. He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain From the excess of laughter. Here he comes. Re-enter Cassio. As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad; And his unbookish jealousy must construe Poor Cassio's smiles, gestures, and light behavior Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant? CASSIO. The worser that you give me the addition Whose want even kills me. IAGO. Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on't. Now, if this suit lay in Bianca's power, How quickly should you speed! CASSIO. Alas, poor caitiff! OTHELLO. Look, how he laughs already! IAGO. I never knew a woman love man so. CASSIO. Alas, poor rogue! I think, i'faith, she loves me. OTHELLO. Now he denies it faintly and laughs it out. IAGO. Do you hear, Cassio? OTHELLO. Now he importunes him To tell it o'er. Go to; well said, well said. IAGO. She gives it out that you shall marry her. Do you intend it? CASSIO. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. Do you triumph, Roman? Do you triumph? CASSIO. I marry her! What? A customer! I prithee, bear some charity to my wit; do not think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. So, so, so, so. They laugh that win. IAGO. Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry her. CASSIO. Prithee, say true. IAGO. I am a very villain else. OTHELLO. Have you scored me? Well. CASSIO. This is the monkey's own giving out. She is persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and flattery, not out of my promise. OTHELLO. Iago beckons me; now he begins the story. CASSIO. She was here even now; she haunts me in every place. I was the other day talking on the sea bank with certain Venetians, and thither comes the bauble, and, by this hand, she falls me thus about my neck-- OTHELLO. Crying, "O dear Cassio!" as it were; his gesture imports it. CASSIO. So hangs and lolls and weeps upon me; so hales and pulls me. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber. O, I see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shall throw it to. CASSIO. Well, I must leave her company. IAGO. Before me! look where she comes. CASSIO. 'Tis such another fitchew! marry, a perfumed one. Enter Bianca. What do you mean by this haunting of me? BIANCA. Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now? I was a fine fool to take it. I must take out the work? A likely piece of work that you should find it in your chamber and not know who left it there! This is some minx's token, and I must take out the work? There, give it your hobbyhorse. Wheresoever you had it, I'll take out no work on't. CASSIO. How now, my sweet Bianca! how now! how now! OTHELLO. By heaven, that should be my handkerchief! BIANCA. An you'll come to supper tonight, you may; an you will not, come when you are next prepared for. Exit. IAGO. After her, after her. CASSIO. Faith, I must; she'll rail i' the street else. IAGO. Will you sup there? CASSIO. Faith, I intend so. IAGO. Well, I may chance to see you, for I would very fain speak with you. CASSIO. Prithee, come; will you? IAGO. Go to; say no more. Exit Cassio. OTHELLO. [Advancing.] How shall I murther him, Iago? IAGO. Did you perceive how he laughed at his vice? OTHELLO. O Iago! IAGO. And did you see the handkerchief? OTHELLO. Was that mine? IAGO. Yours, by this hand. And to see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife! She gave it him, and he hath given it his whore. OTHELLO. I would have him nine years akilling. A fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman! IAGO. Nay, you must forget that. OTHELLO. Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned tonight, for she shall not live. No, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, the world hath not a sweeter creature. She might lie by an emperor's side, and command him tasks. IAGO. Nay, that's not your way. OTHELLO. Hang her! I do but say what she is. So delicate with her needle, an admirable musician. O, she will sing the savageness out of a bear. Of so high and plenteous wit and invention-- IAGO. She's the worse for all this. OTHELLO. O, a thousand, a thousand times. And then, of so gentle a condition! IAGO. Ay, too gentle. OTHELLO. Nay, that's certain. But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! IAGO. If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to offend, for, if it touch not you, it comes near nobody. OTHELLO. I will chop her into messes. Cuckold me! IAGO. O, 'tis foul in her. OTHELLO. With mine officer! IAGO. That's fouler. OTHELLO. Get me some poison, Iago, this night. I'll not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty unprovide my mind again. This night, Iago. IAGO. Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated. OTHELLO. Good, good, the justice of it pleases, very good. IAGO. And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker. You shall hear more by midnight. OTHELLO. Excellent good. [A trumpet within.] What trumpet is that same? IAGO. Something from Venice, sure. 'Tis Lodovico Come from the Duke. And, see your wife is with him. Enter Lodovico, Desdemona, and Attendants. LODOVICO. God save the worthy general! OTHELLO. With all my heart, sir. LODOVICO. The Duke and Senators of Venice greet you. Gives him a letter. OTHELLO. I kiss the instrument of their pleasures. Opens the letter, and reads. DESDEMONA. And what's the news, good cousin Lodovico? IAGO. I am very glad to see you, signior; Welcome to Cyprus. LODOVICO. I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio? IAGO. Lives, sir. DESDEMONA. Cousin, there's fall'n between him and my lord An unkind breach; but you shall make all well. OTHELLO. Are you sure of that? DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. [Reads.] "This fail you not to do, as you will--" LODOVICO. He did not call; he's busy in the paper. Is there division 'twixt my lord and Cassio? DESDEMONA. A most unhappy one. I would do much To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio. OTHELLO. Fire and brimstone! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. Are you wise? DESDEMONA. What, is he angry? LODOVICO. May be the letter moved him; For, as I think, they do command him home, Deputing Cassio in his government. DESDEMONA. By my troth, I am glad on't. OTHELLO. Indeed! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. I am glad to see you mad. DESDEMONA. Why, sweet Othello? OTHELLO. Devil! Strikes her. DESDEMONA. I have not deserved this. LODOVICO. My lord, this would not be believed in Venice, Though I should swear I saw't. 'Tis very much. Make her amends; she weeps. OTHELLO. O devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight! DESDEMONA. [Going.] I will not stay to offend you. LODOVICO. Truly, an obedient lady. I do beseech your lordship, call her back. OTHELLO. Mistress! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. What would you with her, sir? LODOVICO. Who, I, my lord? OTHELLO. Ay, you did wish that I would make her turn. Sir, she can turn and turn, and yet go on, And turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep; And she's obedient, as you say, obedient, Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears. Concerning this, sir--O well-painted passion!-- I am commanded home. Get you away; I'll send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate, And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt! Exit Desdemona. Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight, I do entreat that we may sup together. You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys! Exit. LODOVICO. Is this the noble Moor whom our full Senate Call all in all sufficient? This the nature Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue The shot of accident nor dart of chance Could neither graze nor pierce? IAGO. He is much changed. LODOVICO. Are his wits safe? Is he not light of brain? IAGO. He's that he is. I may not breathe my censure What he might be: if what he might he is not, I would to heaven he were! LODOVICO. What, strike his wife! IAGO. Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knew That stroke would prove the worst! LODOVICO. Is it his use? Or did the letters work upon his blood, And new create this fault? IAGO. Alas, alas! It is not honesty in me to speak What I have seen and known. You shall observe him, And his own courses will denote him so That I may save my speech. Do but go after, And mark how he continues. LODOVICO. I am sorry that I am deceived in him. Exeunt. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Othello und Iago kommen mitten im Gespräch herein. Iago reizt Othello, indem er argumentiert, dass es kein Verbrechen sei, wenn eine Frau mit einem Mann nackt ist, solange nichts passiert. Iago bemerkt dann, dass wenn er seiner Frau ein Taschentuch geben würde, es ihr allein überlassen wäre, was damit passiert. Diese ständigen Andeutungen von Desdemonas Untreue bringen Othello in einen wirren Fieberwahn. Er konzentriert sich besessen auf das Taschentuch und befragt Iago immer wieder nach Informationen über Cassios Aussagen zu Iago. Schließlich sagt Iago, dass Cassio ihm gesagt hat, dass er mit Desdemona geschlafen hat, und Othello "fällt in Trance". Cassio tritt ein und Iago erwähnt, dass Othello zum zweiten Mal innerhalb von zwei Tagen einen epileptischen Anfall hatte. Er warnt Cassio, sich fernzuhalten, und sagt ihm, dass er mit ihm sprechen möchte, sobald Othello gegangen ist. Othello kommt aus seiner Trance heraus, und Iago erklärt ihm, dass Cassio vorbeigekommen ist und er arrangiert hat, mit dem Ex-Leutnant zu sprechen. Iago befiehlt Othello, sich in der Nähe zu verstecken und Cassios Gesicht während ihres Gesprächs zu beobachten. Iago erklärt, dass er Cassio die Geschichte erneut erzählen lassen wird, wo, wann, wie und wie oft er mit Desdemona geschlafen hat und wann er es wieder tun will. Als Othello sich zurückzieht, informiert Iago das Publikum über seine eigentliche Absicht. Er wird mit Cassio über die Prostituierte Bianca scherzen, damit Cassio lacht, während er die Geschichte von Biancas Werben um ihn erzählt. Othello wird wahnsinnig werden und glauben, dass Cassio mit Iago über Desdemona scherzt. Der Plan funktioniert: Cassio lacht laut, während er Iago die Einzelheiten von Biancas Liebe zu ihm erzählt, und macht sogar Gesten, um ihre sexuellen Annäherungen darzustellen. Gerade als Cassio sagt, dass er Bianca nicht mehr sehen will, kommt sie selbst mit dem Taschentuch herein und beschuldigt Cassio erneut, ihr ein Liebesgeschenk gegeben zu haben, das er von einer anderen Frau erhalten hat. Bianca sagt Cassio, dass er nie wieder willkommen sein wird, wenn er nicht zum Abendessen mit ihr erscheint. Othello hat sein Taschentuch erkannt und kommt aus seinem Versteck hervor, als Cassio und Bianca weg sind. Er fragt sich, wie er seinen ehemaligen Leutnant ermorden soll. Othello beklagt seine Gefühlskälte und Liebe zu Desdemona, aber Iago erinnert ihn an sein Ziel. Othello hat Schwierigkeiten, die Zerbrechlichkeit, Klasse, Schönheit und Anziehungskraft seiner Frau mit ihren ehelichen Untreuehandlungen in Einklang zu bringen. Er schlägt vor, seine Frau zu vergiften, aber Iago rät ihm, sie im Bett zu erwürgen, das sie durch ihre Untreue entweiht hat. Iago verspricht auch, Cassios Tod zu arrangieren. Desdemona kommt mit Lodovico herein, der mit einer Nachricht vom Herzog aus Venedig gekommen ist. Lodovico irritiert Othello, indem er nach Cassio fragt, und Desdemona irritiert Othello, indem sie Lodovicos Fragen beantwortet. Der Inhalt des Briefes verärgert auch Othello - er wurde zurück nach Venedig gerufen und hat den Befehl erhalten, Cassio als seinen Nachfolger in Zypern zu lassen. Als Desdemona die Nachricht hört, dass sie Zypern verlassen wird, drückt sie ihre Freude aus, woraufhin Othello sie schlägt. Lodovico ist entsetzt über Othellos Kontrollverlust und bittet Othello, Desdemona zurückzurufen, die die Bühne verlassen hat. Othello tut dies, nur um sie als falsche und promiskuitive Frau zu beschuldigen. Er sagt Lodovico, dass er den Befehlen des Herzogs gehorchen wird, befiehlt Desdemona zu gehen und stürmt davon. Lodovico kann nicht glauben, dass der Othello, den er gerade gesehen hat, der gleiche selbstbeherrschte Mann ist, den er einst kannte. Er fragt sich, ob Othello wahnsinnig ist, aber Iago weigert sich, Lodovicos Fragen zu beantworten, und sagt ihm, dass er selbst sehen 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. Chapter: SCENE II. A room in the castle. Enter Othello and Emilia. OTHELLO. You have seen nothing, then? EMILIA. Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect. OTHELLO. Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together. EMILIA. But then I saw no harm, and then I heard Each syllable that breath made up between them. OTHELLO. What, did they never whisper? EMILIA. Never, my lord. OTHELLO. Nor send you out o' the way? EMILIA. Never. OTHELLO. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing? EMILIA. Never, my lord. OTHELLO. That's strange. EMILIA. I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, Lay down my soul at stake. If you think other, Remove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom. If any wretch have put this in your head, Let heaven requite it with the serpent's curse! For if she be not honest, chaste, and true, There's no man happy; the purest of their wives Is foul as slander. OTHELLO. Bid her come hither; go. Exit Emilia. She says enough; yet she's a simple bawd That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore, A closet lock and key of villainous secrets. And yet she'll kneel and pray; I have seen her do't. Enter Desdemona with Emilia. DESDEMONA. My lord, what is your will? OTHELLO. Pray, chuck, come hither. DESDEMONA. What is your pleasure? OTHELLO. Let me see your eyes; Look in my face. DESDEMONA. What horrible fancy's this? OTHELLO. [To Emilia.] Some of your function, mistress, Leave procreants alone and shut the door; Cough, or cry "hem," if anybody come. Your mystery, your mystery; nay, dispatch. Exit Emilia. DESDEMONA. Upon my knees, what doth your speech import? I understand a fury in your words, But not the words. OTHELLO. Why, what art thou? DESDEMONA. Your wife, my lord, your true and loyal wife. OTHELLO. Come, swear it, damn thyself; Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves Should fear to seize thee. Therefore be double-damn'd; Swear thou art honest. DESDEMONA. Heaven doth truly know it. OTHELLO. Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell. DESDEMONA. To whom, my lord? with whom? how am I false? OTHELLO. O Desdemona! Away! away! away! DESDEMONA. Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep? Am I the motive of these tears, my lord? If haply you my father do suspect An instrument of this your calling back, Lay not your blame on me. If you have lost him, Why, I have lost him too. OTHELLO. Had it pleased heaven To try me with affliction, had they rain'd All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head, Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips, Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes, I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience; but, alas, to make me A fixed figure for the time for scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at! Yet could I bear that too, well, very well; But there, where I have garner'd up my heart, Where either I must live or bear no life; The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up; to be discarded thence! Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there, Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin, Ay, there, look grim as hell! DESDEMONA. I hope my noble lord esteems me honest. OTHELLO. O, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles, That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born! DESDEMONA. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed? OTHELLO. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write "whore" upon? What committed? Committed? O thou public commoner! I should make very forges of my cheeks, That would to cinders burn up modesty, Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed! Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks; The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets, Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth, And will not hear it. What committed? Impudent strumpet! DESDEMONA. By heaven, you do me wrong. OTHELLO. Are not you a strumpet? DESDEMONA. No, as I am a Christian. If to preserve this vessel for my lord From any other foul unlawful touch Be not to be a strumpet, I am none. OTHELLO. What, not a whore? DESDEMONA. No, as I shall be saved. OTHELLO. Is't possible? DESDEMONA. O, heaven forgive us! OTHELLO. I cry you mercy then; I took you for that cunning whore of Venice That married with Othello. [Raises his voice.] You, mistress, That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keep the gate of hell! Re-enter Emilia. You, you, ay, you! We have done our course; there's money for your pains. I pray you, turn the key, and keep our counsel. Exit. EMILIA. Alas, what does this gentleman conceive? How do you, madam? How do you, my good lady? DESDEMONA. Faith, half asleep. EMILIA. Good madam, what's the matter with my lord? DESDEMONA. With who? EMILIA. Why, with my lord, madam. DESDEMONA. Who is thy lord? EMILIA. He that is yours, sweet lady. DESDEMONA. I have none. Do not talk to me, Emilia; I cannot weep, nor answer have I none But what should go by water. Prithee, tonight Lay on my bed my wedding sheets. Remember, And call thy husband hither. EMILIA. Here's a change indeed! Exit. DESDEMONA. 'Tis meet I should be used so, very meet. How have I been behaved, that he might stick The small'st opinion on my least misuse? Re-enter Emilia with Iago. IAGO. What is your pleasure, madam? How is't with you? DESDEMONA. I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes Do it with gentle means and easy tasks. He might have chid me so, for in good faith, I am a child to chiding. IAGO. What's the matter, lady? EMILIA. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her, Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her, As true hearts cannot bear. DESDEMONA. Am I that name, Iago? IAGO. What name, fair lady? DESDEMONA. Such as she says my lord did say I was. EMILIA. He call'd her whore; a beggar in his drink Could not have laid such terms upon his callet. IAGO. Why did he so? DESDEMONA. I do not know; I am sure I am none such. IAGO. Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day! EMILIA. Hath she forsook so many noble matches, Her father and her country and her friends, To be call'd whore? Would it not make one weep? DESDEMONA. It is my wretched fortune. IAGO. Beshrew him for't! How comes this trick upon him? DESDEMONA. Nay, heaven doth know. EMILIA. I will be hang'd, if some eternal villain, Some busy and insinuating rogue, Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office, Have not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else. IAGO. Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible. DESDEMONA. If any such there be, heaven pardon him! EMILIA. A halter pardon him! And hell gnaw his bones! Why should he call her whore? Who keeps her company? What place? What time? What form? What likelihood? The Moor's abused by some most villainous knave, Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow. O heaven, that such companions thou'ldst unfold, And put in every honest hand a whip To lash the rascals naked through the world Even from the east to the west! IAGO. Speak within door. EMILIA. O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was That turn'd your wit the seamy side without, And made you to suspect me with the Moor. IAGO. You are a fool; go to. DESDEMONA. O good Iago, What shall I do to win my lord again? Good friend, go to him, for by this light of heaven, I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel: If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, Delighted them in any other form, Or that I do not yet, and ever did, And ever will, though he do shake me off To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly, Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much, And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love. I cannot say "whore." It doth abhor me now I speak the word; To do the act that might the addition earn Not the world's mass of vanity could make me. IAGO. I pray you, be content; 'tis but his humor: The business of the state does him offense, And he does chide with you. DESDEMONA. If 'twere no other-- IAGO. 'Tis but so, I warrant. Trumpets within. Hark, how these instruments summon to supper! The messengers of Venice stay the meat. Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well. Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. Enter Roderigo. How now, Roderigo! RODERIGO. I do not find that thou dealest justly with me. IAGO. What in the contrary? RODERIGO. Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago; and rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from me all conveniency than suppliest me with the least advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure it; nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered. IAGO. Will you hear me, Roderigo? RODERIGO. Faith, I have heard too much, for your words and performances are no kin together. IAGO. You charge me most unjustly. RODERIGO. With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out of my means. The jewels you have had from me to deliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a votarist. You have told me she hath received them and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden respect and acquaintance; but I find none. IAGO. Well, go to, very well. RODERIGO. Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor 'tis not very well. By this hand, I say 'tis very scurvy, and begin to find myself fopped in it. IAGO. Very well. RODERIGO. I tell you 'tis not very well. I will make myself known to Desdemona. If she will return me my jewels, I will give over my suit and repent my unlawful solicitation; if not, assure yourself I will seek satisfaction of you. IAGO. You have said now. RODERIGO. Ay, and said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing. IAGO. Why, now I see there's mettle in thee; and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo. Thou hast taken against me a most just exception; but yet, I protest, I have dealt most directly in thy affair. RODERIGO. It hath not appeared. IAGO. I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and your suspicion is not without wit and judgement. But, Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I have greater reason to believe now than ever, I mean purpose, courage, and valor, this night show it; if thou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona, take me from this world with treachery and devise engines for my life. RODERIGO. Well, what is it? Is it within reason and compass? IAGO. Sir, there is especial commission come from Venice to depute Cassio in Othello's place. RODERIGO. Is that true? Why then Othello and Desdemona return again to Venice. IAGO. O, no; he goes into Mauritania, and takes away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be lingered here by some accident; wherein none can be so determinate as the removing of Cassio. RODERIGO. How do you mean, removing of him? IAGO. Why, by making him uncapable of Othello's place; knocking out his brains. RODERIGO. And that you would have me to do? IAGO. Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit and a right. He sups tonight with a harlotry, and thither will I go to him. He knows not yet of his honorable fortune. If you will watch his going thence, which his will fashion to fall out between twelve and one, you may take him at your pleasure; I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me; I will show you such a necessity in his death that you shall think yourself bound to put it on him. It is now high supper-time, and the night grows to waste. About it. RODERIGO. I will hear further reason for this. IAGO. And you shall be satisfied. Exeunt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Othello befragt Emilia nach dem Verhalten von Desdemona, aber Emilia besteht darauf, dass Desdemona nichts Verdächtiges getan hat. Othello befiehlt Emilia, Desdemona herbeizurufen und deutet dabei an, während Emilia weg ist, dass sie eine "Zuhälterin" oder weibliche Prostituierte sei. Als Emilia mit Desdemona zurückkommt, schickt Othello Emilia, um die Tür zu bewachen. Allein mit Desdemona weint Othello und verkündet, dass er jede andere Qual hätte ertragen können, außer der Verunreinigung der "Quelle", aus der seine zukünftigen Kinder fließen sollen. Als Desdemona leidenschaftlich behauptet, nicht untreu gewesen zu sein, antwortet Othello spöttisch, dass er um Verzeihung bitte: Er hielt sie für die "hinterlistige Hure von Venedig", die Othello heiratete. Othello stürmt aus dem Raum und Emilia kommt herein, um ihre Herrin zu trösten. Desdemona sagt Emilia, dass sie ihre Hochzeitslaken auf das Bett legen solle für diese Nacht. Auf Desdemonas Bitte hin bringt Emilia Iago herein und Desdemona versucht von ihm herauszufinden, warum Othello sie wie eine Hure behandelt hat. Emilia sagt zu ihrem Ehemann, dass Othello von einigen Schurken getäuscht worden sein muss, derselben Art von Schurke, der Iago vermuten ließ, dass Emilia mit Othello geschlafen habe. Iago versichert Desdemona, dass Othello lediglich durch offizielle Angelegenheiten verärgert ist, und ein Trompetensignal ruft Emilia und Desdemona zum Essen mit den venezianischen Gesandten. Roderigo tritt ein, wütend darüber, dass er immer noch in seiner Liebe frustriert ist, und bereit, sich in seiner Bewerbung um Desdemona bekannt zu machen, damit sie ihm alle Juwelen zurückgeben kann, die Iago angeblich von ihm erhalten haben soll. Iago sagt Roderigo, dass Cassio Othellos Stelle übernehmen soll. Iago lügt auch und behauptet, dass Othello nach Mauretanien in Afrika geschickt wird, obwohl er tatsächlich nach Venedig zurückgeschickt wird. Er sagt Roderigo, dass die einzige Möglichkeit, zu verhindern, dass Othello Desdemona mit nach Afrika nimmt, darin besteht, Cassio loszuwerden. Er macht sich daran, Roderigo davon zu überzeugen, dass er der Richtige ist, um "Hirne auszuschlagen".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Had there been in White Fang's nature any possibility, no matter how remote, of his ever coming to fraternise with his kind, such possibility was irretrievably destroyed when he was made leader of the sled-team. For now the dogs hated him--hated him for the extra meat bestowed upon him by Mit-sah; hated him for all the real and fancied favours he received; hated him for that he fled always at the head of the team, his waving brush of a tail and his perpetually retreating hind-quarters for ever maddening their eyes. And White Fang just as bitterly hated them back. Being sled-leader was anything but gratifying to him. To be compelled to run away before the yelling pack, every dog of which, for three years, he had thrashed and mastered, was almost more than he could endure. But endure it he must, or perish, and the life that was in him had no desire to perish out. The moment Mit-sah gave his order for the start, that moment the whole team, with eager, savage cries, sprang forward at White Fang. There was no defence for him. If he turned upon them, Mit-sah would throw the stinging lash of the whip into his face. Only remained to him to run away. He could not encounter that howling horde with his tail and hind-quarters. These were scarcely fit weapons with which to meet the many merciless fangs. So run away he did, violating his own nature and pride with every leap he made, and leaping all day long. One cannot violate the promptings of one's nature without having that nature recoil upon itself. Such a recoil is like that of a hair, made to grow out from the body, turning unnaturally upon the direction of its growth and growing into the body--a rankling, festering thing of hurt. And so with White Fang. Every urge of his being impelled him to spring upon the pack that cried at his heels, but it was the will of the gods that this should not be; and behind the will, to enforce it, was the whip of cariboo-gut with its biting thirty-foot lash. So White Fang could only eat his heart in bitterness and develop a hatred and malice commensurate with the ferocity and indomitability of his nature. If ever a creature was the enemy of its kind, White Fang was that creature. He asked no quarter, gave none. He was continually marred and scarred by the teeth of the pack, and as continually he left his own marks upon the pack. Unlike most leaders, who, when camp was made and the dogs were unhitched, huddled near to the gods for protection, White Fang disdained such protection. He walked boldly about the camp, inflicting punishment in the night for what he had suffered in the day. In the time before he was made leader of the team, the pack had learned to get out of his way. But now it was different. Excited by the day- long pursuit of him, swayed subconsciously by the insistent iteration on their brains of the sight of him fleeing away, mastered by the feeling of mastery enjoyed all day, the dogs could not bring themselves to give way to him. When he appeared amongst them, there was always a squabble. His progress was marked by snarl and snap and growl. The very atmosphere he breathed was surcharged with hatred and malice, and this but served to increase the hatred and malice within him. When Mit-sah cried out his command for the team to stop, White Fang obeyed. At first this caused trouble for the other dogs. All of them would spring upon the hated leader only to find the tables turned. Behind him would be Mit-sah, the great whip singing in his hand. So the dogs came to understand that when the team stopped by order, White Fang was to be let alone. But when White Fang stopped without orders, then it was allowed them to spring upon him and destroy him if they could. After several experiences, White Fang never stopped without orders. He learned quickly. It was in the nature of things, that he must learn quickly if he were to survive the unusually severe conditions under which life was vouchsafed him. But the dogs could never learn the lesson to leave him alone in camp. Each day, pursuing him and crying defiance at him, the lesson of the previous night was erased, and that night would have to be learned over again, to be as immediately forgotten. Besides, there was a greater consistence in their dislike of him. They sensed between themselves and him a difference of kind--cause sufficient in itself for hostility. Like him, they were domesticated wolves. But they had been domesticated for generations. Much of the Wild had been lost, so that to them the Wild was the unknown, the terrible, the ever-menacing and ever warring. But to him, in appearance and action and impulse, still clung the Wild. He symbolised it, was its personification: so that when they showed their teeth to him they were defending themselves against the powers of destruction that lurked in the shadows of the forest and in the dark beyond the camp-fire. But there was one lesson the dogs did learn, and that was to keep together. White Fang was too terrible for any of them to face single- handed. They met him with the mass-formation, otherwise he would have killed them, one by one, in a night. As it was, he never had a chance to kill them. He might roll a dog off its feet, but the pack would be upon him before he could follow up and deliver the deadly throat-stroke. At the first hint of conflict, the whole team drew together and faced him. The dogs had quarrels among themselves, but these were forgotten when trouble was brewing with White Fang. On the other hand, try as they would, they could not kill White Fang. He was too quick for them, too formidable, too wise. He avoided tight places and always backed out of it when they bade fair to surround him. While, as for getting him off his feet, there was no dog among them capable of doing the trick. His feet clung to the earth with the same tenacity that he clung to life. For that matter, life and footing were synonymous in this unending warfare with the pack, and none knew it better than White Fang. So he became the enemy of his kind, domesticated wolves that they were, softened by the fires of man, weakened in the sheltering shadow of man's strength. White Fang was bitter and implacable. The clay of him was so moulded. He declared a vendetta against all dogs. And so terribly did he live this vendetta that Grey Beaver, fierce savage himself, could not but marvel at White Fang's ferocity. Never, he swore, had there been the like of this animal; and the Indians in strange villages swore likewise when they considered the tale of his killings amongst their dogs. When White Fang was nearly five years old, Grey Beaver took him on another great journey, and long remembered was the havoc he worked amongst the dogs of the many villages along the Mackenzie, across the Rockies, and down the Porcupine to the Yukon. He revelled in the vengeance he wreaked upon his kind. They were ordinary, unsuspecting dogs. They were not prepared for his swiftness and directness, for his attack without warning. They did not know him for what he was, a lightning-flash of slaughter. They bristled up to him, stiff-legged and challenging, while he, wasting no time on elaborate preliminaries, snapping into action like a steel spring, was at their throats and destroying them before they knew what was happening and while they were yet in the throes of surprise. He became an adept at fighting. He economised. He never wasted his strength, never tussled. He was in too quickly for that, and, if he missed, was out again too quickly. The dislike of the wolf for close quarters was his to an unusual degree. He could not endure a prolonged contact with another body. It smacked of danger. It made him frantic. He must be away, free, on his own legs, touching no living thing. It was the Wild still clinging to him, asserting itself through him. This feeling had been accentuated by the Ishmaelite life he had led from his puppyhood. Danger lurked in contacts. It was the trap, ever the trap, the fear of it lurking deep in the life of him, woven into the fibre of him. In consequence, the strange dogs he encountered had no chance against him. He eluded their fangs. He got them, or got away, himself untouched in either event. In the natural course of things there were exceptions to this. There were times when several dogs, pitching on to him, punished him before he could get away; and there were times when a single dog scored deeply on him. But these were accidents. In the main, so efficient a fighter had he become, he went his way unscathed. Another advantage he possessed was that of correctly judging time and distance. Not that he did this consciously, however. He did not calculate such things. It was all automatic. His eyes saw correctly, and the nerves carried the vision correctly to his brain. The parts of him were better adjusted than those of the average dog. They worked together more smoothly and steadily. His was a better, far better, nervous, mental, and muscular co-ordination. When his eyes conveyed to his brain the moving image of an action, his brain without conscious effort, knew the space that limited that action and the time required for its completion. Thus, he could avoid the leap of another dog, or the drive of its fangs, and at the same moment could seize the infinitesimal fraction of time in which to deliver his own attack. Body and brain, his was a more perfected mechanism. Not that he was to be praised for it. Nature had been more generous to him than to the average animal, that was all. It was in the summer that White Fang arrived at Fort Yukon. Grey Beaver had crossed the great watershed between Mackenzie and the Yukon in the late winter, and spent the spring in hunting among the western outlying spurs of the Rockies. Then, after the break-up of the ice on the Porcupine, he had built a canoe and paddled down that stream to where it effected its junction with the Yukon just under the Arctic circle. Here stood the old Hudson's Bay Company fort; and here were many Indians, much food, and unprecedented excitement. It was the summer of 1898, and thousands of gold-hunters were going up the Yukon to Dawson and the Klondike. Still hundreds of miles from their goal, nevertheless many of them had been on the way for a year, and the least any of them had travelled to get that far was five thousand miles, while some had come from the other side of the world. Here Grey Beaver stopped. A whisper of the gold-rush had reached his ears, and he had come with several bales of furs, and another of gut-sewn mittens and moccasins. He would not have ventured so long a trip had he not expected generous profits. But what he had expected was nothing to what he realised. His wildest dreams had not exceeded a hundred per cent. profit; he made a thousand per cent. And like a true Indian, he settled down to trade carefully and slowly, even if it took all summer and the rest of the winter to dispose of his goods. It was at Fort Yukon that White Fang saw his first white men. As compared with the Indians he had known, they were to him another race of beings, a race of superior gods. They impressed him as possessing superior power, and it is on power that godhead rests. White Fang did not reason it out, did not in his mind make the sharp generalisation that the white gods were more powerful. It was a feeling, nothing more, and yet none the less potent. As, in his puppyhood, the looming bulks of the tepees, man-reared, had affected him as manifestations of power, so was he affected now by the houses and the huge fort all of massive logs. Here was power. Those white gods were strong. They possessed greater mastery over matter than the gods he had known, most powerful among which was Grey Beaver. And yet Grey Beaver was as a child-god among these white- skinned ones. To be sure, White Fang only felt these things. He was not conscious of them. Yet it is upon feeling, more often than thinking, that animals act; and every act White Fang now performed was based upon the feeling that the white men were the superior gods. In the first place he was very suspicious of them. There was no telling what unknown terrors were theirs, what unknown hurts they could administer. He was curious to observe them, fearful of being noticed by them. For the first few hours he was content with slinking around and watching them from a safe distance. Then he saw that no harm befell the dogs that were near to them, and he came in closer. In turn he was an object of great curiosity to them. His wolfish appearance caught their eyes at once, and they pointed him out to one another. This act of pointing put White Fang on his guard, and when they tried to approach him he showed his teeth and backed away. Not one succeeded in laying a hand on him, and it was well that they did not. White Fang soon learned that very few of these gods--not more than a dozen--lived at this place. Every two or three days a steamer (another and colossal manifestation of power) came into the bank and stopped for several hours. The white men came from off these steamers and went away on them again. There seemed untold numbers of these white men. In the first day or so, he saw more of them than he had seen Indians in all his life; and as the days went by they continued to come up the river, stop, and then go on up the river out of sight. But if the white gods were all-powerful, their dogs did not amount to much. This White Fang quickly discovered by mixing with those that came ashore with their masters. They were irregular shapes and sizes. Some were short-legged--too short; others were long-legged--too long. They had hair instead of fur, and a few had very little hair at that. And none of them knew how to fight. As an enemy of his kind, it was in White Fang's province to fight with them. This he did, and he quickly achieved for them a mighty contempt. They were soft and helpless, made much noise, and floundered around clumsily trying to accomplish by main strength what he accomplished by dexterity and cunning. They rushed bellowing at him. He sprang to the side. They did not know what had become of him; and in that moment he struck them on the shoulder, rolling them off their feet and delivering his stroke at the throat. Sometimes this stroke was successful, and a stricken dog rolled in the dirt, to be pounced upon and torn to pieces by the pack of Indian dogs that waited. White Fang was wise. He had long since learned that the gods were made angry when their dogs were killed. The white men were no exception to this. So he was content, when he had overthrown and slashed wide the throat of one of their dogs, to drop back and let the pack go in and do the cruel finishing work. It was then that the white men rushed in, visiting their wrath heavily on the pack, while White Fang went free. He would stand off at a little distance and look on, while stones, clubs, axes, and all sorts of weapons fell upon his fellows. White Fang was very wise. But his fellows grew wise in their own way; and in this White Fang grew wise with them. They learned that it was when a steamer first tied to the bank that they had their fun. After the first two or three strange dogs had been downed and destroyed, the white men hustled their own animals back on board and wreaked savage vengeance on the offenders. One white man, having seen his dog, a setter, torn to pieces before his eyes, drew a revolver. He fired rapidly, six times, and six of the pack lay dead or dying--another manifestation of power that sank deep into White Fang's consciousness. White Fang enjoyed it all. He did not love his kind, and he was shrewd enough to escape hurt himself. At first, the killing of the white men's dogs had been a diversion. After a time it became his occupation. There was no work for him to do. Grey Beaver was busy trading and getting wealthy. So White Fang hung around the landing with the disreputable gang of Indian dogs, waiting for steamers. With the arrival of a steamer the fun began. After a few minutes, by the time the white men had got over their surprise, the gang scattered. The fun was over until the next steamer should arrive. But it can scarcely be said that White Fang was a member of the gang. He did not mingle with it, but remained aloof, always himself, and was even feared by it. It is true, he worked with it. He picked the quarrel with the strange dog while the gang waited. And when he had overthrown the strange dog the gang went in to finish it. But it is equally true that he then withdrew, leaving the gang to receive the punishment of the outraged gods. It did not require much exertion to pick these quarrels. All he had to do, when the strange dogs came ashore, was to show himself. When they saw him they rushed for him. It was their instinct. He was the Wild--the unknown, the terrible, the ever-menacing, the thing that prowled in the darkness around the fires of the primeval world when they, cowering close to the fires, were reshaping their instincts, learning to fear the Wild out of which they had come, and which they had deserted and betrayed. Generation by generation, down all the generations, had this fear of the Wild been stamped into their natures. For centuries the Wild had stood for terror and destruction. And during all this time free licence had been theirs, from their masters, to kill the things of the Wild. In doing this they had protected both themselves and the gods whose companionship they shared. And so, fresh from the soft southern world, these dogs, trotting down the gang-plank and out upon the Yukon shore had but to see White Fang to experience the irresistible impulse to rush upon him and destroy him. They might be town-reared dogs, but the instinctive fear of the Wild was theirs just the same. Not alone with their own eyes did they see the wolfish creature in the clear light of day, standing before them. They saw him with the eyes of their ancestors, and by their inherited memory they knew White Fang for the wolf, and they remembered the ancient feud. All of which served to make White Fang's days enjoyable. If the sight of him drove these strange dogs upon him, so much the better for him, so much the worse for them. They looked upon him as legitimate prey, and as legitimate prey he looked upon them. Not for nothing had he first seen the light of day in a lonely lair and fought his first fights with the ptarmigan, the weasel, and the lynx. And not for nothing had his puppyhood been made bitter by the persecution of Lip-lip and the whole puppy pack. It might have been otherwise, and he would then have been otherwise. Had Lip-lip not existed, he would have passed his puppyhood with the other puppies and grown up more doglike and with more liking for dogs. Had Grey Beaver possessed the plummet of affection and love, he might have sounded the deeps of White Fang's nature and brought up to the surface all manner of kindly qualities. But these things had not been so. The clay of White Fang had been moulded until he became what he was, morose and lonely, unloving and ferocious, the enemy of all his kind. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Mit-sah macht White Fang zum Anführer des Hundeschlitten-Teams und beendet damit jede Chance, wenn auch noch so gering, dass White Fang ein Freund für den Rest der Hunde hätte sein können. Er ist jetzt ihr Feind, so wie zuvor Lip-lip. White Fang nimmt Rache an seinen Rudelgenossen bei Nacht. Sie versuchen, ihn zu töten, doch sie können es nicht; White Fang ist zu schnell, zu stark und zu schlau. White Fang ist im Sommer 1898, als er fünf Jahre alt ist, bei Gray Beaver, der ihn nach Fort Yukon bringt, wo weiße Männer dem Goldrausch nachgehen. Gray Beaver hofft, seine Waren und Güter mit den weißen Männern zu tauschen und einen großen Gewinn zu machen, was ihm prompt gelingt, sogar größer als er erwartet hatte. Die weißen Goldgräber beeindrucken White Fang als "eine andere Rasse von Wesen, eine Rasse überlegener Götter." Doch die Hunde der neuen Götter stellen keine Herausforderung für White Fang dar. Er kämpft leicht gegen sie und besiegt sie; schlau genug, sogar vor den letzten Schlägen zu fliehen und das Rudel von Hunden, das sich hinter ihm versammelt, seinen Feind für ihn erledigen zu lassen und so selbst Strafe von den weißen Männern zu vermeiden. Getrennt von den Indianerhunden durch Hass und von weißen Haushunden durch Angst ist White Fang praktisch ein Tier für sich allein, eine Verkörperung des Wilden - distanziert, wütend und allein.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him. The man had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe. "I'm good f'ler, girls," he said, convincingly. "I'm damn good f'ler. An'body treats me right, I allus trea's zem right! See?" The women nodded their heads approvingly. "To be sure," they cried out in hearty chorus. "You're the kind of a man we like, Pete. You're outa sight! What yeh goin' to buy this time, dear?" "An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," said the man in an abandonment of good will. His countenance shone with the true spirit of benevolence. He was in the proper mode of missionaries. He would have fraternized with obscure Hottentots. And above all, he was overwhelmed in tenderness for his friends, who were all illustrious. "An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," repeated he, waving his hands with beneficent recklessness. "I'm good f'ler, girls, an' if an'body treats me right I--here," called he through an open door to a waiter, "bring girls drinks, damn it. What 'ill yehs have, girls? An't'ing yehs wants, damn it!" The waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves intoxicants for the man who takes too much of them. He nodded his head shortly at the order from each individual, and went. "Damn it," said the man, "we're havin' heluva time. I like you girls! Damn'd if I don't! Yer right sort! See?" He spoke at length and with feeling, concerning the excellencies of his assembled friends. "Don' try pull man's leg, but have a heluva time! Das right! Das way teh do! Now, if I sawght yehs tryin' work me fer drinks, wouldn' buy damn t'ing! But yer right sort, damn it! Yehs know how ter treat a f'ler, an' I stays by yehs 'til spen' las' cent! Das right! I'm good f'ler an' I knows when an'body treats me right!" Between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man discoursed to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living things. He laid stress upon the purity of his motives in all dealings with men in the world and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for those who were amiable. Tears welled slowly from his eyes. His voice quavered when he spoke to them. Once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth. "Here," said he, quite magnificently, "here's quar'." The waiter kept his hands on his tray. "I don' want yer money," he said. The other put forth the coin with tearful insistence. "Here, damn it," cried he, "tak't! Yer damn goo' f'ler an' I wan' yehs tak't!" "Come, come, now," said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is forced into giving advice. "Put yer mon in yer pocket! Yer loaded an' yehs on'y makes a damn fool of yerself." As the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the women. "He don' know I'm damn goo' f'ler," cried he, dismally. "Never you mind, Pete, dear," said a woman of brilliance and audacity, laying her hand with great affection upon his arm. "Never you mind, old boy! We'll stay by you, dear!" "Das ri'," cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of the woman's voice. "Das ri', I'm damn goo' f'ler an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I treats zem ri'! Shee!" "Sure!" cried the women. "And we're not goin' back on you, old man." The man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity. He felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action he would die. "Shay, Nell, damn it, I allus trea's yehs shquare, didn' I? I allus been goo' f'ler wi' yehs, ain't I, Nell?" "Sure you have, Pete," assented the woman. She delivered an oration to her companions. "Yessir, that's a fact. Pete's a square fellah, he is. He never goes back on a friend. He's the right kind an' we stay by him, don't we, girls?" "Sure," they exclaimed. Looking lovingly at him they raised their glasses and drank his health. "Girlsh," said the man, beseechingly, "I allus trea's yehs ri', didn' I? I'm goo' f'ler, ain' I, girlsh?" "Sure," again they chorused. "Well," said he finally, "le's have nozzer drink, zen." "That's right," hailed a woman, "that's right. Yer no bloomin' jay! Yer spends yer money like a man. Dat's right." The man pounded the table with his quivering fists. "Yessir," he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him. "I'm damn goo' f'ler, an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I allus trea's--le's have nozzer drink." He began to beat the wood with his glass. "Shay," howled he, growing suddenly impatient. As the waiter did not then come, the man swelled with wrath. "Shay," howled he again. The waiter appeared at the door. "Bringsh drinksh," said the man. The waiter disappeared with the orders. "Zat f'ler damn fool," cried the man. "He insul' me! I'm ge'man! Can' stan' be insul'! I'm goin' lickim when comes!" "No, no," cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him. "He's all right! He didn't mean anything! Let it go! He's a good fellah!" "Din' he insul' me?" asked the man earnestly. "No," said they. "Of course he didn't! He's all right!" "Sure he didn' insul' me?" demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his voice. "No, no! We know him! He's a good fellah. He didn't mean anything." "Well, zen," said the man, resolutely, "I'm go' 'pol'gize!" When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor. "Girlsh shed you insul' me! I shay damn lie! I 'pol'gize!" "All right," said the waiter. The man sat down. He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody. "Nell, I allus trea's yeh shquare, din' I? Yeh likes me, don' yehs, Nell? I'm goo' f'ler?" "Sure," said the woman of brilliance and audacity. "Yeh knows I'm stuck on yehs, don' yehs, Nell?" "Sure," she repeated, carelessly. Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman. "Yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, 'cause I'm stuck on yehs, Nell, damn't, I--I'm stuck on yehs, Nell--buy drinksh--damn't--we're havin' heluva time--w'en anyone trea's me ri'--I--damn't, Nell--we're havin' heluva--time." Shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest. The women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor. The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts. "Come ahn," cried one, starting up angrily, "let's get out of here." Die Frau von Genialität und Kühnheit blieb zurück und nahm die Rechnungen an sich und stopfte sie in eine tiefe, unregelmäßig geformte Tasche. Ein röchelndes Schnarchen des liegenden Mannes ließ sie sich umdrehen und auf ihn hinabblicken. Sie lachte. "Was für ein verdammter Trottel", sagte sie und ging. Der Rauch von den Lampen legte sich schwer in dem kleinen Raum nieder und vernebelte den Ausgang. Der Geruch von Öl, erstickend in seiner Intensität, lag in der Luft. Der Wein von einem umgestürzten Glas tropfte leise auf die Flecken an dem Hals des Mannes herab. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Da ist Pete - und das auch noch in einer Kneipe, aber jetzt ist er ein Kunde. Er ist ein schönes Durcheinander, betrunken und kauft Getränke für eine Gruppe von Anhängerinnen, die ihn offensichtlich ausnutzen. Der Kellner ist angewidert von der betrunkenen Szene, was schon etwas heißen will, denn er hat schon alles gesehen. Nellie - berühmt für "Genialität und Dreistigkeit" - ist auch da. Pete erzählt ihr immer wieder, dass er in sie "verknallt" ist, aber sie lässt ihn in seinem erbärmlichen Rausch zurück. Nicht, bevor sie ihm jedoch seine letzten Dollar abgenommen hat. Pete ist auf seine eigene heruntergekommene Art tief gesunken. Die Szene endet damit, dass Pete bewusstlos auf dem Boden liegt und roter Wein vom Tisch auf seinen Hals tropft.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Phileas Fogg found himself twenty hours behind time. Passepartout, the involuntary cause of this delay, was desperate. He had ruined his master! At this moment the detective approached Mr. Fogg, and, looking him intently in the face, said: "Seriously, sir, are you in great haste?" "Quite seriously." "I have a purpose in asking," resumed Fix. "Is it absolutely necessary that you should be in New York on the 11th, before nine o'clock in the evening, the time that the steamer leaves for Liverpool?" "It is absolutely necessary." "And, if your journey had not been interrupted by these Indians, you would have reached New York on the morning of the 11th?" "Yes; with eleven hours to spare before the steamer left." "Good! you are therefore twenty hours behind. Twelve from twenty leaves eight. You must regain eight hours. Do you wish to try to do so?" "On foot?" asked Mr. Fogg. "No; on a sledge," replied Fix. "On a sledge with sails. A man has proposed such a method to me." It was the man who had spoken to Fix during the night, and whose offer he had refused. Phileas Fogg did not reply at once; but Fix, having pointed out the man, who was walking up and down in front of the station, Mr. Fogg went up to him. An instant after, Mr. Fogg and the American, whose name was Mudge, entered a hut built just below the fort. There Mr. Fogg examined a curious vehicle, a kind of frame on two long beams, a little raised in front like the runners of a sledge, and upon which there was room for five or six persons. A high mast was fixed on the frame, held firmly by metallic lashings, to which was attached a large brigantine sail. This mast held an iron stay upon which to hoist a jib-sail. Behind, a sort of rudder served to guide the vehicle. It was, in short, a sledge rigged like a sloop. During the winter, when the trains are blocked up by the snow, these sledges make extremely rapid journeys across the frozen plains from one station to another. Provided with more sails than a cutter, and with the wind behind them, they slip over the surface of the prairies with a speed equal if not superior to that of the express trains. Mr. Fogg readily made a bargain with the owner of this land-craft. The wind was favourable, being fresh, and blowing from the west. The snow had hardened, and Mudge was very confident of being able to transport Mr. Fogg in a few hours to Omaha. Thence the trains eastward run frequently to Chicago and New York. It was not impossible that the lost time might yet be recovered; and such an opportunity was not to be rejected. Not wishing to expose Aouda to the discomforts of travelling in the open air, Mr. Fogg proposed to leave her with Passepartout at Fort Kearney, the servant taking upon himself to escort her to Europe by a better route and under more favourable conditions. But Aouda refused to separate from Mr. Fogg, and Passepartout was delighted with her decision; for nothing could induce him to leave his master while Fix was with him. It would be difficult to guess the detective's thoughts. Was this conviction shaken by Phileas Fogg's return, or did he still regard him as an exceedingly shrewd rascal, who, his journey round the world completed, would think himself absolutely safe in England? Perhaps Fix's opinion of Phileas Fogg was somewhat modified; but he was nevertheless resolved to do his duty, and to hasten the return of the whole party to England as much as possible. At eight o'clock the sledge was ready to start. The passengers took their places on it, and wrapped themselves up closely in their travelling-cloaks. The two great sails were hoisted, and under the pressure of the wind the sledge slid over the hardened snow with a velocity of forty miles an hour. The distance between Fort Kearney and Omaha, as the birds fly, is at most two hundred miles. If the wind held good, the distance might be traversed in five hours; if no accident happened the sledge might reach Omaha by one o'clock. What a journey! The travellers, huddled close together, could not speak for the cold, intensified by the rapidity at which they were going. The sledge sped on as lightly as a boat over the waves. When the breeze came skimming the earth the sledge seemed to be lifted off the ground by its sails. Mudge, who was at the rudder, kept in a straight line, and by a turn of his hand checked the lurches which the vehicle had a tendency to make. All the sails were up, and the jib was so arranged as not to screen the brigantine. A top-mast was hoisted, and another jib, held out to the wind, added its force to the other sails. Although the speed could not be exactly estimated, the sledge could not be going at less than forty miles an hour. "If nothing breaks," said Mudge, "we shall get there!" Mr. Fogg had made it for Mudge's interest to reach Omaha within the time agreed on, by the offer of a handsome reward. The prairie, across which the sledge was moving in a straight line, was as flat as a sea. It seemed like a vast frozen lake. The railroad which ran through this section ascended from the south-west to the north-west by Great Island, Columbus, an important Nebraska town, Schuyler, and Fremont, to Omaha. It followed throughout the right bank of the Platte River. The sledge, shortening this route, took a chord of the arc described by the railway. Mudge was not afraid of being stopped by the Platte River, because it was frozen. The road, then, was quite clear of obstacles, and Phileas Fogg had but two things to fear--an accident to the sledge, and a change or calm in the wind. But the breeze, far from lessening its force, blew as if to bend the mast, which, however, the metallic lashings held firmly. These lashings, like the chords of a stringed instrument, resounded as if vibrated by a violin bow. The sledge slid along in the midst of a plaintively intense melody. "Those chords give the fifth and the octave," said Mr. Fogg. These were the only words he uttered during the journey. Aouda, cosily packed in furs and cloaks, was sheltered as much as possible from the attacks of the freezing wind. As for Passepartout, his face was as red as the sun's disc when it sets in the mist, and he laboriously inhaled the biting air. With his natural buoyancy of spirits, he began to hope again. They would reach New York on the evening, if not on the morning, of the 11th, and there was still some chances that it would be before the steamer sailed for Liverpool. Passepartout even felt a strong desire to grasp his ally, Fix, by the hand. He remembered that it was the detective who procured the sledge, the only means of reaching Omaha in time; but, checked by some presentiment, he kept his usual reserve. One thing, however, Passepartout would never forget, and that was the sacrifice which Mr. Fogg had made, without hesitation, to rescue him from the Sioux. Mr. Fogg had risked his fortune and his life. No! His servant would never forget that! While each of the party was absorbed in reflections so different, the sledge flew past over the vast carpet of snow. The creeks it passed over were not perceived. Fields and streams disappeared under the uniform whiteness. The plain was absolutely deserted. Between the Union Pacific road and the branch which unites Kearney with Saint Joseph it formed a great uninhabited island. Neither village, station, nor fort appeared. From time to time they sped by some phantom-like tree, whose white skeleton twisted and rattled in the wind. Sometimes flocks of wild birds rose, or bands of gaunt, famished, ferocious prairie-wolves ran howling after the sledge. Passepartout, revolver in hand, held himself ready to fire on those which came too near. Had an accident then happened to the sledge, the travellers, attacked by these beasts, would have been in the most terrible danger; but it held on its even course, soon gained on the wolves, and ere long left the howling band at a safe distance behind. About noon Mudge perceived by certain landmarks that he was crossing the Platte River. He said nothing, but he felt certain that he was now within twenty miles of Omaha. In less than an hour he left the rudder and furled his sails, whilst the sledge, carried forward by the great impetus the wind had given it, went on half a mile further with its sails unspread. It stopped at last, and Mudge, pointing to a mass of roofs white with snow, said: "We have got there!" Arrived! Arrived at the station which is in daily communication, by numerous trains, with the Atlantic seaboard! Passepartout and Fix jumped off, stretched their stiffened limbs, and aided Mr. Fogg and the young woman to descend from the sledge. Phileas Fogg generously rewarded Mudge, whose hand Passepartout warmly grasped, and the party directed their steps to the Omaha railway station. The Pacific Railroad proper finds its terminus at this important Nebraska town. Omaha is connected with Chicago by the Chicago and Rock Island Railroad, which runs directly east, and passes fifty stations. A train was ready to start when Mr. Fogg and his party reached the station, and they only had time to get into the cars. They had seen nothing of Omaha; but Passepartout confessed to himself that this was not to be regretted, as they were not travelling to see the sights. The train passed rapidly across the State of Iowa, by Council Bluffs, Des Moines, and Iowa City. During the night it crossed the Mississippi at Davenport, and by Rock Island entered Illinois. The next day, which was the 10th, at four o'clock in the evening, it reached Chicago, already risen from its ruins, and more proudly seated than ever on the borders of its beautiful Lake Michigan. Nine hundred miles separated Chicago from New York; but trains are not wanting at Chicago. Mr. Fogg passed at once from one to the other, and the locomotive of the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, and Chicago Railway left at full speed, as if it fully comprehended that that gentleman had no time to lose. It traversed Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey like a flash, rushing through towns with antique names, some of which had streets and car-tracks, but as yet no houses. At last the Hudson came into view; and, at a quarter-past eleven in the evening of the 11th, the train stopped in the station on the right bank of the river, before the very pier of the Cunard line. The China, for Liverpool, had started three-quarters of an hour before! Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Aufgrund aller verrückten Rettungsaktionen ist Phileas nun ungefähr zwanzig Stunden hinter dem Zeitplan und hat keinen Zug, der ihn von Fort Kearney zu seinem nächsten Ziel bringen würde. Passepartout fühlt sich schuldig, weil es alles seine Schuld ist, aber es ist Detective Fix, der einen neuen Plan vorschlägt. Er entscheidet sich, Fogg zu "helfen", indem er vorschlägt, mit einem neuen Gerät namens "Schlitten" zu reisen. Phileas stimmt zu, aber seine ehrenhafte Gentleman-Manier kommt zum Vorschein, als er vorschlägt, dass die Reise gefährlich sein wird und Aouda mit Passepartout zurückbleiben sollte. Aouda lehnt ab, da sie ein mutiges Mädchen ist, und begleitet Fogg nach Omaha. Phileas und seine Begleitung nehmen einen Zug nach Chicago und dann einen weiteren nach New York, nur um herauszufinden, dass das Schiff nach Liverpool, England bereits abgefahren 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: ACT I. Scene I. Verona. A public place. Enter Sampson and Gregory (with swords and bucklers) of the house of Capulet. Samp. Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals. Greg. No, for then we should be colliers. Samp. I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw. Greg. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of collar. Samp. I strike quickly, being moved. Greg. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. Samp. A dog of the house of Montague moves me. Greg. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand. Therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away. Samp. A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's. Greg. That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall. Samp. 'Tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall. Therefore I will push Montague's men from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall. Greg. The quarrel is between our masters and us their men. Samp. 'Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant. When I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids- I will cut off their heads. Greg. The heads of the maids? Samp. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads. Take it in what sense thou wilt. Greg. They must take it in sense that feel it. Samp. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand; and 'tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh. Greg. 'Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor-John. Draw thy tool! Here comes two of the house of Montagues. Enter two other Servingmen [Abram and Balthasar]. Samp. My naked weapon is out. Quarrel! I will back thee. Greg. How? turn thy back and run? Samp. Fear me not. Greg. No, marry. I fear thee! Samp. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin. Greg. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list. Samp. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is disgrace to them, if they bear it. Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Samp. I do bite my thumb, sir. Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Samp. [aside to Gregory] Is the law of our side if I say ay? Greg. [aside to Sampson] No. Samp. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. Greg. Do you quarrel, sir? Abr. Quarrel, sir? No, sir. Samp. But if you do, sir, am for you. I serve as good a man as you. Abr. No better. Samp. Well, sir. Enter Benvolio. Greg. [aside to Sampson] Say 'better.' Here comes one of my master's kinsmen. Samp. Yes, better, sir. Abr. You lie. Samp. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. They fight. Ben. Part, fools! [Beats down their swords.] Put up your swords. You know not what you do. Enter Tybalt. Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee Benvolio! look upon thy death. Ben. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me. Tyb. What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. Have at thee, coward! They fight. Enter an officer, and three or four Citizens with clubs or partisans. Officer. Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! beat them down! Citizens. Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues! Enter Old Capulet in his gown, and his Wife. Cap. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho! Wife. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword? Cap. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come And flourishes his blade in spite of me. Enter Old Montague and his Wife. Mon. Thou villain Capulet!- Hold me not, let me go. M. Wife. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe. Enter Prince Escalus, with his Train. Prince. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel- Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you beasts, That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins! On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground And hear the sentence of your moved prince. Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Cank'red with peace, to part your cank'red hate. If ever you disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time all the rest depart away. You, Capulet, shall go along with me; And, Montague, come you this afternoon, To know our farther pleasure in this case, To old Freetown, our common judgment place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. Exeunt [all but Montague, his Wife, and Benvolio]. Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by when it began? Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary And yours, close fighting ere I did approach. I drew to part them. In the instant came The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd; Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, He swung about his head and cut the winds, Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn. While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, Came more and more, and fought on part and part, Till the Prince came, who parted either part. M. Wife. O, where is Romeo? Saw you him to-day? Right glad I am he was not at this fray. Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun Peer'd forth the golden window of the East, A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad; Where, underneath the grove of sycamore That westward rooteth from the city's side, So early walking did I see your son. Towards him I made; but he was ware of me And stole into the covert of the wood. I- measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self- Pursu'd my humour, not Pursuing his, And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me. Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; But all so soon as the all-cheering sun Should in the furthest East bean to draw The shady curtains from Aurora's bed, Away from light steals home my heavy son And private in his chamber pens himself, Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight And makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentous must this humour prove Unless good counsel may the cause remove. Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause? Mon. I neither know it nor can learn of him Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means? Mon. Both by myself and many other friend; But he, his own affections' counsellor, Is to himself- I will not say how true- But to himself so secret and so close, So far from sounding and discovery, As is the bud bit with an envious worm Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure as know. Enter Romeo. Ben. See, where he comes. So please you step aside, I'll know his grievance, or be much denied. Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away, Exeunt [Montague and Wife]. Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Rom. Is the day so young? Ben. But new struck nine. Rom. Ay me! sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast? Ben. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours? Rom. Not having that which having makes them short. Ben. In love? Rom. Out- Ben. Of love? Rom. Out of her favour where I am in love. Ben. Alas that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! Rom. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here's much to do with hate, but more with love. Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh? Ben. No, coz, I rather weep. Rom. Good heart, at what? Ben. At thy good heart's oppression. Rom. Why, such is love's transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz. Ben. Soft! I will go along. An if you leave me so, you do me wrong. Rom. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here: This is not Romeo, he's some other where. Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you love? Rom. What, shall I groan and tell thee? Ben. Groan? Why, no; But sadly tell me who. Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will. Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill! In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. Ben. I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd. Rom. A right good markman! And she's fair I love. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. Rom. Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit, And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd, From Love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. O, she's rich in beauty; only poor That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store. Ben. Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste? Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; For beauty, starv'd with her severity, Cuts beauty off from all posterity. She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair. She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead that live to tell it now. Ben. Be rul'd by me: forget to think of her. Rom. O, teach me how I should forget to think! Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes. Examine other beauties. Rom. 'Tis the way To call hers (exquisite) in question more. These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows, Being black puts us in mind they hide the fair. He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost. Show me a mistress that is passing fair, What doth her beauty serve but as a note Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair? Farewell. Thou canst not teach me to forget. Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. Exeunt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Die Szene beginnt mit einer Schlägerei auf den Straßen von Verona zwischen den Bediensteten der wohlhabenden Häuser Montague und Capulet. Während er versucht, den Kampf zu stoppen, wird Benvolio von Tybalt, einem Verwandten der Capulets, in die Auseinandersetzung hineingezogen. Der Kampf eskaliert schnell, als sich immer mehr Bürger beteiligen, und bald tauchen die Oberhäupter beider Häuser auf. Schließlich trifft Prinz Escalus ein und stoppt den Aufruhr, indem er weitere Gewaltausbrüche unter Androhung der Todesstrafe verbietet. Nachdem Escalus beide Seiten entlassen hat, besprechen Montague und seine Frau mit Benvolio das kürzliche melancholische Verhalten von Romeo und bitten ihn, die Ursache dafür zu entdecken. Sie verlassen die Szene, als Romeo in seinem traurigen Zustand erscheint - ein Opfer einer unerwiderten Liebe für die kalte und unempfindliche Rosaline. Benvolio rät ihm, Rosaline zu vergessen, indem er nach einer anderen sucht, aber Romeo besteht darauf, dass dies unmöglich wäre.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: In dem Jos Sedley sich um seine Schwester kümmert Da alle ranghöheren Beamten anderswo einberufen wurden, blieb Jos Sedley allein in der kleinen Kolonie in Brüssel zurück, während Amelia krankgeschrieben war. Isidor, sein belgischer Diener, und die Haushaltshilfe, die als Garnison unter ihm diente, waren anwesend. Obwohl er innerlich beunruhigt war und seine Ruhe durch Dobbin's Unterbrechung und die Ereignisse am Morgen gestört wurde, lag Jos dennoch viele Stunden im Bett, wach und unruhig, bis seine übliche Aufstehzeit gekommen war. Die Sonne stand hoch am Himmel, und unsere tapferen Freunde des -ten Regiments waren bereits auf ihrem Marsch, bevor der Zivilist in seinem geblümten Morgenmantel zum Frühstück erschien. Jos machte sich keine großen Gedanken über George's Abwesenheit, seinem Schwager gegenüber war er sehr entspannt. Vielleicht freute Jos sich insgeheim darüber, dass Osborne weg war, denn solange George anwesend war, spielte Jos nur eine sehr untergeordnete Rolle im Haushalt und Osborne scheute sich nicht, seine Verachtung für den beleibten Zivilisten zu zeigen. Aber Emmy war immer gut und aufmerksam zu ihm gewesen. Sie war es, die sich um sein Wohlergehen kümmerte, die die Gerichte, die er mochte, beaufsichtigte, die mit ihm spazieren ging oder ritt (wie sich viele, zu viele Gelegenheiten ergaben, da wo war George?), und die ihr süßes Gesicht zwischen seinen Zorn und den Spott ihres Mannes stellte. Sie hatte viele ängstliche Vorwürfe gegenüber George wegen ihres Bruders geäußert, aber dieser hatte sie mit seiner scharfen Art abgewiesen. "Ich bin ein anständiger Mann", sagte er, "und wenn ich ein Gefühl habe, zeige ich es auch, so wie es ein anständiger Mensch tut. Wie zum Teufel, meine Liebe, erwartest du von mir, dass ich mich respektvoll gegenüber einem Trottel wie deinem Bruder verhalte?" Also war Jos froh über George's Abwesenheit. Sein gewöhnlicher Hut und die Handschuhe auf einem Ablagetisch und die Vorstellung, dass der Besitzer weg war, erfüllten Jos mit einer heimlichen Freude. "Er wird mich heute Morgen nicht belästigen", dachte Jos, "mit seinem aufgeblasenen Gehabe und seiner Unverschämtheit." "Stell den Hut des Hauptmanns ins Vorzimmer", sagte er zu Isidor, dem Diener. "Vielleicht braucht er ihn ja nicht wieder", antwortete der Diener, wissend auf seinen Herrn blickend. Auch er hasste George, dessen Arroganz gegenüber ihm von der englischen Sorte war. "Und frag ob Madame zum Frühstück kommt", sagte Mr. Sedley mit großer Majestät, beschämt, das Thema seiner Abneigung gegenüber George mit einem Diener zu besprechen. Die Wahrheit ist, er hatte seinem Bruder schon zwanzig Mal gegenüber dem Diener geschimpft. Ach! Madame konnte nicht zum Frühstück kommen und die Tartines schneiden, die Mr. Jos mochte. Madame war viel zu krank und seit dem Weggang ihres Mannes in einem furchtbaren Zustand, sagte ihre Bonne. Jos zeigte sein Mitgefühl, indem er ihr eine große Tasse Tee einschenkte. Das war seine Art, Freundlichkeit zu zeigen, und er verbesserte sich sogar noch darin. Er schickte ihr nicht nur das Frühstück, sondern überlegte sich auch, welche Köstlichkeiten sie zum Abendessen gerne hätte. Isidor, der Diener, hatte sehr mürrisch zugeschaut, während Mr. Osborne's Diener das Gepäck seines Herrn vor der Abreise des Hauptmanns arrangierte. Zum einen hasste er Mr. Osborne, der sich ihm und allen Untergebenen gegenüber oft herrisch verhielt (und der kontinentale Hausdiener mag es nicht, so behandelt zu werden, wie unsere besser gelaunten Diener es tun). Zum anderen ärgerte ihn, dass so viele Wertsachen aus seinen Händen entfernt wurden, um in den Besitz anderer Leute zu gelangen, wenn das englische Debakel eintreten sollte. An dieser Niederlage zweifelte er und eine Vielzahl anderer Personen in Brüssel und Belgien gar nicht. Der fast allgemeine Glaube war, dass der Kaiser die preußische und die englische Armee aufteilen und eine nach der anderen vernichten würde. Vor Ablauf von drei Tagen würde er dann nach Brüssel einmarschieren und alle beweglichen Güter seiner derzeitigen Herren, die getötet, auf der Flucht oder Gefangene sein würden, würden rechtmäßig in den Besitz von Monsieur Isidor übergehen. Während er Jos bei seiner mühsamen und komplizierten täglichen Toilette half, überlegte dieser treue Diener, was er mit den Gegenständen machen sollte, mit denen er seinen Herrn schmückte. Er würde einer jungen Dame, die er mochte, die silbernen Duftflaschen und Toiletten-Artikel schenken und das englische Besteck und die große rubinbesetzte Brosche für sich behalten. Es würde sehr schick aussehen auf einem der feinen Rüschenhemden, die, zusammen mit der goldbesetzten Kappe und dem mit Fröschen besetzten Frack, problemlos angepasst werden könnten, um seiner Form zu entsprechen, zusammen mit dem goldköpfigen Spazierstock des Hauptmanns und dem großen Doppelring mit den Rubinen, aus dem er sich ein Paar wunderschöner Ohrringe machen lassen würde. "Wie gut werden mir diese Manschettenknöpfe stehen!" dachte er, als er einem Paar auf den dicken, pummeligen Handgelenken von Mr. Sedley befestigte. "Ich wünsche mir Manschettenknöpfe; und die Stiefel des Hauptmanns mit den Messingsporen im nächsten Raum, corbleu! welcher Effekt sie in der Allee Verte machen werden!" Während Monsieur Isidor mit seinen körperlichen Fingern an Jos' Nase festhielt und den unteren Teil von Jos' Gesicht rasierte, schweifte seine Vorstellungskraft entlang der Grünallee, gekleidet in einen mit Fröschen besetzten Frack und Spitze und in Begleitung von Mademoiselle Reine; im Geiste verweilte er an den Ufern und betrachtete die langsam unter den kühlen Schatten der Bäume am Kanal segelnden Lastkähne oder er erfrischte sich mit einem Krug Faro auf der Bank eines Bierlokals am Weg nach Laeken. Aber Mr. Joseph Sedley wusste, zum Glück für seinen eigenen Frieden, nicht mehr über das, was in den Gedanken seines Dieners vorging, als der geschätzte Leser, und ich vermute, dasselbe gilt für John oder Mary, deren Löhne wir zahlen. Was unsere Diener von uns halten! Wüssten wir, was unsere engen Vertrauten und lieben Angehörigen von uns denken, so würden wir in einer Welt leben wollen, die wir gerne verlassen würden, und in einem geistigen Zustand und einer ständigen Angst, die völlig unerträglich wären. Also spürte Jos nicht, wie sein Diener sein nächstes Opfer ins Visier nahm, genauso wenig, wie wir wissen, was John oder Mary, deren Löhne wir zahlen, von uns denken. Was unsere Diener von uns halten! Wüssten wir, was unsere engsten Vertrauten und lieben Angehörigen von uns denken, so würden wir in einer Welt leben wollen, die wir gerne verlassen würden, und in einem geistigen Zustand und einer ständigen Angst, die völlig unerträglich wären. Deshalb markierte Jos' Diener sein Opfer, wie man einen ahnungslosen Hasen mit einem Schild versieht, auf dem "Suppe morgen" geschrieben steht, genauso wie man es von einem der Assistenten von Herrn Paynter in der Leadenhall Street sehen kann. Amelias Begleiterin war viel weniger selbstsüchtig gestimmt. Nur wenige Unterstellte konnten dieser lieben und sanften Kreatur nahe kommen, ohne ihr die übliche Tributzahlung von Loyalität und Zuneigung an ihre süße und liebevolle Natur zu erweisen. Und es ist eine Tatsache, dass Pauline, die Köchin, ihre Herrin an diesem elenden Morgen mehr tröstete als irgendjemand, den sie sah. Als sie nämlich bemerkte, wie Amelia stundenlang schweigend, regungslos und abgekämpft an den Fenstern stand, um die letzten Bajonette der Kolonne zu beobachten, als sie abzog, nahm das ehrliche Mädchen die Hand der Dame und sagte: "Tenez, Madame, est-ce qu'il n'est pas aussi à l'armée, mon homme a moi? ("Halten Sie, Madame, ist er nicht auch in der Armee, mein Mann?") damit brach sie in Tränen aus und Amelia fiel ihr weinend in die Arme und so taten sie einander leid und trösteten sich gegenseitig. Mehrmals während des Vormittags ging Herrn Jos' Isidor von seiner Unterkunft in die Stadt und zu den Toren der Hotels und Pensionen rund um den Park, wo die Engländer versammelt waren. Dort mischte er sich unter andere Diener, Kuriere und Lakaien, um die kursierenden Neuigkeiten zu erfahren und Bulletins für die Information seines Herrn zurückzubringen. Fast alle diese Herren waren im Herzen Anhänger des Kaisers und hatten ihre Meinungen über das baldige Ende des Feldzugs. Die Proklamation des Kaisers von Avesnes war in Brüssel überall reichlich verteilt worden. "Soldaten!" hieß es, "heute ist der Jahrestag von Marengo und Friedland, bei denen die Geschicke Europas zweimal entschieden wurden. Damals, wie nach Austerlitz, wie nach Wagram, waren wir zu großzügig. Wir glaubten an die Eide und Versprechungen der Fürsten, die wir auf ihren Thronen belassen haben. Lasst uns noch einmal marschieren, um sie zu treffen. Sind wir und sie nicht immer noch dieselben Männer? Soldaten! Diese gleichen Preußen, die heute so arrogant sind, waren euch in Jena dreifach überlegen und in Montmirail sechsfach überlegen. Diejenigen unter euch, die in England Gefangene waren, können ihren Kameraden erzählen, welche schrecklichen Qualen sie auf den englischen Hulken erlitten haben. Verrückte! Ein Moment des Wohlstands hat sie geblendet, und wenn sie nach Frankreich einmarschieren, werden sie dort ein Grab finden!" Doch die Anhänger der Franzosen prophezeiten eine schnellere Vernichtung der Feinde des Kaisers als diese; und man war sich einig, dass die Preußen und Briten nie zurückkehren würden, außer als Gefangene hinter der siegreichen Armee. Diese Meinungen beeinflussten im Laufe des Tages Herrn Sedley. Man sagte ihm, dass der Herzog von Wellington versucht habe, seine Armee wieder zu sammeln, die am Vortag vollkommen besiegt worden war. "Besiegt, Unsinn!" sagte Jos, dessen Herz zu Frühstückszeiten recht tapfer war. "Der Herzog ist gegangen, um den Kaiser zu schlagen, wie er alle seine Generäle zuvor geschlagen hat." "Seine Papiere sind verbrannt, seine Sachen sind weg und seine Quartiere werden für den Herzog von Dalmatien vorbereitet", antwortete Joss' Informant. "Das habe ich vom eigenen maitre d'hotel gehört. Die Menschen von Milor Duc de Richemont packen alles zusammen. Seine Lordschaft ist bereits geflohen, und die Herzogin wartet nur darauf, dass das Silbergeschirr verpackt wird, um sich dem König von Frankreich in Ostende anzuschließen." "Der König von Frankreich ist in Gent, Kamerad", erwiderte Jos und tat Unglauben kund. "Er ist gestern Abend nach Brügge geflohen und geht heute von Ostende aus an Bord. Der Duc de Berri ist gefangen genommen. Diejenigen, die sicher sein wollen, sollten bald gehen, denn morgen werden die Deiche geöffnet, und wer kann fliehen, wenn das ganze Land unter Wasser steht?" "Unsinn, Herr, wir sind drei zu eins, Herr, gegen jede Streitmacht, die Boney aufbieten kann", wandte sich Mr. Sedley ein. "Die Österreicher und Russen sind unterwegs. Er muss, er wird vernichtet", sagte Jos und schlug dabei auf den Tisch. Die Preußen waren drei zu eins in Jena, und er nahm ihre Armee und ihr Königreich in einer Woche ein. Sie waren sechs zu eins in Montmirail, und er zerstreute sie wie Schafe. Die österreichische Armee kommt, aber mit der Kaiserin und dem König von Rom an ihrer Spitze; und die Russen, bah! Die Russen werden sich zurückziehen. Für die Engländer wird kein Viertel gegeben, aufgrund ihrer Grausamkeit gegenüber unseren Tapferen auf den berüchtigten Pontons. Schau her, hier steht es schwarz auf weiß. Hier ist die Proklamation seiner Majestät des Kaisers und Königs", sagte der nun erklärte Anhänger Napoleons und steckte das Dokument Isidor grimmig in das Gesicht seines Herrn. Er betrachtete bereits den rockbesetzten Mantel und die Wertgegenstände als seine Beute. Jos war, wenn auch noch nicht ernsthaft beunruhigt, zumindest innerlich beträchtlich gestört. "Geben Sie mir meinen Mantel und meine Mütze, Sir", sagte er, "und folgen Sie mir. Ich werde selbst die Wahrheit dieser Berichte herausfinden." Isidor geriet in Wut, als Jos den rockbesetzten Mantel anzog. "Milor sollte besser diesen Militärmantel nicht tragen", sagte er, "die Franzosen haben geschworen, keinem einzigen britischen Soldaten Quartier zu geben." "Schweig, Bursche!" sagte Jos mit entschlossenem Gesichtsausdruck und steckte unbeirrt seinen Arm in den Ärmel, bei der Durchführung dieser heldenhaften Tat wurde er von Frau Rawdon Crawley gefunden, die zu diesem Zeitpunkt kam, um Amelia zu besuchen, und ohne an der Flurtür zu klingeln eintrat. Rebecca war wie üblich sehr ordentlich und schick angezogen: Ihr ruhiger Schlaf nach Rawdons Abreise hatte sie erfrischt, und ihre rosa lächelnden Wangen waren an einem Tag, an dem das Aussehen aller anderen Gesichter von der tiefsten Angst und düsterer Stimmung geprägt war, recht angenehm anzusehen. Sie lachte über die Haltung, in der Jos entdeckt wurde, und über die Anstrengungen und Krämpfe, mit denen sich der stämmige Herr in den rockbesetzten Mantel zwängte. "Bereiten Sie sich auf den Eintritt in die Armee vor, Herr Joseph?" sagte sie. "Soll in Brüssel niemand übrig bleiben, um uns arme Frauen zu beschützen?" Jos schaffte es, sich in den Mantel zu stürzen und trat verlegen vor, während er Entschuldigungen gegenüber seiner schönen Besucherin stotterte. "Wie geht es ihr nach den Ereignissen am Morgen, nach den Anstrengungen des gestrigen Balls?" Monsieur Isidor verschwand in dem angrenzenden Schlafzimmer seines Herrn und nahm den geblümten Morgenrock mit. "Wie nett von Ihnen, danach zu fragen", sagte sie und drückte eine seiner Hände mit beiden Händen. "Wie ruhig und gelassen Sie aussehen, während alle anderen in Angst sind! Wie geht es unserer lieben kleinen Emmy? Es muss ein furchtbares, furchtbares Abschiednehmen gewesen sein." "Enorm", sagte Jos. "Ihr Männer könnt alles ertragen", antwortete die Dame. "Abschied oder Gefahr bedeuten euch nichts. Geben Sie zu, dass Sie zur Armee gehen wollten und uns unserem Schicksal überlassen wollten. Ich weiß, dass Sie das wollten - irgendetwas sagt mir, dass Sie das wollten. Ich hatte solche Angst, als mir der Gedanke kam (denn manchmal denke ich an Sie, wenn ich allein bin, Mr. Joseph), dass ich sofort weglief, um zu bitten und zu flehen, dass Sie nicht vor uns fliehen." Diese Aussage könnte so interpretiert werden: "Mein lieber Herr, sollte der Armee ein Unglück widerfahren und ein Rückzug notwendig sein, haben Sie eine sehr komfortable Kutsche, in der ich vorschlage, einen Platz einzunehmen." Ich weiß nicht, ob Jos die Worte in diesem Sinne verstand. Aber er fühlte sich geschmeichelt von der Vorstellung, die Rebecca von seinem Mut hatte. Er errötete stark und nahm eine wichtige Haltung ein. "Ich würde gerne die Aktion sehen", sagte er. "Jeder Mann von Geist würde es wollen, wissen Sie. Ich habe ein wenig im Dienst in Indien gesehen, aber nichts in diesem großen Maßstab." "Ihr Männer würdet alles für einen Genuss opfern", antwortete Rebecca. "Captain Craw "Guter, edler Bruder!" sagte Rebecca, legte ihr Taschentuch auf ihre Augen und roch an dem Eau de Cologne, mit dem es beduftet war. "Ich habe dir Unrecht getan: Du hast ein Herz. Ich dachte, du hättest keins." "Bei meiner Ehre!" sagte Jos und machte eine Bewegung, als würde er seine Hand auf die betreffende Stelle legen. "Du tust mir Unrecht, wirklich, meine liebe Frau Crawley." "Ich tue es jetzt, da dein Herz deiner Schwester treu ist. Aber ich erinnere mich an vor zwei Jahren – da war es mir gegenüber falsch!" sagte Rebecca, fixierte ihren Blick für einen Moment auf ihn und wandte sich dann zum Fenster. Jos errötete heftig. Das Organ, dessen Besitz ihm von Rebecca vorgeworfen wurde, begann wild zu pochen. Er erinnerte sich an die Tage, an denen er vor ihr geflohen war, und die Leidenschaft, die einst in ihm entfacht war – die Tage, an denen er sie in seinem Rösselsprung mitgenommen hatte: als sie ihm das grüne Täschchen gestrickt hatte: als er verzaubert auf ihre weißen Arme und leuchtenden Augen gestarrt hatte. "Ich weiß, du hältst mich für undankbar", fuhr Rebecca fort, trat aus dem Fenster hervor und sah ihn wieder an und sprach mit leiser, zitternder Stimme. "Deine Kühle, deine abgewandten Blicke, deine Art, wie du dich in letzter Zeit verhalten hast, als wir uns begegnet sind – als ich gerade hereinkam, haben mir all das gezeigt. Aber gab es nicht Gründe, warum ich dir aus dem Weg gehen sollte? Lass dein eigenes Herz diese Frage beantworten. Denkst du, dass mein Ehemann darauf erpicht war, dich willkommen zu heißen? Die einzigen harschen Worte, die ich jemals von ihm gehört habe (und Captain Crawley gebührt das), waren über dich – und es waren äußerst grausame, grausame Worte." "Ach du lieber Himmel! Was habe ich getan?" fragte Jos in einer Freudenverwirrung, "was habe ich getan – um – um –?" "Zählt Eifersucht etwa nichts?" sagte Rebecca. "Er macht mir wegen dir das Leben zur Hölle. Und was es auch einmal gewesen sein mag – mein Herz gehört ganz ihm. Ich bin jetzt unschuldig. Oder nicht, Herr Sedley?" Jos' Blut kribbelte vor Freude, als er dieses Opfer seiner Anziehung betrachtete. Ein paar geschickte Worte, ein oder zwei wissende, zärtliche Blicke und sein Herz entflammte erneut, und seine Zweifel und Verdächtigungen gerieten in Vergessenheit. Ist nicht schon von Salomo abwärts klügeren Männern als ihm von Frauen Schmeichelei und Betrug widerfahren? "Wenn es hart auf hart kommt", dachte Becky, "ist mein Rückzug gesichert; und ich habe einen Platz direkt neben dem Kutscher." Es ist nicht bekannt, in welche Liebeserklärungen und Leidenschaftlichkeit die aufgewühlten Gefühle des Herrn Joseph ihn geführt hätten, wenn Isidor, der Diener, nicht gerade in diesem Moment wieder aufgetaucht und begonnen hätte, sich um die häuslichen Angelegenheiten zu kümmern. Jos, der gerade dabei war, ein Geständnis abzustammeln, verschluckte sich fast vor der Emotion, die er zurückhalten musste. Rebecca wiederum dachte daran, dass es nun an der Zeit war, hineinzugehen und ihre liebe Amelia zu trösten. "Auf Wiedersehen", sagte sie, küsste Joseph zum Abschied die Hand und klopfte sanft an der Tür von Amelias Zimmer. Als sie eintrat und die Tür hinter sich schloss, ließ er sich in einen Stuhl sinken, starrte vor sich hin, seufzte schwer und puffte bedeutungsvoll. "Dieser Mantel ist sehr eng für Milor", sagte Isidor und behielt seine Augen immer noch auf den Knöpfen. Aber sein Herr hörte ihn nicht, seine Gedanken waren anderswo, jetzt glühend, rasend angesichts der Betrachtung der bezaubernden Rebecca, dann schuldbewusst schrumpfend vor der Vision des eifersüchtigen Rawdon Crawley, mit seinem lockigen, wilden Schnurrbart und seinen gefährlichen duellierbereiten Pistolen. Rebeccas Erscheinung erschreckte Amelia und ließ sie zurückschrecken. Sie erinnerte sie an die Welt und an die Erinnerung an gestern. In den überwältigenden Ängsten um morgen hatte sie Rebecca vergessen – Eifersucht – alles außer der Tatsache, dass ihr Mann weg war und in Gefahr schwebte. Bis diese furchtlose Weltfrau hereinkam, den Zauber brach und den Riegel hob, haben auch wir es vermieden, in dieses traurige Zimmer zu treten. Wie lange hatte dieses arme Mädchen auf den Knien gelegen! Welche Stunden des sprachlosen Gebets und bitteren Niederkniens hatte sie dort verbracht! Die Kriegschronisten, die glänzende Geschichten von Kampf und Triumph schreiben, erzählen uns kaum davon. Diese Teile sind zu unwichtig für die Pracht, und man hört keine Witwenklagen oder Mutterweinen inmitten des Jubels und Beifalls im großen Siegeschor. Und doch, wann gab es je eine Zeit, in der solche nicht ausgerufen haben: die gebrochenen Herzen, demütige Protestanten, ungehört im Lärm des Triumphes! Nach dem ersten Schrecken in Amelias Gedanken – als Rebeccas grüne Augen auf sie fielen und sich in ihren frischen Seiden und glänzenden Schmuckstücken raschelnd, letztere die Arme ausgestreckt hatte, um sie zu umarmen – trat ein Gefühl des Zorns ein, und ihr Gesicht, das vorher todbleich war, errötete und sie erwiderte Rebeccas Blick nach einem Moment mit einer Standhaftigkeit, die ihre Rivalin überraschte und etwas verlegen machte. "Liebste Amelia, dir geht es sehr schlecht", sagte der Besucher und streckte ihre Hand aus, um Amelias Hand zu nehmen. "Was ist los? Ich konnte nicht ruhen, bis ich wusste, wie es dir geht." Amelia zog ihre Hand zurück – niemals hatte diese sanfte Seele es abgelehnt, irgendeine Form von Wohlwollen oder Zuneigung zu glauben oder zu erwidern. Aber sie zog ihre Hand zurück und zitterte am ganzen Körper. "Warum bist du hier, Rebecca?" sagte sie und sah sie weiterhin mit ihren großen Augen ernst an. Diese Blicke beunruhigten ihre Besucherin. Sie muss gesehen haben, wie er mir den Brief auf dem Ball gegeben hat, dachte Rebecca. "Sei nicht aufgeregt, liebe Amelia", sagte sie, blickte dabei zu Boden. "Ich wollte nur sehen, ob es dir gut geht." "Bist du wohlauf?", fragte Amelia. "Ich nehme an, ja. Du liebst deinen Ehemann nicht. Wäre dem so, wärst du hier nicht. Sag mir, Rebecca, habe ich dir jemals etwas anderes als Güte erwiesen?" "Wirklich nicht, Amelia", antwortete die andere und senkte immer noch den Kopf. "Als du ganz arm warst, wer hat sich um dich gekümmert? War ich nicht eine Schwester für dich? Du hast uns alle in glücklicheren Tagen gesehen, bevor er mich geheiratet hat. Ich war damals alles für ihn; oder hätte er seine Reichtümer, seine Familie – wie er es nobel getan hat – für mich aufgegeben, um mich glücklich zu machen? Warum bist du zwischen meine Liebe und mich gekommen? Wer hat dich geschickt, um die zu trennen, die Gott verbunden hat, und das Herz meines Lieblings von mir wegzunehmen – meinen eigenen Ehemann? Glaubst du, dass du ihn lieben könntest wie ich? Seine Liebe war alles für mich. Du wusstest es und wolltest sie mir wegnehmen. Schäm dich, Rebecca; schlechte und böse Frau "Schau mal", sagte Amelia, "dies ist sein Schärpe-ist es nicht eine schöne Farbe?" und sie nahm die Fransen auf und küsste sie. Sie hatte sie sich irgendwann im Laufe des Tages um die Taille gebunden. Sie hatte ihren Ärger vergessen, ihre Eifersucht, das Vorhandensein ihrer Rivalin schien fast verschwunden zu sein. Denn sie ging schweigend und fast mit einem Lächeln auf dem Gesicht zum Bett und begann, Georges Kopfkissen glattzustreichen. Auch Rebecca ging schweigend weg. "Wie geht es Amelia?" fragte Jos, der immer noch in seinem Stuhl saß. "Es sollte jemand bei ihr sein", sagte Rebecca. "Ich glaube, sie ist sehr krank": und sie ging mit sehr ernstem Gesicht fort und lehnte Mr. Sedleys Bitten ab, dass sie bleiben und am frühen Abendessen teilnehmen würde, das er bestellt hatte. Rebecca hatte eine gutmütige und hilfsbereite Veranlagung; und sie mochte Amelia eher als anders. Selbst ihre harten Worte, so reprochierend sie auch waren, waren ein Kompliment - das Stöhnen einer Person, die unter einer Niederlage leidet. Als sie Mrs. O'Dowd traf, die die Predigten des Dekans keineswegs getröstet hatten und sehr betrübt im Park spazieren ging, sprach Rebecca letztere an, eher zur Überraschung der Frau des Majors, die solche Höflichkeiten von Mrs. Rawdon Crawley nicht gewohnt war, und teilte ihr mit, dass die arme kleine Mrs. Osborne in einem verzweifelten Zustand war und fast vor Trauer wahnsinnig wurde. Sie schickte die gutherzige Irin sofort los, um zu sehen, ob sie ihre junge Lieblingsfreundin trösten könnte. "Ich habe selbst genug Sorgen", sagte Mrs. O'Dowd ernst, "und ich dachte, es würde Amelia heute an nichts fehlen. Aber wenn sie so schlecht ist, wie du sagst, und du dich nicht um sie kümmern kannst, die früher so gerne mit ihr zusammen war, dann werde ich sehen, ob ich behilflich sein kann. Und einen guten Morgen wünsche ich Ihnen, Madame"; mit diesen Worten und einem Wurf ihres Kopfes verabschiedete sich die Lady von Mrs. Crawley, deren Gesellschaft sie keineswegs suchte. Becky sah ihr lächelnd nach, während sie davonzog. Sie hatte den schärfsten Sinn für Humor und der Blick, den die zurückweichende Mrs. O'Dowd über die Schulter warf, brachte Mrs. Crawleys Ernst fast durcheinander. "Meine Dienste Ihnen gegenüber, meine gute Dame, und ich bin froh, Sie so fröhlich zu sehen", dachte Peggy. "Es ist nicht SIE, die vor Trauer die Augen ausweinen wird, jedenfalls." Und damit setzte sie ihren Weg fort und fand schnell den Weg zu Mrs. Osbornes Unterkunft. Die arme Seele stand immer noch an der Bettkante, wo Rebecca sie zurückgelassen hatte, und stand fast vor Kummer wahnsinnig da. Die Frau des Majors, eine energischere Frau, gab ihr Bestes, um ihre junge Freundin zu trösten. "Du musst stark sein, Amelia, Liebes", sagte sie liebevoll, "denn er darf dich nicht krank vorfinden, wenn er dich nach dem Sieg ruft. Du bist nicht die einzige Frau, die heute in Gottes Händen ist." "Das weiß ich. Ich bin sehr böse, sehr schwach", sagte Amelia. Sie kannte ihre eigene Schwäche nur allzu gut. Die Anwesenheit der entschlosseneren Freundin hielt sie jedoch davon ab, nachzugeben, und sie war besser dran mit dieser Kontrolle und Gesellschaft. Sie gingen weiter bis um zwei Uhr; ihre Herzen waren bei der Kolonne, als sie immer weiter und weiter marschierte. Schreckliche Zweifel und Qualen - unaussprechliche Gebete und Ängste und Trauer begleiteten das Regiment. Es war der Tribut der Frauen an den Krieg. Es beansprucht beide gleichermaßen und nimmt das Blut der Männer und die Tränen der Frauen. Um halb drei Uhr geschah ein Ereignis von täglicher Bedeutung für Mr. Joseph: Es war Zeit zum Abendessen. Die Krieger mögen kämpfen und umkommen, aber er musste speisen. Er kam in Amelias Zimmer, um zu sehen, ob er sie dazu überreden könnte, sich an dieser Mahlzeit zu beteiligen. "Versuch es", sagte er, "die Suppe ist sehr gut. Versuch es, Emmy", und er küsste ihre Hand. Außer bei ihrer Hochzeit hatte er seit Jahren nicht mehr so viel für sie getan. "Du bist sehr gut und nett, Joseph", sagte sie. "Jeder ist es, aber wenn es dir nichts ausmacht, werde ich heute in meinem Zimmer bleiben." Der Geruch der Suppe war jedoch angenehm für Mrs. O'Dowds Nase, und sie dachte, sie würde Mr. Jos Gesellschaft leisten. Also setzten sich die beiden zum Essen. "Gott segne das Fleisch", sagte die Frau des Majors feierlich: sie dachte an ihren ehrlichen Mick, der an der Spitze seines Regiments ritt: "Die armen Jungs bekommen heute nur ein schlechtes Abendessen", sagte sie seufzend und stürzte sich dann wie eine Philosophin auf ihr Essen. Jos' Stimmung hob sich mit seiner Mahlzeit. Er wollte auf das Wohl des Regiments trinken; oder sich tatsächlich jeden anderen Grund nehmen, um ein Glas Champagner zu genießen. "Wir trinken auf O'Dowd und die tapferen -en", sagte er, höflich zu seinem Gast verneigend. "Nicht wahr, Mrs. O'Dowd? Füllen Sie das Glas von Mrs. O'Dowd, Isidor." Aber plötzlich, startete Isidor und die Frau des Majors legte Messer und Gabel ab. Die Fenster des Raumes waren geöffnet und zeigten nach Süden, und ein dumpfer ferner Klang kam von dort über die von der Sonne beschienenen Dächer. "Was ist das?", fragte Jos. "Warum schenkst du nicht ein, du Schurke?" "C'est le feu!" sagte Isidor und rannte zum Balkon. "Gott beschütze uns, das sind Kanonen!" rief Mrs. O'Dowd und sprang auf und ging auch zum Fenster. Tausend blasse und ängstliche Gesichter hätten man von anderen Fenstern aus sehen können. Und bald schien es, als ob die ganze Bevölkerung der Stadt auf die Straßen stürzte. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Jos ist im Grunde ziemlich froh, dass George weg ist, vorausgesetzt, alles ist gleich. George hat ihn gnadenlos verspottet. Jos macht sich gerade fertig für das Frühstück, aber Amelia ist zu krank, um aus ihrem Zimmer zu kommen und sich ihm anzuschließen. Stattdessen spricht er mit seinem Diener Isidor, der regelmäßig in die Stadt geht, um so viele Neuigkeiten wie möglich über den Krieg zu erfahren. Aktuell ist die Nachricht im Grunde, dass Napoleon die Oberhand gewinnt. Laut Isidor steht der Duke of Wellington kurz davor, das Land zu verlassen. Jos glaubt es nicht wirklich, ist jedoch ein wenig nervös wegen der Berichte. Isidor ist derweil ein großer Befürworter von Napoleon. Nicht zuletzt deshalb, weil wenn die Engländer aus Belgien vertrieben oder eingesperrt werden, dann gehen alle Besitztümer der Osbornes und von Jos an ihn. Während er Jos jeden Morgen fertig macht, berechnet er in Gedanken jedes Einzelteil und überlegt, wie er es nutzen wird. Es ist ein lustiger Moment und erinnert den Leser auch an Beckys und Rawdons ähnliche Aufzählungen im letzten Kapitel. Als Jos seinen militärischen Mantel anzieht, kommt Becky herein. Zuerst macht sie sich über Jos lustig, dass er aussieht, als würde er sich der Armee anschließen wollen. Dann beginnt sie mit ihm zu flirten. Im Grunde sagt sie ihm, dass sie immer noch Gefühle für ihn hat und dass Rawdon sehr eifersüchtig auf ihn ist. Es ist wirklich kinderleicht und Jos ist sofort wieder von ihr begeistert. In der Zwischenzeit denkt Becky, dass sie sich durch dies einen guten Platz in Jos' Kutsche gesichert hat, falls die Briten aus Brüssel fliehen müssen. Jos begreift offensichtlich nicht, dass er ausgenutzt wird. Becky geht dann zu Amelia, und zum ersten Mal in ihrem Leben setzt sich Amelia ein Stück weit für sich selbst ein und lässt Becky ihre Meinung wissen. Sie sagt Becky, dass sie eine gute Freundin für sie gewesen ist und fragt, warum Becky das Bedürfnis hatte, George wegzunehmen, obwohl sie erst seit sechs Wochen verheiratet sind. Becky fühlt sich tatsächlich schlecht, obwohl sie auch stolz darauf ist, auf der Empfängerseite zu stehen, da Amelia im Grunde ihre Niederlage eingesteht. Dann fängt Amelia an, zu reden und zu schimpfen, und ihr Gespräch wird verrückt. Becky fängt tatsächlich an, sich um Amelia zu sorgen, geht hinaus und findet Mrs. O'Dowd. Mrs. O'Dowd ist beleidigt, dass Becky mit ihr spricht, aber Becky sagt ihr einfach, sie solle sich um Amelia kümmern, da es ihr offensichtlich nicht gut geht. Mrs. O'Dowd schafft es, Amelia ein wenig zusammenzureißen. Dann geht sie mit Jos zum Mittagessen, als plötzlich ein lauter Knall draußen zu hören ist... Schüsse und die Geräusche von Kanonenfeuer!

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 aunt, beginning, I imagine, to be made seriously uncomfortable by my prolonged dejection, made a pretence of being anxious that I should go to Dover, to see that all was working well at the cottage, which was let; and to conclude an agreement, with the same tenant, for a longer term of occupation. Janet was drafted into the service of Mrs. Strong, where I saw her every day. She had been undecided, on leaving Dover, whether or no to give the finishing touch to that renunciation of mankind in which she had been educated, by marrying a pilot; but she decided against that venture. Not so much for the sake of principle, I believe, as because she happened not to like him. Although it required an effort to leave Miss Mills, I fell rather willingly into my aunt's pretence, as a means of enabling me to pass a few tranquil hours with Agnes. I consulted the good Doctor relative to an absence of three days; and the Doctor wishing me to take that relaxation,--he wished me to take more; but my energy could not bear that,--I made up my mind to go. As to the Commons, I had no great occasion to be particular about my duties in that quarter. To say the truth, we were getting in no very good odour among the tip-top proctors, and were rapidly sliding down to but a doubtful position. The business had been indifferent under Mr. Jorkins, before Mr. Spenlow's time; and although it had been quickened by the infusion of new blood, and by the display which Mr. Spenlow made, still it was not established on a sufficiently strong basis to bear, without being shaken, such a blow as the sudden loss of its active manager. It fell off very much. Mr. Jorkins, notwithstanding his reputation in the firm, was an easy-going, incapable sort of man, whose reputation out of doors was not calculated to back it up. I was turned over to him now, and when I saw him take his snuff and let the business go, I regretted my aunt's thousand pounds more than ever. But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of hangers-on and outsiders about the Commons, who, without being proctors themselves, dabbled in common-form business, and got it done by real proctors, who lent their names in consideration of a share in the spoil;--and there were a good many of these too. As our house now wanted business on any terms, we joined this noble band; and threw out lures to the hangers-on and outsiders, to bring their business to us. Marriage licences and small probates were what we all looked for, and what paid us best; and the competition for these ran very high indeed. Kidnappers and inveiglers were planted in all the avenues of entrance to the Commons, with instructions to do their utmost to cut off all persons in mourning, and all gentlemen with anything bashful in their appearance, and entice them to the offices in which their respective employers were interested; which instructions were so well observed, that I myself, before I was known by sight, was twice hustled into the premises of our principal opponent. The conflicting interests of these touting gentlemen being of a nature to irritate their feelings, personal collisions took place; and the Commons was even scandalized by our principal inveigler (who had formerly been in the wine trade, and afterwards in the sworn brokery line) walking about for some days with a black eye. Any one of these scouts used to think nothing of politely assisting an old lady in black out of a vehicle, killing any proctor whom she inquired for, representing his employer as the lawful successor and representative of that proctor, and bearing the old lady off (sometimes greatly affected) to his employer's office. Many captives were brought to me in this way. As to marriage licences, the competition rose to such a pitch, that a shy gentleman in want of one, had nothing to do but submit himself to the first inveigler, or be fought for, and become the prey of the strongest. One of our clerks, who was an outsider, used, in the height of this contest, to sit with his hat on, that he might be ready to rush out and swear before a surrogate any victim who was brought in. The system of inveigling continues, I believe, to this day. The last time I was in the Commons, a civil able-bodied person in a white apron pounced out upon me from a doorway, and whispering the word 'Marriage-licence' in my ear, was with great difficulty prevented from taking me up in his arms and lifting me into a proctor's. From this digression, let me proceed to Dover. I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage; and was enabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by reporting that the tenant inherited her feud, and waged incessant war against donkeys. Having settled the little business I had to transact there, and slept there one night, I walked on to Canterbury early in the morning. It was now winter again; and the fresh, cold windy day, and the sweeping downland, brightened up my hopes a little. Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with a sober pleasure that calmed my spirits, and eased my heart. There were the old signs, the old names over the shops, the old people serving in them. It appeared so long, since I had been a schoolboy there, that I wondered the place was so little changed, until I reflected how little I was changed myself. Strange to say, that quiet influence which was inseparable in my mind from Agnes, seemed to pervade even the city where she dwelt. The venerable cathedral towers, and the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy voices made them more retired than perfect silence would have done; the battered gateways, one stuck full with statues, long thrown down, and crumbled away, like the reverential pilgrims who had gazed upon them; the still nooks, where the ivied growth of centuries crept over gabled ends and ruined walls; the ancient houses, the pastoral landscape of field, orchard, and garden; everywhere--on everything--I felt the same serener air, the same calm, thoughtful, softening spirit. Arrived at Mr. Wickfield's house, I found, in the little lower room on the ground floor, where Uriah Heep had been of old accustomed to sit, Mr. Micawber plying his pen with great assiduity. He was dressed in a legal-looking suit of black, and loomed, burly and large, in that small office. Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little confused too. He would have conducted me immediately into the presence of Uriah, but I declined. 'I know the house of old, you recollect,' said I, 'and will find my way upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micawber?' 'My dear Copperfield,' he replied. 'To a man possessed of the higher imaginative powers, the objection to legal studies is the amount of detail which they involve. Even in our professional correspondence,' said Mr. Micawber, glancing at some letters he was writing, 'the mind is not at liberty to soar to any exalted form of expression. Still, it is a great pursuit. A great pursuit!' He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah Heep's old house; and that Mrs. Micawber would be delighted to receive me, once more, under her own roof. 'It is humble,' said Mr. Micawber, '--to quote a favourite expression of my friend Heep; but it may prove the stepping-stone to more ambitious domiciliary accommodation.' I asked him whether he had reason, so far, to be satisfied with his friend Heep's treatment of him? He got up to ascertain if the door were close shut, before he replied, in a lower voice: 'My dear Copperfield, a man who labours under the pressure of pecuniary embarrassments, is, with the generality of people, at a disadvantage. That disadvantage is not diminished, when that pressure necessitates the drawing of stipendiary emoluments, before those emoluments are strictly due and payable. All I can say is, that my friend Heep has responded to appeals to which I need not more particularly refer, in a manner calculated to redound equally to the honour of his head, and of his heart.' 'I should not have supposed him to be very free with his money either,' I observed. 'Pardon me!' said Mr. Micawber, with an air of constraint, 'I speak of my friend Heep as I have experience.' 'I am glad your experience is so favourable,' I returned. 'You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber; and hummed a tune. 'Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield?' I asked, to change the subject. 'Not much,' said Mr. Micawber, slightingly. 'Mr. Wickfield is, I dare say, a man of very excellent intentions; but he is--in short, he is obsolete.' 'I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so,' said I. 'My dear Copperfield!' returned Mr. Micawber, after some uneasy evolutions on his stool, 'allow me to offer a remark! I am here, in a capacity of confidence. I am here, in a position of trust. The discussion of some topics, even with Mrs. Micawber herself (so long the partner of my various vicissitudes, and a woman of a remarkable lucidity of intellect), is, I am led to consider, incompatible with the functions now devolving on me. I would therefore take the liberty of suggesting that in our friendly intercourse--which I trust will never be disturbed!--we draw a line. On one side of this line,' said Mr. Micawber, representing it on the desk with the office ruler, 'is the whole range of the human intellect, with a trifling exception; on the other, IS that exception; that is to say, the affairs of Messrs Wickfield and Heep, with all belonging and appertaining thereunto. I trust I give no offence to the companion of my youth, in submitting this proposition to his cooler judgement?' Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawber, which sat tightly on him, as if his new duties were a misfit, I felt I had no right to be offended. My telling him so, appeared to relieve him; and he shook hands with me. 'I am charmed, Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'let me assure you, with Miss Wickfield. She is a very superior young lady, of very remarkable attractions, graces, and virtues. Upon my honour,' said Mr. Micawber, indefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with his genteelest air, 'I do Homage to Miss Wickfield! Hem!' 'I am glad of that, at least,' said I. 'If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the occasion of that agreeable afternoon we had the happiness of passing with you, that D. was your favourite letter,' said Mr. Micawber, 'I should unquestionably have supposed that A. had been so.' We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over us occasionally, of what we are saying and doing having been said and done before, in a remote time--of our having been surrounded, dim ages ago, by the same faces, objects, and circumstances--of our knowing perfectly what will be said next, as if we suddenly remembered it! I never had this mysterious impression more strongly in my life, than before he uttered those words. I took my leave of Mr. Micawber, for the time, charging him with my best remembrances to all at home. As I left him, resuming his stool and his pen, and rolling his head in his stock, to get it into easier writing order, I clearly perceived that there was something interposed between him and me, since he had come into his new functions, which prevented our getting at each other as we used to do, and quite altered the character of our intercourse. There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, though it presented tokens of Mrs. Heep's whereabouts. I looked into the room still belonging to Agnes, and saw her sitting by the fire, at a pretty old-fashioned desk she had, writing. My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to be the cause of that bright change in her attentive face, and the object of that sweet regard and welcome! 'Ah, Agnes!' said I, when we were sitting together, side by side; 'I have missed you so much, lately!' 'Indeed?' she replied. 'Again! And so soon?' I shook my head. 'I don't know how it is, Agnes; I seem to want some faculty of mind that I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking for me, in the happy old days here, and I came so naturally to you for counsel and support, that I really think I have missed acquiring it.' 'And what is it?' said Agnes, cheerfully. 'I don't know what to call it,' I replied. 'I think I am earnest and persevering?' 'I am sure of it,' said Agnes. 'And patient, Agnes?' I inquired, with a little hesitation. 'Yes,' returned Agnes, laughing. 'Pretty well.' 'And yet,' said I, 'I get so miserable and worried, and am so unsteady and irresolute in my power of assuring myself, that I know I must want--shall I call it--reliance, of some kind?' 'Call it so, if you will,' said Agnes. 'Well!' I returned. 'See here! You come to London, I rely on you, and I have an object and a course at once. I am driven out of it, I come here, and in a moment I feel an altered person. The circumstances that distressed me are not changed, since I came into this room; but an influence comes over me in that short interval that alters me, oh, how much for the better! What is it? What is your secret, Agnes?' Her head was bent down, looking at the fire. 'It's the old story,' said I. 'Don't laugh, when I say it was always the same in little things as it is in greater ones. My old troubles were nonsense, and now they are serious; but whenever I have gone away from my adopted sister--' Agnes looked up--with such a Heavenly face!--and gave me her hand, which I kissed. 'Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and approve in the beginning, I have seemed to go wild, and to get into all sorts of difficulty. When I have come to you, at last (as I have always done), I have come to peace and happiness. I come home, now, like a tired traveller, and find such a blessed sense of rest!' I felt so deeply what I said, it affected me so sincerely, that my voice failed, and I covered my face with my hand, and broke into tears. I write the truth. Whatever contradictions and inconsistencies there were within me, as there are within so many of us; whatever might have been so different, and so much better; whatever I had done, in which I had perversely wandered away from the voice of my own heart; I knew nothing of. I only knew that I was fervently in earnest, when I felt the rest and peace of having Agnes near me. In her placid sisterly manner; with her beaming eyes; with her tender voice; and with that sweet composure, which had long ago made the house that held her quite a sacred place to me; she soon won me from this weakness, and led me on to tell all that had happened since our last meeting. 'And there is not another word to tell, Agnes,' said I, when I had made an end of my confidence. 'Now, my reliance is on you.' 'But it must not be on me, Trotwood,' returned Agnes, with a pleasant smile. 'It must be on someone else.' 'On Dora?' said I. 'Assuredly.' 'Why, I have not mentioned, Agnes,' said I, a little embarrassed, 'that Dora is rather difficult to--I would not, for the world, say, to rely upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth--but rather difficult to--I hardly know how to express it, really, Agnes. She is a timid little thing, and easily disturbed and frightened. Some time ago, before her father's death, when I thought it right to mention to her--but I'll tell you, if you will bear with me, how it was.' Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about the cookery-book, the housekeeping accounts, and all the rest of it. 'Oh, Trotwood!' she remonstrated, with a smile. 'Just your old headlong way! You might have been in earnest in striving to get on in the world, without being so very sudden with a timid, loving, inexperienced girl. Poor Dora!' I never heard such sweet forbearing kindness expressed in a voice, as she expressed in making this reply. It was as if I had seen her admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora, and tacitly reproving me, by her considerate protection, for my hot haste in fluttering that little heart. It was as if I had seen Dora, in all her fascinating artlessness, caressing Agnes, and thanking her, and coaxingly appealing against me, and loving me with all her childish innocence. I felt so grateful to Agnes, and admired her so! I saw those two together, in a bright perspective, such well-associated friends, each adorning the other so much! 'What ought I to do then, Agnes?' I inquired, after looking at the fire a little while. 'What would it be right to do?' 'I think,' said Agnes, 'that the honourable course to take, would be to write to those two ladies. Don't you think that any secret course is an unworthy one?' 'Yes. If YOU think so,' said I. 'I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters,' replied Agnes, with a modest hesitation, 'but I certainly feel--in short, I feel that your being secret and clandestine, is not being like yourself.' 'Like myself, in the too high opinion you have of me, Agnes, I am afraid,' said I. 'Like yourself, in the candour of your nature,' she returned; 'and therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relate, as plainly and as openly as possible, all that has taken place; and I would ask their permission to visit sometimes, at their house. Considering that you are young, and striving for a place in life, I think it would be well to say that you would readily abide by any conditions they might impose upon you. I would entreat them not to dismiss your request, without a reference to Dora; and to discuss it with her when they should think the time suitable. I would not be too vehement,' said Agnes, gently, 'or propose too much. I would trust to my fidelity and perseverance--and to Dora.' 'But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speaking to her,' said I. 'And if Dora were to cry, and say nothing about me!' 'Is that likely?' inquired Agnes, with the same sweet consideration in her face. 'God bless her, she is as easily scared as a bird,' said I. 'It might be! Or if the two Miss Spenlows (elderly ladies of that sort are odd characters sometimes) should not be likely persons to address in that way!' 'I don't think, Trotwood,' returned Agnes, raising her soft eyes to mine, 'I would consider that. Perhaps it would be better only to consider whether it is right to do this; and, if it is, to do it.' I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart, though with a profound sense of the weighty importance of my task, I devoted the whole afternoon to the composition of the draft of this letter; for which great purpose, Agnes relinquished her desk to me. But first I went downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah Heep. I found Uriah in possession of a new, plaster-smelling office, built out in the garden; looking extraordinarily mean, in the midst of a quantity of books and papers. He received me in his usual fawning way, and pretended not to have heard of my arrival from Mr. Micawber; a pretence I took the liberty of disbelieving. He accompanied me into Mr. Wickfield's room, which was the shadow of its former self--having been divested of a variety of conveniences, for the accommodation of the new partner--and stood before the fire, warming his back, and shaving his chin with his bony hand, while Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings. 'You stay with us, Trotwood, while you remain in Canterbury?' said Mr. Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah for his approval. 'Is there room for me?' said I. 'I am sure, Master Copperfield--I should say Mister, but the other comes so natural,' said Uriah,--'I would turn out of your old room with pleasure, if it would be agreeable.' 'No, no,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'Why should you be inconvenienced? There's another room. There's another room.' 'Oh, but you know,' returned Uriah, with a grin, 'I should really be delighted!' To cut the matter short, I said I would have the other room or none at all; so it was settled that I should have the other room; and, taking my leave of the firm until dinner, I went upstairs again. I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes. But Mrs. Heep had asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near the fire, in that room; on pretence of its having an aspect more favourable for her rheumatics, as the wind then was, than the drawing-room or dining-parlour. Though I could almost have consigned her to the mercies of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of the Cathedral, without remorse, I made a virtue of necessity, and gave her a friendly salutation. 'I'm umbly thankful to you, sir,' said Mrs. Heep, in acknowledgement of my inquiries concerning her health, 'but I'm only pretty well. I haven't much to boast of. If I could see my Uriah well settled in life, I couldn't expect much more I think. How do you think my Ury looking, sir?' I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that I saw no change in him. 'Oh, don't you think he's changed?' said Mrs. Heep. 'There I must umbly beg leave to differ from you. Don't you see a thinness in him?' 'Not more than usual,' I replied. 'Don't you though!' said Mrs. Heep. 'But you don't take notice of him with a mother's eye!' His mother's eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I thought as it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him; and I believe she and her son were devoted to one another. It passed me, and went on to Agnes. 'Don't YOU see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss Wickfield?' inquired Mrs. Heep. 'No,' said Agnes, quietly pursuing the work on which she was engaged. 'You are too solicitous about him. He is very well.' Mrs. Heep, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knitting. She never left off, or left us for a moment. I had arrived early in the day, and we had still three or four hours before dinner; but she sat there, plying her knitting-needles as monotonously as an hour-glass might have poured out its sands. She sat on one side of the fire; I sat at the desk in front of it; a little beyond me, on the other side, sat Agnes. Whensoever, slowly pondering over my letter, I lifted up my eyes, and meeting the thoughtful face of Agnes, saw it clear, and beam encouragement upon me, with its own angelic expression, I was conscious presently of the evil eye passing me, and going on to her, and coming back to me again, and dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the knitting was, I don't know, not being learned in that art; but it looked like a net; and as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of knitting-needles, she showed in the firelight like an ill-looking enchantress, baulked as yet by the radiant goodness opposite, but getting ready for a cast of her net by and by. At dinner she maintained her watch, with the same unwinking eyes. After dinner, her son took his turn; and when Mr. Wickfield, himself, and I were left alone together, leered at me, and writhed until I could hardly bear it. In the drawing-room, there was the mother knitting and watching again. All the time that Agnes sang and played, the mother sat at the piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad, which she said her Ury (who was yawning in a great chair) doted on; and at intervals she looked round at him, and reported to Agnes that he was in raptures with the music. But she hardly ever spoke--I question if she ever did--without making some mention of him. It was evident to me that this was the duty assigned to her. This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and son, like two great bats hanging over the whole house, and darkening it with their ugly forms, made me so uncomfortable, that I would rather have remained downstairs, knitting and all, than gone to bed. I hardly got any sleep. Next day the knitting and watching began again, and lasted all day. I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnes, for ten minutes. I could barely show her my letter. I proposed to her to walk out with me; but Mrs. Heep repeatedly complaining that she was worse, Agnes charitably remained within, to bear her company. Towards the twilight I went out by myself, musing on what I ought to do, and whether I was justified in withholding from Agnes, any longer, what Uriah Heep had told me in London; for that began to trouble me again, very much. I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the town, upon the Ramsgate road, where there was a good path, when I was hailed, through the dust, by somebody behind me. The shambling figure, and the scanty great-coat, were not to be mistaken. I stopped, and Uriah Heep came up. 'Well?' said I. 'How fast you walk!' said he. 'My legs are pretty long, but you've given 'em quite a job.' 'Where are you going?' said I. 'I am going with you, Master Copperfield, if you'll allow me the pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance.' Saying this, with a jerk of his body, which might have been either propitiatory or derisive, he fell into step beside me. 'Uriah!' said I, as civilly as I could, after a silence. 'Master Copperfield!' said Uriah. 'To tell you the truth (at which you will not be offended), I came Out to walk alone, because I have had so much company.' He looked at me sideways, and said with his hardest grin, 'You mean mother.' 'Why yes, I do,' said I. 'Ah! But you know we're so very umble,' he returned. 'And having such a knowledge of our own umbleness, we must really take care that we're not pushed to the wall by them as isn't umble. All stratagems are fair in love, sir.' Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he rubbed them softly, and softly chuckled; looking as like a malevolent baboon, I thought, as anything human could look. 'You see,' he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant way, and shaking his head at me, 'you're quite a dangerous rival, Master Copperfield. You always was, you know.' 'Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield, and make her home no home, because of me?' said I. 'Oh! Master Copperfield! Those are very arsh words,' he replied. 'Put my meaning into any words you like,' said I. 'You know what it is, Uriah, as well as I do.' 'Oh no! You must put it into words,' he said. 'Oh, really! I couldn't myself.' 'Do you suppose,' said I, constraining myself to be very temperate and quiet with him, on account of Agnes, 'that I regard Miss Wickfield otherwise than as a very dear sister?' 'Well, Master Copperfield,' he replied, 'you perceive I am not bound to answer that question. You may not, you know. But then, you see, you may!' Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage, and of his shadowless eyes without the ghost of an eyelash, I never saw. 'Come then!' said I. 'For the sake of Miss Wickfield--' 'My Agnes!' he exclaimed, with a sickly, angular contortion of himself. 'Would you be so good as call her Agnes, Master Copperfield!' 'For the sake of Agnes Wickfield--Heaven bless her!' 'Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield!' he interposed. 'I will tell you what I should, under any other circumstances, as soon have thought of telling to--Jack Ketch.' 'To who, sir?' said Uriah, stretching out his neck, and shading his ear with his hand. 'To the hangman,' I returned. 'The most unlikely person I could think of,'--though his own face had suggested the allusion quite as a natural sequence. 'I am engaged to another young lady. I hope that contents you.' 'Upon your soul?' said Uriah. I was about indignantly to give my assertion the confirmation he required, when he caught hold of my hand, and gave it a squeeze. 'Oh, Master Copperfield!' he said. 'If you had only had the condescension to return my confidence when I poured out the fulness of my art, the night I put you so much out of the way by sleeping before your sitting-room fire, I never should have doubted you. As it is, I'm sure I'll take off mother directly, and only too appy. I know you'll excuse the precautions of affection, won't you? What a pity, Master Copperfield, that you didn't condescend to return my confidence! I'm sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never have condescended to me, as much as I could have wished. I know you have never liked me, as I have liked you!' All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp fishy fingers, while I made every effort I decently could to get it away. But I was quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his mulberry-coloured great-coat, and I walked on, almost upon compulsion, arm-in-arm with him. 'Shall we turn?' said Uriah, by and by wheeling me face about towards the town, on which the early moon was now shining, silvering the distant windows. 'Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand,' said I, breaking a pretty long silence, 'that I believe Agnes Wickfield to be as far above you, and as far removed from all your aspirations, as that moon herself!' 'Peaceful! Ain't she!' said Uriah. 'Very! Now confess, Master Copperfield, that you haven't liked me quite as I have liked you. All along you've thought me too umble now, I shouldn't wonder?' 'I am not fond of professions of humility,' I returned, 'or professions of anything else.' 'There now!' said Uriah, looking flabby and lead-coloured in the moonlight. 'Didn't I know it! But how little you think of the rightful umbleness of a person in my station, Master Copperfield! Father and me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys; and mother, she was likewise brought up at a public, sort of charitable, establishment. They taught us all a deal of umbleness--not much else that I know of, from morning to night. We was to be umble to this person, and umble to that; and to pull off our caps here, and to make bows there; and always to know our place, and abase ourselves before our betters. And we had such a lot of betters! Father got the monitor-medal by being umble. So did I. Father got made a sexton by being umble. He had the character, among the gentlefolks, of being such a well-behaved man, that they were determined to bring him in. "Be umble, Uriah," says father to me, "and you'll get on. It was what was always being dinned into you and me at school; it's what goes down best. Be umble," says father, "and you'll do!" And really it ain't done bad!' It was the first time it had ever occurred to me, that this detestable cant of false humility might have originated out of the Heep family. I had seen the harvest, but had never thought of the seed. 'When I was quite a young boy,' said Uriah, 'I got to know what umbleness did, and I took to it. I ate umble pie with an appetite. I stopped at the umble point of my learning, and says I, "Hold hard!" When you offered to teach me Latin, I knew better. "People like to be above you," says father, "keep yourself down." I am very umble to the present moment, Master Copperfield, but I've got a little power!' And he said all this--I knew, as I saw his face in the moonlight--that I might understand he was resolved to recompense himself by using his power. I had never doubted his meanness, his craft and malice; but I fully comprehended now, for the first time, what a base, unrelenting, and revengeful spirit, must have been engendered by this early, and this long, suppression. His account of himself was so far attended with an agreeable result, that it led to his withdrawing his hand in order that he might have another hug of himself under the chin. Once apart from him, I was determined to keep apart; and we walked back, side by side, saying very little more by the way. Whether his spirits were elevated by the communication I had made to him, or by his having indulged in this retrospect, I don't know; but they were raised by some influence. He talked more at dinner than was usual with him; asked his mother (off duty, from the moment of our re-entering the house) whether he was not growing too old for a bachelor; and once looked at Agnes so, that I would have given all I had, for leave to knock him down. When we three males were left alone after dinner, he got into a more adventurous state. He had taken little or no wine; and I presume it was the mere insolence of triumph that was upon him, flushed perhaps by the temptation my presence furnished to its exhibition. I had observed yesterday, that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield to drink; and, interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as she went out, had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed that we should follow her. I would have done so again today; but Uriah was too quick for me. 'We seldom see our present visitor, sir,' he said, addressing Mr. Wickfield, sitting, such a contrast to him, at the end of the table, 'and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass or two of wine, if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your elth and appiness!' I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched across to me; and then, with very different emotions, I took the hand of the broken gentleman, his partner. 'Come, fellow-partner,' said Uriah, 'if I may take the liberty,--now, suppose you give us something or another appropriate to Copperfield!' I pass over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunt, his proposing Mr. Dick, his proposing Doctors' Commons, his proposing Uriah, his drinking everything twice; his consciousness of his own weakness, the ineffectual effort that he made against it; the struggle between his shame in Uriah's deportment, and his desire to conciliate him; the manifest exultation with which Uriah twisted and turned, and held him up before me. It made me sick at heart to see, and my hand recoils from writing it. 'Come, fellow-partner!' said Uriah, at last, 'I'll give you another one, and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it the divinest of her sex.' Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it down, look at the picture she was so like, put his hand to his forehead, and shrink back in his elbow-chair. 'I'm an umble individual to give you her elth,' proceeded Uriah, 'but I admire--adore her.' No physical pain that her father's grey head could have borne, I think, could have been more terrible to me, than the mental endurance I saw compressed now within both his hands. 'Agnes,' said Uriah, either not regarding him, or not knowing what the nature of his action was, 'Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe to say, the divinest of her sex. May I speak out, among friends? To be her father is a proud distinction, but to be her usband--' Spare me from ever again hearing such a cry, as that with which her father rose up from the table! 'What's the matter?' said Uriah, turning of a deadly colour. 'You are not gone mad, after all, Mr. Wickfield, I hope? If I say I've an ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as good a right to it as another man. I have a better right to it than any other man!' I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything that I could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to calm himself a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his hair, beating his head, trying to force me from him, and to force himself from me, not answering a word, not looking at or seeing anyone; blindly striving for he knew not what, his face all staring and distorted--a frightful spectacle. I conjured him, incoherently, but in the most impassioned manner, not to abandon himself to this wildness, but to hear me. I besought him to think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, to recollect how Agnes and I had grown up together, how I honoured her and loved her, how she was his pride and joy. I tried to bring her idea before him in any form; I even reproached him with not having firmness to spare her the knowledge of such a scene as this. I may have effected something, or his wildness may have spent itself; but by degrees he struggled less, and began to look at me--strangely at first, then with recognition in his eyes. At length he said, 'I know, Trotwood! My darling child and you--I know! But look at him!' He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, evidently very much out in his calculations, and taken by surprise. 'Look at my torturer,' he replied. 'Before him I have step by step abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home.' 'I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your peace and quiet, and your house and home too,' said Uriah, with a sulky, hurried, defeated air of compromise. 'Don't be foolish, Mr. Wickfield. If I have gone a little beyond what you were prepared for, I can go back, I suppose? There's no harm done.' 'I looked for single motives in everyone,' said Mr. Wickfield, 'and I was satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest. But see what he is--oh, see what he is!' 'You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can,' cried Uriah, with his long forefinger pointing towards me. 'He'll say something presently--mind you!--he'll be sorry to have said afterwards, and you'll be sorry to have heard!' 'I'll say anything!' cried Mr. Wickfield, with a desperate air. 'Why should I not be in all the world's power if I am in yours?' 'Mind! I tell you!' said Uriah, continuing to warn me. 'If you don't stop his mouth, you're not his friend! Why shouldn't you be in all the world's power, Mr. Wickfield? Because you have got a daughter. You and me know what we know, don't we? Let sleeping dogs lie--who wants to rouse 'em? I don't. Can't you see I am as umble as I can be? I tell you, if I've gone too far, I'm sorry. What would you have, sir?' 'Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood!'exclaimed Mr. Wickfield, wringing his hands. 'What I have come down to be, since I first saw you in this house! I was on my downward way then, but the dreary, dreary road I have traversed since! Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence in remembrance, and indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief for my child's mother turned to disease; my natural love for my child turned to disease. I have infected everything I touched. I have brought misery on what I dearly love, I know--you know! I thought it possible that I could truly love one creature in the world, and not love the rest; I thought it possible that I could truly mourn for one creature gone out of the world, and not have some part in the grief of all who mourned. Thus the lessons of my life have been perverted! I have preyed on my own morbid coward heart, and it has preyed on me. Sordid in my grief, sordid in my love, sordid in my miserable escape from the darker side of both, oh see the ruin I am, and hate me, shun me!' He dropped into a chair, and weakly sobbed. The excitement into which he had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his corner. 'I don't know all I have done, in my fatuity,' said Mr. Wickfield, putting out his hands, as if to deprecate my condemnation. 'He knows best,' meaning Uriah Heep, 'for he has always been at my elbow, whispering me. You see the millstone that he is about my neck. You find him in my house, you find him in my business. You heard him, but a little time ago. What need have I to say more!' 'You haven't need to say so much, nor half so much, nor anything at all,' observed Uriah, half defiant, and half fawning. 'You wouldn't have took it up so, if it hadn't been for the wine. You'll think better of it tomorrow, sir. If I have said too much, or more than I meant, what of it? I haven't stood by it!' The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a vestige of colour in her face, put her arm round his neck, and steadily said, 'Papa, you are not well. Come with me!' He laid his head upon her shoulder, as if he were oppressed with heavy shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but an instant, yet I saw how much she knew of what had passed. 'I didn't expect he'd cut up so rough, Master Copperfield,' said Uriah. 'But it's nothing. I'll be friends with him tomorrow. It's for his good. I'm umbly anxious for his good.' I gave him no answer, and went upstairs into the quiet room where Agnes had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came near me until late at night. I took up a book, and tried to read. I heard the clocks strike twelve, and was still reading, without knowing what I read, when Agnes touched me. 'You will be going early in the morning, Trotwood! Let us say good-bye, now!' She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and beautiful! 'Heaven bless you!' she said, giving me her hand. 'Dearest Agnes!' I returned, 'I see you ask me not to speak of tonight--but is there nothing to be done?' 'There is God to trust in!' she replied. 'Can I do nothing--I, who come to you with my poor sorrows?' 'And make mine so much lighter,' she replied. 'Dear Trotwood, no!' 'Dear Agnes,' I said, 'it is presumptuous for me, who am so poor in all in which you are so rich--goodness, resolution, all noble qualities--to doubt or direct you; but you know how much I love you, and how much I owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to a mistaken sense of duty, Agnes?' More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen her, she took her hands from me, and moved a step back. 'Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes! Much more than sister! Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yours, of such a love as yours!' Oh! long, long afterwards, I saw that face rise up before me, with its momentary look, not wondering, not accusing, not regretting. Oh, long, long afterwards, I saw that look subside, as it did now, into the lovely smile, with which she told me she had no fear for herself--I need have none for her--and parted from me by the name of Brother, and was gone! It was dark in the morning, when I got upon the coach at the inn door. The day was just breaking when we were about to start, and then, as I sat thinking of her, came struggling up the coach side, through the mingled day and night, Uriah's head. 'Copperfield!' said he, in a croaking whisper, as he hung by the iron on the roof, 'I thought you'd be glad to hear before you went off, that there are no squares broke between us. I've been into his room already, and we've made it all smooth. Why, though I'm umble, I'm useful to him, you know; and he understands his interest when he isn't in liquor! What an agreeable man he is, after all, Master Copperfield!' I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology. 'Oh, to be sure!' said Uriah. 'When a person's umble, you know, what's an apology? So easy! I say! I suppose,' with a jerk, 'you have sometimes plucked a pear before it was ripe, Master Copperfield?' 'I suppose I have,' I replied. 'I did that last night,' said Uriah; 'but it'll ripen yet! It only wants attending to. I can wait!' Profuse in his farewells, he got down again as the coachman got up. For anything I know, he was eating something to keep the raw morning air out; but he made motions with his mouth as if the pear were ripe already, and he were smacking his lips over it. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Miss Betsey macht sich Sorgen um Davids geistigen Zustand. Sie schickt ihn nach Dover, um sich um das Cottage zu kümmern und den Abschluss eines langfristigen Mietvertrags mit dem Mieter zu überwachen. Janet ist in Annies Diensten, daher sieht David sie regelmäßig. David freut sich, weil er ein paar Stunden mit Agnes reden möchte. Doktor Strong gibt David gerne drei Tage frei und im Anwaltsbüro ist nichts Besonderes los. Tatsächlich läuft das Geschäft ohne Mr. Spenlow, der energisch alles managte, nicht besonders gut. Mr. Jorkins ist tatsächlich nicht sehr kompetent und hat nicht viel Geschäft. David ist wirklich enttäuscht, dass er mit diesem Mann feststeckt und Miss Betsys tausend Pfund verschwendet werden. Das Cottage sieht großartig aus und David ist erfreut zu sehen, dass der Mieter die Esel vom Rasen fernhält. David besucht das Haus von Mr. Wickfield, wo er Mr. Micawber arbeiten findet, wo Uriah Heep früher gearbeitet hat. Mr. Micawber mietet Uriah Heeps altes Haus und würde sich freuen, wenn David ihn besucht. Micawber sagt David, dass er Uriah Heep schätzt, weil er bereit war, Mr. Micawbers Gehalt von Zeit zu Zeit zu erhöhen. David freut sich, dass es Mr. Micawber gut geht. Er fragt, wie es Mr. Wickfield geht. Mr. Micawber sagt, dass Mr. Wickfield im Büro nicht wirklich gebraucht wird. Tatsächlich weigert sich Mr. Micawber, Davids Fragen bezüglich der Geschäfte von Wickfield und Heep weiter zu diskutieren. David sagt Mr. Micawber, dass das in Ordnung ist, und sie schütteln sich die Hand. Mr. Micawber mag Miss Wickfield wirklich, die überlegen und tugendhaft erscheint. Er ist überrascht, dass David Agnes nicht verfolgt. David hat einen seltsamen Moment, in dem er genau weiß, was Mr. Micawber sagen wird, bevor er es sagt. Er fühlt sich unwohl: Mr. Micawbers neuer Job hat eine unbekannte Distanz zwischen ihn und David gebracht. David macht sich auf den Weg, Agnes zu finden. Er erzählt Agnes, dass sie ihm als seine adoptierte Schwester ein Gefühl von Beständigkeit und Selbstständigkeit gibt, das er ohne sie vermisst. Bei Agnes kann David ausruhen, also bricht er in Tränen aus. Sie tröstet ihn. Agnes erinnert David daran, dass er sich nicht mehr auf Agnes verlassen sollte, sondern auf Dora. David erzählt Agnes von dem Abend, als er hereinkam, um Dora von seiner Armut zu erzählen und sie es nicht ertragen konnte, ohne auszurasten. Agnes sagt, dass es typisch für David ist, auf ein schüchternes und unerfahrenes Mädchen wie Dora einzustürmen. David bewundert Agnes' freundliche und beschützende Haltung gegenüber Dora. Er fragt Agnes, was er tun soll. Agnes schlägt vor, dass David nicht wieder geheimnistuerisch sein sollte: Er sollte Doras Tanten über ihre Beziehung schreiben und um Erlaubnis bitten, sie manchmal zu besuchen. David stimmt glücklich zu. Dann geht er nach unten, um Mr. Wickfield und Uriah Heep zu sehen. Mr. Wickfield fragt, ob David bei ihnen bleiben wird, während er in Canterbury ist. David fragt, ob Platz ist, und Uriah bietet an, sein Zimmer für David zu räumen. Mr. Wickfield will davon nichts hören und sagt, dass es noch ein weiteres Zimmer gibt. Nachdem er beschlossen hat zu bleiben, zieht sich David bis zum Abendessen nach oben zurück. Er möchte mit Agnes zusammen sitzen, aber Mrs. Heep, Uriahs Mutter, besteht darauf mitzukommen. Mrs. Heep möchte ihre gesamte Zeit damit verbringen, über Uriah Heep zu sprechen und sich Sorgen um ihn zu machen. Uriahs Mutter lässt David und Agnes absolut nie alleine sitzen. David macht schließlich einen Spaziergang alleine. Bald darauf sieht er Uriah Heep hinter sich herlaufen. Uriah Heep holt ihn ein und fragt, ob er eine Weile mit David gehen kann. David gesteht, dass er etwas Zeit für sich alleine wollte. Uriah klärt auf, dass David Zeit ohne Uriahs Mutter haben will. David antwortet mit Ja. Uriah Heep sagt David, dass in der Liebe alles erlaubt ist und er David als schwierigen Konkurrenten ansieht. Wütend antwortet David, dass er Agnes nur als Schwester betrachtet. Er erzählt Uriah, dass er mit einer anderen Frau verlobt ist, wenn ihn das tröstet. Uriah greift nach seiner Hand, bedankt sich und verspricht, seiner Mutter von ihrer Wachdienst-Pflicht abzusehen. Heep informiert David, dass es schade ist, dass er Uriah nie so gemocht hat, wie Uriah ihn mag, sonst hätten sie dieses Missverständnis schon früher klären können. David erinnert Uriah daran, dass Agnes viel mehr wert ist als Uriah. Uriah erklärt: Demut wurde seiner Familie von Generationen von Schulen und Wohltätigkeitsorganisationen eingetrichtert, weil sie so arm waren. Die Heeps haben gelernt, dass das Einzige, was Menschen wie sie im Leben voranbringt, so demütig zu sein, wie es möglich ist. Plötzlich versteht David. Er wusste, dass Uriah bösartig und grausam ist, aber er sieht jetzt, wie sehr Uriahs Verhalten von Rache für all die demütigen Situationen motiviert ist, die er erdulden musste. Sie gehen ohne viel zu sagen zurück zum Haus von Mr. Wickfield. Nach dem Abendessen spielt Uriah Heep wirklich eine Rolle: Während David mit Mr. Wickfield sitzt, bietet Uriah Heep ihm immer wieder mehr zu trinken an. Mr. Wickfield ist sich bewusst, wie schwach er ist, immer mehr zu trinken, aber er kann sich nicht selbst stoppen. Es macht David krank zu sehen, wie Uriah Heep Mr. Wickfields Trinkproblem ausnutzt. Schließlich bringt Uriah Heep Mr. Wickfield dazu, auf Agnes zu trinken. Er sagt Mr. Wickfield, dass er sie anbetet. Uriah Heep sagt das h-Wort: Ehemann. Daraufhin ruft Mr. Wickfield laut aus und springt aus seinem Stuhl. Uriah Heep fragt sich, ob Mr. Wickfield verrückt geworden ist. David versucht, Mr. Wickfield zu beruhigen. Schließlich zeigt Mr. Wickfield auf Uriah und nennt ihn einen Peiniger, der ihn gezwungen hat, seinen Ruf und sein Glück zu Hause aufzugeben. Uriah Heep erinnert Mr. Wickfield daran, dass er dank Uriah immer noch irgendeine Art von Ruf hat. Uriah warnt David, Mr. Wickfield zum Schweigen zu bringen: Wenn er weiterredet, wird er etwas sagen, was er bereuen wird. Mr. Wickfield fängt an zu weinen, dass er alles ruiniert hat, was er mit seiner Schwäche berührt. Agnes kommt herein, legt ihren Arm um Mr. Wickfield und sagt ihm, mit ihr mitzukommen. David erkennt, dass Agnes alles weiß, was an diesem Abend im Raum passiert ist. Uriah sagt David, dass Mr. Wickfield am nächsten Morgen anders über seine Äußerungen denken wird. David fragt Agnes, ob er irgendetwas für sie tun kann? Er liebt sie so sehr - als Schwester! Agnes schaut merkwürdig, aber sie sagt David, er solle sich keine Sorgen um sie machen. David muss Canterbury vor Sonnenaufgang verlassen, aber Uriah Heep ist da, um ein letztes Wort zu sagen. Uriah hat bereits alles mit Mr. Wickfield geklärt. Außerdem war er vielleicht zu früh dran, als er versuchte, am Abend zuvor die Erlaubnis zur Heirat von Agnes einzuholen, aber die Zeit wird 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: Mr. Pickwick's conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his recent neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on the point of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after the election had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand a card, on which was engraved the following inscription:-- Mrs. Leo Hunter THE DEN. EATANSWILL. 'Person's a-waitin',' said Sam, epigrammatically. 'Does the person want me, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. 'He wants you partickler; and no one else 'll do, as the devil's private secretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus,' replied Mr. Weller. '_He_. Is it a gentleman?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'A wery good imitation o' one, if it ain't,' replied Mr. Weller. 'But this is a lady's card,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Given me by a gen'l'm'n, howsoever,' replied Sam, 'and he's a-waitin' in the drawing-room--said he'd rather wait all day, than not see you.' Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing- room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said, with an air of profound respect:-- 'Mr. Pickwick, I presume?' 'The same.' 'Allow me, Sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, Sir, to shake it,' said the grave man. 'Certainly,' said Mr. Pickwick. The stranger shook the extended hand, and then continued-- 'We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter--my wife, sir; I am Mr. Leo Hunter'--the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr. Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that he remained perfectly calm, proceeded-- 'My wife, sir--Mrs. Leo Hunter--is proud to number among her acquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the list the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother-members of the club that derives its name from him.' 'I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'You _shall _make it, sir,' said the grave man. 'To-morrow morning, sir, we give a public breakfast--a _fete champetre_--to a great number of those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir, to have the gratification of seeing you at the Den.' 'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, Sir,' resumed the new acquaintance--'"feasts of reason," sir, "and flows of soul," as somebody who wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and originally observed.' 'Was _he_ celebrated for his works and talents?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. 'He was Sir,' replied the grave man, 'all Mrs. Leo Hunter's acquaintances are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other acquaintance.' 'It is a very noble ambition,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from your lips, sir, she will indeed be proud,' said the grave man. 'You have a gentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, I think, sir.' 'My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir. She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met with her "Ode to an Expiring Frog," sir.' 'I don't think I have,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'You astonish me, Sir,' said Mr. Leo Hunter. 'It created an immense sensation. It was signed with an "L" and eight stars, and appeared originally in a lady's magazine. It commenced-- '"Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing; Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log Expiring frog!"' 'Beautiful!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Fine,' said Mr. Leo Hunter; 'so simple.' 'Very,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?' 'If you please,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'It runs thus,' said the grave man, still more gravely. '"Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo, and brutal noise, Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog!"' 'Finely expressed,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'All point, Sir,' said Mr. Leo Hunter; 'but you shall hear Mrs. Leo Hunter repeat it. She can do justice to it, Sir. She will repeat it, in character, Sir, to-morrow morning.' 'In character!' 'As Minerva. But I forgot--it's a fancy-dress _dejeune_.' 'Dear me,' said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure--'I can't possibly--' 'Can't, sir; can't!' exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. 'Solomon Lucas, the Jew in the High Street, has thousands of fancy-dresses. Consider, Sir, how many appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno, Epicurus, Pythagoras--all founders of clubs.' 'I know that,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but as I cannot put myself in competition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their dresses.' The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said-- 'On reflection, Sir, I don't know whether it would not afford Mrs. Leo Hunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrity in his own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I may venture to promise an exception in your case, sir--yes, I am quite certain that, on behalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so.' 'In that case,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I shall have great pleasure in coming.' 'But I waste your time, Sir,' said the grave man, as if suddenly recollecting himself. 'I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. I may tell Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect you and your distinguished friends? Good-morning, Sir, I am proud to have beheld so eminent a personage--not a step sir; not a word.' And without giving Mr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr. Leo Hunter stalked gravely away. Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr. Winkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy-ball there, before him. 'Mrs. Pott's going,' were the first words with which he saluted his leader. 'Is she?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'As Apollo,' replied Winkle. 'Only Pott objects to the tunic.' 'He is right. He is quite right,' said Mr. Pickwick emphatically. 'Yes; so she's going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles.' 'They'll hardly know what she's meant for; will they?' inquired Mr. Snodgrass. 'Of course they will,' replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. 'They'll see her lyre, won't they?' 'True; I forgot that,' said Mr. Snodgrass. 'I shall go as a bandit,' interposed Mr. Tupman. 'What!' said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start. 'As a bandit,' repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly. 'You don't mean to say,' said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternness at his friend--'you don't mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is your intention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail?' 'Such _is_ my intention, Sir,' replied Mr. Tupman warmly. 'And why not, sir?' 'Because, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited--'because you are too old, Sir.' 'Too old!' exclaimed Mr. Tupman. 'And if any further ground of objection be wanting,' continued Mr. Pickwick, 'you are too fat, sir.' 'Sir,' said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow, 'this is an insult.' 'Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone, 'it is not half the insult to you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail, would be to me.' 'Sir,' said Mr. Tupman, 'you're a fellow.' 'Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'you're another!' Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of his spectacles, and breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle looked on, petrified at beholding such a scene between two such men. 'Sir,' said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deep voice, 'you have called me old.' 'I have,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'And fat.' 'I reiterate the charge.' 'And a fellow.' 'So you are!' There was a fearful pause. 'My attachment to your person, sir,' said Mr. Tupman, speaking in a voice tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile, 'is great--very great--but upon that person, I must take summary vengeance.' 'Come on, Sir!' replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting nature of the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic attitude, confidently supposed by the two bystanders to have been intended as a posture of defence. 'What!' exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power of speech, of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him, and rushing between the two, at the imminent hazard of receiving an application on the temple from each--'what! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes of the world upon you! Mr. Tupman! who, in common with us all, derives a lustre from his undying name! For shame, gentlemen; for shame.' The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick's clear and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friend spoke, like the marks of a black-lead pencil beneath the softening influence of india-rubber. His countenance had resumed its usual benign expression, ere he concluded. 'I have been hasty,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'very hasty. Tupman; your hand.' The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman's face, as he warmly grasped the hand of his friend. 'I have been hasty, too,' said he. 'No, no,' interrupted Mr. Pickwick, 'the fault was mine. You will wear the green velvet jacket?' 'No, no,' replied Mr. Tupman. 'To oblige me, you will,' resumed Mr. Pickwick. 'Well, well, I will,' said Mr. Tupman. It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, should all wear fancy-dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was led by the very warmth of his own good feelings to give his consent to a proceeding from which his better judgment would have recoiled--a more striking illustration of his amiable character could hardly have been conceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had been wholly imaginary. Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas. His wardrobe was extensive--very extensive--not strictly classical perhaps, not quite new, nor did it contain any one garment made precisely after the fashion of any age or time, but everything was more or less spangled; and what can be prettier than spangles! It may be objected that they are not adapted to the daylight, but everybody knows that they would glitter if there were lamps; and nothing can be clearer than that if people give fancy-balls in the day-time, and the dresses do not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solely with the people who give the fancy-balls, and is in no wise chargeable on the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon Lucas; and influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass engage to array themselves in costumes which his taste and experience induced him to recommend as admirably suited to the occasion. A carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of the Pickwickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repository, for the purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter's grounds, which Mr. Pott, as a delicate acknowledgment of having received an invitation, had already confidently predicted in the Eatanswill _Gazette_ 'would present a scene of varied and delicious enchantment--a bewildering coruscation of beauty and talent--a lavish and prodigal display of hospitality--above all, a degree of splendour softened by the most exquisite taste; and adornment refined with perfect harmony and the chastest good keeping--compared with which, the fabled gorgeousness of Eastern fairyland itself would appear to be clothed in as many dark and murky colours, as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly being who could presume to taint with the venom of his envy, the preparations made by the virtuous and highly distinguished lady at whose shrine this humble tribute of admiration was offered.' This last was a piece of biting sarcasm against the _Independent_, who, in consequence of not having been invited at all, had been, through four numbers, affecting to sneer at the whole affair, in his very largest type, with all the adjectives in capital letters. The morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in full brigand's costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a pincushion over his back and shoulders, the upper portion of his legs incased in the velvet shorts, and the lower part thereof swathed in the complicated bandages to which all brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasing to see his open and ingenuous countenance, well mustachioed and corked, looking out from an open shirt collar; and to contemplate the sugar-loaf hat, decorated with ribbons of all colours, which he was compelled to carry on his knee, inasmuch as no known conveyance with a top to it, would admit of any man's carrying it between his head and the roof. Equally humorous and agreeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in blue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecian helmet, which everybody knows (and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas did) to have been the regular, authentic, everyday costume of a troubadour, from the earliest ages down to the time of their final disappearance from the face of the earth. All this was pleasant, but this was as nothing compared with the shouting of the populace when the carriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott's chariot, which chariot itself drew up at Mr. Pott's door, which door itself opened, and displayed the great Pott accoutred as a Russian officer of justice, with a tremendous knout in his hand--tastefully typical of the stern and mighty power of the Eatanswill _Gazette_, and the fearful lashings it bestowed on public offenders. 'Bravo!' shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, when they beheld the walking allegory. 'Bravo!' Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim, from the passage. 'Hoo-roar Pott!' shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Pott, smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently testified that he felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got into the chariot. Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked very like Apollo if she hadn't had a gown on, conducted by Mr. Winkle, who, in his light-red coat could not possibly have been mistaken for anything but a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a general postman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loud as anybody, probably under the impression that his tights and gaiters were some remnants of the dark ages; and then the two vehicles proceeded towards Mrs. Leo Hunter's; Mr. Weller (who was to assist in waiting) being stationed on the box of that in which his master was seated. Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembled to see the visitors in their fancy-dresses, screamed with delight and ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the brigand on one arm, and the troubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were such shouts heard as those which greeted Mr. Tupman's efforts to fix the sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden in style. The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realising the prophetic Pott's anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern fairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the malignant statements of the reptile _Independent_. The grounds were more than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with people! Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature. There was the young lady who 'did' the poetry in the Eatanswill _Gazette_, in the garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman who 'did' the review department, and who was appropriately habited in a field- marshal's uniform--the boots excepted. There were hosts of these geniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough to meet them. But more than these, there were half a dozen lions from London--authors, real authors, who had written whole books, and printed them afterwards--and here you might see 'em, walking about, like ordinary men, smiling, and talking--aye, and talking pretty considerable nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselves intelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a band of music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the costume of their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of _their _country--and very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, and overflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having called such distinguished individuals together. 'Mr. Pickwick, ma'am,' said a servant, as that gentleman approached the presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the brigand and troubadour on either arm. 'What! Where!' exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected rapture of surprise. 'Here,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr. Pickwick himself!' ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter. 'No other, ma'am,' replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. 'Permit me to introduce my friends--Mr. Tupman--Mr. Winkle--Mr. Snodgrass--to the authoress of "The Expiring Frog."' Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficult process it is to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket, and high-crowned hat; or in blue satin trunks and white silks, or knee-cords and top-boots that were never made for the wearer, and have been fixed upon him without the remotest reference to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit. Never were such distortions as Mr. Tupman's frame underwent in his efforts to appear easy and graceful--never was such ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressed friends exhibited. 'Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'I must make you promise not to stir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, that I must positively introduce you to.' 'You are very kind, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgotten them,' said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown young ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and the other a year or two older, and who were dressed in very juvenile costumes--whether to make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr. Pickwick does not distinctly inform us. 'They are very beautiful,' said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned away, after being presented. 'They are very like their mamma, Sir,' said Mr. Pott, majestically. 'Oh, you naughty man,' exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the editor's arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!). 'Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter,' said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter in ordinary at the Den, 'you know that when your picture was in the exhibition of the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether it was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were so much alike that there was no telling the difference between you.' 'Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the Eatanswill _Gazette_. 'Count, count,' screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual in a foreign uniform, who was passing by. 'Ah! you want me?' said the count, turning back. 'I want to introduce two very clever people to each other,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter. 'Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to Count Smorltork.' She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick--'The famous foreigner--gathering materials for his great work on England-- hem!--Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick.' Mr. Pickwick saluted the count with all the reverence due to so great a man, and the count drew forth a set of tablets. 'What you say, Mrs. Hunt?' inquired the count, smiling graciously on the gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'Pig Vig or Big Vig--what you call--lawyer-- eh? I see--that is it. Big Vig'--and the count was proceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman of the long robe, who derived his name from the profession to which he belonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed. 'No, no, count,' said the lady, 'Pick-wick.' 'Ah, ah, I see,' replied the count. 'Peek--christian name; Weeks-- surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?' 'Quite well, I thank you,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual affability. 'Have you been long in England?' 'Long--ver long time--fortnight--more.' 'Do you stay here long?' 'One week.' 'You will have enough to do,' said Mr. Pickwick smiling, 'to gather all the materials you want in that time.' 'Eh, they are gathered,' said the count. 'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'They are here,' added the count, tapping his forehead significantly. 'Large book at home--full of notes--music, picture, science, potry, poltic; all tings.' 'The word politics, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'comprises in itself, a difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.' 'Ah!' said the count, drawing out the tablets again, 'ver good--fine words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic surprises by himself--' And down went Mr. Pickwick's remark, in Count Smorltork's tablets, with such variations and additions as the count's exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language occasioned. 'Count,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter. 'Mrs. Hunt,' replied the count. 'This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet.' 'Stop,' exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once more. 'Head, potry--chapter, literary friends--name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced to Snowgrass--great poet, friend of Peek Weeks--by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other sweet poem--what is that name?--Fog--Perspiring Fog--ver good--ver good indeed.' And the count put up his tablets, and with sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of information. 'Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter. 'Sound philosopher,' said Mr. Pott. 'Clear-headed, strong-minded person,' added Mr. Snodgrass. A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork's praise, shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried, 'Very!' As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork's favour ran very high, his praises might have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the four something-ean singers had not ranged themselves in front of a small apple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing their national songs, which appeared by no means difficult of execution, inasmuch as the grand secret seemed to be, that three of the something-ean singers should grunt, while the fourth howled. This interesting performance having concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boy forthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair, and to jump over it, and crawl under it, and fall down with it, and do everything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs, and tie them round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which a human being can be made to look like a magnified toad--all which feats yielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators. After which, the voice of Mrs. Pott was heard to chirp faintly forth, something which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all very classical, and strictly in character, because Apollo was himself a composer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybody else's, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter's recitation of her far-famed 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' which was encored once, and would have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who thought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it was perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter's good nature. So although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite the ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn't hear of it on any account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possible despatch- -Mrs. Leo Hunter's usual course of proceedings being, to issue cards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed only the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of themselves. 'Where is Mr. Pott?' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid lions around her. 'Here I am,' said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far beyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the hostess. 'Won't you come up here?' 'Oh, pray don't mind him,' said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging voice-- 'you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs. Hunter. You'll do very well there, won't you--dear?' 'Certainly--love,' replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such a gigantic force on public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperious Mrs. Pott. Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman was doing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with a degree of grace which no brigand ever exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrass having cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books for the Eatanswill _Gazette_, was engaged in an impassioned argument with the young lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making himself universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the select circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter--whose department on these occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less important people--suddenly called out-- 'My dear; here's Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.' 'Oh dear,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'how anxiously I have been expecting him. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr. Fitz- Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded for coming so late.' 'Coming, my dear ma'am,' cried a voice, 'as quick as I can--crowds of people--full room--hard work--very.' Mr. Pickwick's knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the table at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking as if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice. 'Ah!' cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five- and-twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds, that remained between him and the table, 'regular mangle--Baker's patent--not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing--might have "got up my linen" as I came along--ha! ha! not a bad idea, that--queer thing to have it mangled when it's upon one, though--trying process--very.' With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made his way up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians the identical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle. The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter's proffered hand, when his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick. 'Hollo!' said Jingle. 'Quite forgot--no directions to postillion--give 'em at once--back in a minute.' 'The servant, or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment, Mr. Fitz-Marshall,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter. 'No, no--I'll do it--shan't be long--back in no time,' replied Jingle. With these words he disappeared among the crowd. 'Will you allow me to ask you, ma'am,' said the excited Mr. Pickwick, rising from his seat, 'who that young man is, and where he resides?' 'He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'to whom I very much want to introduce you. The count will be delighted with him.' 'Yes, yes,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily. 'His residence--' 'Is at present at the Angel at Bury.' 'At Bury?' 'At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr. Pickwick, you are not going to leave us; surely Mr. Pickwick you cannot think of going so soon?' But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwick had plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he was shortly afterwards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friend closely. 'It's of no use,' said Mr. Tupman. 'He has gone.' 'I know it,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'and I will follow him.' 'Follow him! Where?' inquired Mr. Tupman. 'To the Angel at Bury,' replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly. 'How do we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy man once, and we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if I can help it; I'll expose him! Sam! Where's my servant?' 'Here you are, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot, where he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which he had abstracted from the breakfast-table an hour or two before. 'Here's your servant, Sir. Proud o' the title, as the living skellinton said, ven they show'd him.' 'Follow me instantly,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Tupman, if I stay at Bury, you can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye!' Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind was made up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions; and in another hour had drowned all present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall, in an exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne. By that time, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, perched on the outside of a stage-coach, were every succeeding minute placing a less and less distance between themselves and the good old town of Bury St. Edmunds. There is no month in the whole year in which nature wears a more beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers--when the recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth--and yet what a pleasant time it is! Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth; the influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very wagon, whose slow motion across the well- reaped field is perceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear. As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the road, groups of women and children, piling the fruit in sieves, or gathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from their labour, and shading the sun-burned face with a still browner hand, gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes, while some stout urchin, too small to work, but too mischievous to be left at home, scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security, and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work, and stands with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past; and the rough cart-horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team, which says as plainly as a horse's glance can, 'It's all very fine to look at, but slow going, over a heavy field, is better than warm work like that, upon a dusty road, after all.' You cast a look behind you, as you turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumed their labour; the reaper once more stoops to his work; the cart-horses have moved on; and all are again in motion. The influence of a scene like this, was not lost upon the well-regulated mind of Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed, of exposing the real character of the nefarious Jingle, in any quarter in which he might be pursuing his fraudulent designs, he sat at first taciturn and contemplative, brooding over the means by which his purpose could be best attained. By degrees his attention grew more and more attracted by the objects around him; and at last he derived as much enjoyment from the ride, as if it had been undertaken for the pleasantest reason in the world. 'Delightful prospect, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Beats the chimbley-pots, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. 'I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots and bricks and mortar all your life, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. 'I worn't always a boots, sir,' said Mr. Weller, with a shake of the head. 'I wos a vaginer's boy, once.' 'When was that?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. 'When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play at leap- frog with its troubles,' replied Sam. 'I wos a carrier's boy at startin'; then a vaginer's, then a helper, then a boots. Now I'm a gen'l'm'n's servant. I shall be a gen'l'm'n myself one of these days, perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summer-house in the back-garden. Who knows? I shouldn't be surprised for one.' 'You are quite a philosopher, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'It runs in the family, I b'lieve, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'My father's wery much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blows him up, he whistles. She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; he steps out, and gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and falls into 'sterics; and he smokes wery comfortably till she comes to agin. That's philosophy, Sir, ain't it?' 'A very good substitute for it, at all events,' replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing. 'It must have been of great service to you, in the course of your rambling life, Sam.' 'Service, sir,' exclaimed Sam. 'You may say that. Arter I run away from the carrier, and afore I took up with the vaginer, I had unfurnished lodgin's for a fortnight.' 'Unfurnished lodgings?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Yes--the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. Fine sleeping-place--vithin ten minutes' walk of all the public offices--only if there is any objection to it, it is that the sitivation's rayther too airy. I see some queer sights there.' Ah, I suppose you did,' said Mr. Pickwick, with an air of considerable interest. 'Sights, sir,' resumed Mr. Weller, 'as 'ud penetrate your benevolent heart, and come out on the other side. You don't see the reg'lar wagrants there; trust 'em, they knows better than that. Young beggars, male and female, as hasn't made a rise in their profession, takes up their quarters there sometimes; but it's generally the worn-out, starving, houseless creeturs as roll themselves in the dark corners o' them lonesome places--poor creeturs as ain't up to the twopenny rope.' 'And pray, Sam, what is the twopenny rope?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. 'The twopenny rope, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'is just a cheap lodgin' house, where the beds is twopence a night.' 'What do they call a bed a rope for?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Bless your innocence, sir, that ain't it,' replied Sam. 'Ven the lady and gen'l'm'n as keeps the hot-el first begun business, they used to make the beds on the floor; but this wouldn't do at no price, 'cos instead o' taking a moderate twopenn'orth o' sleep, the lodgers used to lie there half the day. So now they has two ropes, 'bout six foot apart, and three from the floor, which goes right down the room; and the beds are made of slips of coarse sacking, stretched across 'em.' 'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Well,' said Mr. Weller, 'the adwantage o' the plan's hobvious. At six o'clock every mornin' they let's go the ropes at one end, and down falls the lodgers. Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, they get up wery quietly, and walk away!' 'Beg your pardon, sir,' said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his loquacious discourse. 'Is this Bury St. Edmunds?' 'It is,' replied Mr. Pickwick. The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little town, of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn situated in a wide open street, nearly facing the old abbey. 'And this,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking up. 'Is the Angel! We alight here, Sam. But some caution is necessary. Order a private room, and do not mention my name. You understand.' 'Right as a trivet, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, with a wink of intelligence; and having dragged Mr. Pickwick's portmanteau from the hind boot, into which it had been hastily thrown when they joined the coach at Eatanswill, Mr. Weller disappeared on his errand. A private room was speedily engaged; and into it Mr. Pickwick was ushered without delay. 'Now, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'the first thing to be done is to--' Order dinner, Sir,' interposed Mr. Weller. 'It's wery late, sir.' 'Ah, so it is,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. 'You are right, Sam.' 'And if I might adwise, Sir,' added Mr. Weller, 'I'd just have a good night's rest arterwards, and not begin inquiring arter this here deep 'un till the mornin'. There's nothin' so refreshen' as sleep, sir, as the servant girl said afore she drank the egg-cupful of laudanum.' 'I think you are right, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'But I must first ascertain that he is in the house, and not likely to go away.' 'Leave that to me, Sir,' said Sam. 'Let me order you a snug little dinner, and make my inquiries below while it's a-getting ready; I could worm ev'ry secret out O' the boots's heart, in five minutes, Sir.' Do so,' said Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Weller at once retired. In half an hour, Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner; and in three-quarters Mr. Weller returned with the intelligence that Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall had ordered his private room to be retained for him, until further notice. He was going to spend the evening at some private house in the neighbourhood, had ordered the boots to sit up until his return, and had taken his servant with him. 'Now, sir,' argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, 'if I can get a talk with this here servant in the mornin', he'll tell me all his master's concerns.' 'How do you know that?' interposed Mr. Pickwick. 'Bless your heart, sir, servants always do,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Oh, ah, I forgot that,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Well.' 'Then you can arrange what's best to be done, sir, and we can act accordingly.' As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it was finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master's permission, retired to spend the evening in his own way; and was shortly afterwards elected, by the unanimous voice of the assembled company, into the taproom chair, in which honourable post he acquitted himself so much to the satisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters, that their roars of laughter and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick's bedroom, and shortened the term of his natural rest by at least three hours. Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the feverish remains of the previous evening's conviviality, through the instrumentality of a halfpenny shower-bath (having induced a young gentleman attached to the stable department, by the offer of that coin, to pump over his head and face, until he was perfectly restored), when he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in mulberry- coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard, reading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deep abstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at the individual under the pump, as if he took some interest in his proceedings, nevertheless. 'You're a rum 'un to look at, you are!' thought Mr. Weller, the first time his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry suit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a gigantic head, from which depended a quantity of lank black hair. 'You're a rum 'un!' thought Mr. Weller; and thinking this, he went on washing himself, and thought no more about him. Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to his hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam, by way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod-- 'How are you, governor?' 'I am happy to say, I am pretty well, Sir,' said the man, speaking with great deliberation, and closing the book. 'I hope you are the same, Sir?' 'Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle I shouldn't be quite so staggery this mornin',' replied Sam. 'Are you stoppin' in this house, old 'un?' The mulberry man replied in the affirmative. 'How was it you worn't one of us, last night?' inquired Sam, scrubbing his face with the towel. 'You seem one of the jolly sort--looks as conwivial as a live trout in a lime basket,' added Mr. Weller, in an undertone. 'I was out last night with my master,' replied the stranger. 'What's his name?' inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined. 'Fitz-Marshall,' said the mulberry man. 'Give us your hand,' said Mr. Weller, advancing; 'I should like to know you. I like your appearance, old fellow.' 'Well, that is very strange,' said the mulberry man, with great simplicity of manner. 'I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak to you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.' Did you though?' 'Upon my word. Now, isn't that curious?' 'Wery sing'ler,' said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness of the stranger. 'What's your name, my patriarch?' 'Job.' 'And a wery good name it is; only one I know that ain't got a nickname to it. What's the other name?' 'Trotter,' said the stranger. 'What is yours?' Sam bore in mind his master's caution, and replied-- 'My name's Walker; my master's name's Wilkins. Will you take a drop o' somethin' this mornin', Mr. Trotter?' Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal; and having deposited his book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where they were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed by mixing together, in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of British Hollands and the fragrant essence of the clove. 'And what sort of a place have you got?' inquired Sam, as he filled his companion's glass, for the second time. 'Bad,' said Job, smacking his lips, 'very bad.' 'You don't mean that?' said Sam. 'I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master's going to be married.' 'No.' 'Yes; and worse than that, too, he's going to run away with an immense rich heiress, from boarding-school.' 'What a dragon!' said Sam, refilling his companion's glass. 'It's some boarding-school in this town, I suppose, ain't it?' Now, although this question was put in the most careless tone imaginable, Mr. Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures that he perceived his new friend's anxiety to draw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at his companion, winked both of his small eyes, one after the other, and finally made a motion with his arm, as if he were working an imaginary pump-handle; thereby intimating that he (Mr. Trotter) considered himself as undergoing the process of being pumped by Mr. Samuel Weller. 'No, no,' said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, 'that's not to be told to everybody. That is a secret--a great secret, Mr. Walker.' As the mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, by way of reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith to slake his thirst. Sam observed the hint; and feeling the delicate manner in which it was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, whereat the small eyes of the mulberry man glistened. 'And so it's a secret?' said Sam. 'I should rather suspect it was,' said the mulberry man, sipping his liquor, with a complacent face. 'I suppose your mas'r's wery rich?' said Sam. Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave four distinct slaps on the pockets of his mulberry indescribables with his right, as if to intimate that his master might have done the same without alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin. 'Ah,' said Sam, 'that's the game, is it?' The mulberry man nodded significantly. 'Well, and don't you think, old feller,' remonstrated Mr. Weller, 'that if you let your master take in this here young lady, you're a precious rascal?' 'I know that,' said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion a countenance of deep contrition, and groaning slightly, 'I know that, and that's what it is that preys upon my mind. But what am I to do?' 'Do!' said Sam; 'di-wulge to the missis, and give up your master.' 'Who'd believe me?' replied Job Trotter. 'The young lady's considered the very picture of innocence and discretion. She'd deny it, and so would my master. Who'd believe me? I should lose my place, and get indicted for a conspiracy, or some such thing; that's all I should take by my motion.' 'There's somethin' in that,' said Sam, ruminating; 'there's somethin' in that.' 'If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up,' continued Mr. Trotter. 'I might have some hope of preventing the elopement; but there's the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same. I know no gentleman in this strange place; and ten to one if I did, whether he would believe my story.' 'Come this way,' said Sam, suddenly jumping up, and grasping the mulberry man by the arm. 'My mas'r's the man you want, I see.' And after a slight resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led his newly-found friend to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom he presented him, together with a brief summary of the dialogue we have just repeated. 'I am very sorry to betray my master, sir,' said Job Trotter, applying to his eyes a pink checked pocket-handkerchief about six inches square. 'The feeling does you a great deal of honour,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'but it is your duty, nevertheless.' 'I know it is my duty, Sir,' replied Job, with great emotion. 'We should all try to discharge our duty, Sir, and I humbly endeavour to discharge mine, Sir; but it is a hard trial to betray a master, Sir, whose clothes you wear, and whose bread you eat, even though he is a scoundrel, Sir.' 'You are a very good fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, much affected; 'an honest fellow.' 'Come, come,' interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter's tears with considerable impatience, 'blow this 'ere water-cart bis'ness. It won't do no good, this won't.' 'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick reproachfully. 'I am sorry to find that you have so little respect for this young man's feelings.' 'His feelin's is all wery well, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'and as they're so wery fine, and it's a pity he should lose 'em, I think he'd better keep 'em in his own buzzum, than let 'em ewaporate in hot water, 'specially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up a clock, or worked a steam ingin'. The next time you go out to a smoking party, young fellow, fill your pipe with that 'ere reflection; and for the present just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket. 'Tain't so handsome that you need keep waving it about, as if you was a tight-rope dancer.' 'My man is in the right,' said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, 'although his mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely, and occasionally incomprehensible.' 'He is, sir, very right,' said Mr. Trotter, 'and I will give way no longer.' Very well,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Now, where is this boarding-school?' 'It is a large, old, red brick house, just outside the town, Sir,' replied Job Trotter. 'And when,' said Mr. Pickwick--'when is this villainous design to be carried into execution--when is this elopement to take place?' 'To-night, Sir,' replied Job. 'To-night!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 'This very night, sir,' replied Job Trotter. 'That is what alarms me so much.' 'Instant measures must be taken,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I will see the lady who keeps the establishment immediately.' 'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Job, 'but that course of proceeding will never do.' 'Why not?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. 'My master, sir, is a very artful man.' 'I know he is,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'And he has so wound himself round the old lady's heart, Sir,' resumed Job, 'that she would believe nothing to his prejudice, if you went down on your bare knees, and swore it; especially as you have no proof but the word of a servant, who, for anything she knows (and my master would be sure to say so), was discharged for some fault, and does this in revenge.' 'What had better be done, then?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Nothing but taking him in the very act of eloping, will convince the old lady, sir,' replied Job. 'All them old cats _will _run their heads agin milestones,' observed Mr. Weller, in a parenthesis. 'But this taking him in the very act of elopement, would be a very difficult thing to accomplish, I fear,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I don't know, sir,' said Mr. Trotter, after a few moments' reflection. 'I think it might be very easily done.' 'How?' was Mr. Pickwick's inquiry. 'Why,' replied Mr. Trotter, 'my master and I, being in the confidence of the two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen at ten o'clock. When the family have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen, and the young lady out of her bedroom. A post-chaise will be waiting, and away we go.' 'Well?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in the garden behind, alone--' 'Alone,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Why alone?' 'I thought it very natural,' replied Job, 'that the old lady wouldn't like such an unpleasant discovery to be made before more persons than can possibly be helped. The young lady, too, sir--consider her feelings.' 'You are very right,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'The consideration evinces your delicacy of feeling. Go on; you are very right.' 'Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back garden alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it, from the end of the passage, at exactly half-past eleven o'clock, you would be just in the very moment of time to assist me in frustrating the designs of this bad man, by whom I have been unfortunately ensnared.' Here Mr. Trotter sighed deeply. 'Don't distress yourself on that account,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'if he had one grain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you, humble as your station is, I should have some hopes of him.' Job Trotter bowed low; and in spite of Mr. Weller's previous remonstrance, the tears again rose to his eyes. 'I never see such a feller,' said Sam, 'Blessed if I don't think he's got a main in his head as is always turned on.' 'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity, 'hold your tongue.' 'Wery well, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'I don't like this plan,' said Mr. Pickwick, after deep meditation. 'Why cannot I communicate with the young lady's friends?' 'Because they live one hundred miles from here, sir,' responded Job Trotter. 'That's a clincher,' said Mr. Weller, aside. 'Then this garden,' resumed Mr. Pickwick. 'How am I to get into it?' 'The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up.' My servant will give me a leg up,' repeated Mr. Pickwick mechanically. 'You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?' 'You cannot mistake it, Sir; it's the only one that opens into the garden. Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it instantly.' 'I don't like the plan,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but as I see no other, and as the happiness of this young lady's whole life is at stake, I adopt it. I shall be sure to be there.' Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick's innate good-feeling involve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have stood aloof. 'What is the name of the house?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. 'Westgate House, Sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate.' 'I know it,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I observed it once before, when I was in this town. You may depend upon me.' Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust a guinea into his hand. 'You're a fine fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'and I admire your goodness of heart. No thanks. Remember--eleven o'clock.' 'There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,' replied Job Trotter. With these words he left the room, followed by Sam. 'I say,' said the latter, 'not a bad notion that 'ere crying. I'd cry like a rain-water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do it?' 'It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker,' replied Job solemnly. 'Good- morning, sir.' 'You're a soft customer, you are; we've got it all out o' you, anyhow,' thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away. We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through Mr. Trotter's mind, because we don't know what they were. The day wore on, evening came, and at a little before ten o'clock Sam Weller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that their luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The plot was evidently in execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold. Half-past ten o'clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam's tender of his greatcoat, in order that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he set forth, followed by his attendant. There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses, and trees, were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything was wrapped--sound there was none, except the distant barking of some restless house-dog. They found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, and stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden. 'You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Wery well, Sir.' 'And you will sit up, till I return.' 'Cert'nly, Sir.' 'Take hold of my leg; and, when I say "Over," raise me gently.' 'All right, sir.' Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the wall, and gave the word 'Over,' which was literally obeyed. Whether his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether Mr. Weller's notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description than Mr. Pickwick's, the immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall on to the bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry-bushes and a rose- tree, he finally alighted at full length. 'You ha'n't hurt yourself, I hope, Sir?' said Sam, in a loud whisper, as soon as he had recovered from the surprise consequent upon the mysterious disappearance of his master. 'I have not hurt _myself_, Sam, certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick, from the other side of the wall, 'but I rather think that _you _have hurt me.' 'I hope not, Sir,' said Sam. 'Never mind,' said Mr. Pickwick, rising, 'it's nothing but a few scratches. Go away, or we shall be overheard.' 'Good-bye, Sir.' 'Good-bye.' With stealthy steps Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in the garden. Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or glanced from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest. Not caring to go too near the door, until the appointed time, Mr. Pickwick crouched into an angle of the wall, and awaited its arrival. It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many a man. Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving. He knew that his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit reliance on the high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly; not to say dreary; but a contemplative man can always employ himself in meditation. Mr. Pickwick had meditated himself into a doze, when he was roused by the chimes of the neighbouring church ringing out the hour--half-past eleven. 'That's the time,' thought Mr. Pickwick, getting cautiously on his feet. He looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared, and the shutters were closed--all in bed, no doubt. He walked on tiptoe to the door, and gave a gentle tap. Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he gave another tap rather louder, and then another rather louder than that. At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the light of a candle shone through the keyhole of the door. There was a good deal of unchaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened. Now the door opened outwards; and as the door opened wider and wider, Mr. Pickwick receded behind it, more and more. What was his astonishment when he just peeped out, by way of caution, to see that the person who had opened it was--not Job Trotter, but a servant-girl with a candle in her hand! Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, with the swiftness displayed by that admirable melodramatic performer, Punch, when he lies in wait for the flat-headed comedian with the tin box of music. 'It must have been the cat, Sarah,' said the girl, addressing herself to some one in the house. 'Puss, puss, puss,--tit, tit, tit.' But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the girl slowly closed the door, and re-fastened it; leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn up straight against the wall. 'This is very curious,' thought Mr. Pickwick. 'They are sitting up beyond their usual hour, I suppose. Extremely unfortunate, that they should have chosen this night, of all others, for such a purpose-- exceedingly.' And with these thoughts, Mr. Pickwick cautiously retired to the angle of the wall in which he had been before ensconced; waiting until such time as he might deem it safe to repeat the signal. He had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning was followed by a loud peal of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the distance with a terrific noise--then came another flash of lightning, brighter than the other, and a second peal of thunder louder than the first; and then down came the rain, with a force and fury that swept everything before it. Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous neighbour in a thunderstorm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on his left, a third before him, and a fourth behind. If he remained where he was, he might fall the victim of an accident; if he showed himself in the centre of the garden, he might be consigned to a constable. Once or twice he tried to scale the wall, but having no other legs this time, than those with which Nature had furnished him, the only effect of his struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the most profuse perspiration. 'What a dreadful situation,' said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow after this exercise. He looked up at the house--all was dark. They must be gone to bed now. He would try the signal again. He walked on tiptoe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door. He held his breath, and listened at the key-hole. No reply: very odd. Another knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside, and then a voice cried-- 'Who's there?' 'That's not Job,' thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight up against the wall again. 'It's a woman.' He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion, when a window above stairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the query--'Who's there?' Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was, until the alarm had subsided; and then by a supernatural effort, to get over the wall, or perish in the attempt. Like all Mr. Pickwick's determinations, this was the best that could be made under the circumstances; but, unfortunately, it was founded upon the assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. What was his discomfiture, when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, and saw the door slowly opening, wider and wider! He retreated into the corner, step by step; but do what he would, the interposition of his own person, prevented its being opened to its utmost width. 'Who's there?' screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the staircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment, three teachers, five female servants, and thirty boarders, all half- dressed and in a forest of curl-papers. Of course Mr. Pickwick didn't say who was there: and then the burden of the chorus changed into--'Lor! I am so frightened.' 'Cook,' said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, the very last of the group--'cook, why don't you go a little way into the garden?' Please, ma'am, I don't like,' responded the cook. 'Lor, what a stupid thing that cook is!' said the thirty boarders. 'Cook,' said the lady abbess, with great dignity; 'don't answer me, if you please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately.' Here the cook began to cry, and the housemaid said it was 'a shame!' for which partisanship she received a month's warning on the spot. 'Do you hear, cook?' said the lady abbess, stamping her foot impatiently. 'Don't you hear your missis, cook?' said the three teachers. 'What an impudent thing that cook is!' said the thirty boarders. The unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two, and holding her candle just where it prevented her from seeing at all, declared there was nothing there, and it must have been the wind. The door was just going to be closed in consequence, when an inquisitive boarder, who had been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearful screaming, which called back the cook and housemaid, and all the more adventurous, in no time. 'What is the matter with Miss Smithers?' said the lady abbess, as the aforesaid Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four young lady power. 'Lor, Miss Smithers, dear,' said the other nine-and-twenty boarders. 'Oh, the man--the man--behind the door!' screamed Miss Smithers. The lady abbess no sooner heard this appalling cry, than she retreated to her own bedroom, double-locked the door, and fainted away comfortably. The boarders, and the teachers, and the servants, fell back upon the stairs, and upon each other; and never was such a screaming, and fainting, and struggling beheld. In the midst of the tumult, Mr. Pickwick emerged from his concealment, and presented himself amongst them. 'Ladies--dear ladies,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Oh. he says we're dear,' cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. 'Oh, the wretch!' 'Ladies,' roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of his situation. 'Hear me. I am no robber. I want the lady of the house.' 'Oh, what a ferocious monster!' screamed another teacher. 'He wants Miss Tomkins.' Here there was a general scream. 'Ring the alarm bell, somebody!' cried a dozen voices. 'Don't--don't,' shouted Mr. Pickwick. 'Look at me. Do I look like a robber! My dear ladies--you may bind me hand and leg, or lock me up in a closet, if you like. Only hear what I have got to say--only hear me.' 'How did you come in our garden?' faltered the housemaid. 'Call the lady of the house, and I'll tell her everything,' said Mr. Pickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. 'Call her--only be quiet, and call her, and you shall hear everything.' It might have been Mr. Pickwick's appearance, or it might have been his manner, or it might have been the temptation--irresistible to a female mind--of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, that reduced the more reasonable portion of the establishment (some four individuals) to a state of comparative quiet. By them it was proposed, as a test of Mr. Pickwick's sincerity, that he should immediately submit to personal restraint; and that gentleman having consented to hold a conference with Miss Tomkins, from the interior of a closet in which the day boarders hung their bonnets and sandwich-bags, he at once stepped into it, of his own accord, and was securely locked in. This revived the others; and Miss Tomkins having been brought to, and brought down, the conference began. 'What did you do in my garden, man?' said Miss Tomkins, in a faint voice. 'I came to warn you that one of your young ladies was going to elope to- night,' replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet. 'Elope!' exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirty boarders, and the five servants. 'Who with?' Your friend, Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.' '_My_ friend! I don't know any such person.' 'Well, Mr. Jingle, then.' 'I never heard the name in my life.' 'Then, I have been deceived, and deluded,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I have been the victim of a conspiracy--a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the Angel, my dear ma'am, if you don't believe me. Send to the Angel for Mr. Pickwick's manservant, I implore you, ma'am.' 'He must be respectable--he keeps a manservant,' said Miss Tomkins to the writing and ciphering governess. 'It's my opinion, Miss Tomkins,' said the writing and ciphering governess, 'that his manservant keeps him, I think he's a madman, Miss Tomkins, and the other's his keeper.' 'I think you are very right, Miss Gwynn,' responded Miss Tomkins. 'Let two of the servants repair to the Angel, and let the others remain here, to protect us.' So two of the servants were despatched to the Angel in search of Mr. Samuel Weller; and the remaining three stopped behind to protect Miss Tomkins, and the three teachers, and the thirty boarders. And Mr. Pickwick sat down in the closet, beneath a grove of sandwich-bags, and awaited the return of the messengers, with all the philosophy and fortitude he could summon to his aid. An hour and a half elapsed before they came back, and when they did come, Mr. Pickwick recognised, in addition to the voice of Mr. Samuel Weller, two other voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on his ear; but whose they were, he could not for the life of him call to mind. A very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Pickwick stepped out of the closet, and found himself in the presence of the whole establishment of Westgate House, Mr Samuel Weller, and--old Wardle, and his destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle! 'My dear friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping Wardle's hand, 'my dear friend, pray, for Heaven's sake, explain to this lady the unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You must have heard it from my servant; say, at all events, my dear fellow, that I am neither a robber nor a madman.' 'I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already,' replied Mr. Wardle, shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shook the left. 'And whoever says, or has said, he is,' interposed Mr. Weller, stepping forward, 'says that which is not the truth, but so far from it, on the contrary, quite the rewerse. And if there's any number o' men on these here premises as has said so, I shall be wery happy to give 'em all a wery convincing proof o' their being mistaken, in this here wery room, if these wery respectable ladies 'll have the goodness to retire, and order 'em up, one at a time.' Having delivered this defiance with great volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm emphatically with his clenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tomkins, the intensity of whose horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility that there could be any men on the premises of Westgate House Establishment for Young Ladies, it is impossible to describe. Mr. Pickwick's explanation having already been partially made, was soon concluded. But neither in the course of his walk home with his friends, nor afterwards when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so much needed, could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemed bewildered and amazed. Once, and only once, he turned round to Mr. Wardle, and said-- 'How did you come here?' 'Trundle and I came down here, for some good shooting on the first,' replied Wardle. 'We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear from your servant that you were here too. But I am glad you are,' said the old fellow, slapping him on the back--'I am glad you are. We shall have a jovial party on the first, and we'll give Winkle another chance--eh, old boy?' Mr. Pickwick made no reply, he did not even ask after his friends at Dingley Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam to fetch his candle when he rung. The bell did ring in due course, and Mr. Weller presented himself. 'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed-clothes. 'Sir,' said Mr. Weller. Mr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle. 'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort. 'Sir,' said Mr. Weller, once more. 'Where is that Trotter?' 'Job, sir?' 'Yes. 'Gone, sir.' 'With his master, I suppose?' 'Friend or master, or whatever he is, he's gone with him,' replied Mr. Weller. 'There's a pair on 'em, sir.' 'Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you, with this story, I suppose?' said Mr. Pickwick, half choking. 'Just that, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'It was all false, of course?' 'All, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Reg'lar do, sir; artful dodge.' 'I don't think he'll escape us quite so easily the next time, Sam!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I don't think he will, Sir.' 'Whenever I meet that Jingle again, wherever it is,' said Mr. Pickwick, raising himself in bed, and indenting his pillow with a tremendous blow, 'I'll inflict personal chastisement on him, in addition to the exposure he so richly merits. I will, or my name is not Pickwick.' 'And venever I catches hold o' that there melan-cholly chap with the black hair,' said Sam, 'if I don't bring some real water into his eyes, for once in a way, my name ain't Weller. Good-night, Sir!' The constitution of Mr. Pickwick, though able to sustain a very considerable amount of exertion and fatigue, was not proof against such a combination of attacks as he had undergone on the memorable night, recorded in the last chapter. The process of being washed in the night air, and rough-dried in a closet, is as dangerous as it is peculiar. Mr. Pickwick was laid up with an attack of rheumatism. But although the bodily powers of the great man were thus impaired, his mental energies retained their pristine vigour. His spirits were elastic; his good-humour was restored. Even the vexation consequent upon his recent adventure had vanished from his mind; and he could join in the hearty laughter, which any allusion to it excited in Mr. Wardle, without anger and without embarrassment. Nay, more. During the two days Mr. Pickwick was confined to bed, Sam was his constant attendant. On the first, he endeavoured to amuse his master by anecdote and conversation; on the second, Mr. Pickwick demanded his writing-desk, and pen and ink, and was deeply engaged during the whole day. On the third, being able to sit up in his bedchamber, he despatched his valet with a message to Mr. Wardle and Mr. Trundle, intimating that if they would take their wine there, that evening, they would greatly oblige him. The invitation was most willingly accepted; and when they were seated over their wine, Mr. Pickwick, with sundry blushes, produced the following little tale, as having been 'edited' by himself, during his recent indisposition, from his notes of Mr. Weller's unsophisticated recital. THE PARISH CLERK A TALE OF TRUE LOVE 'Once upon a time, in a very small country town, at a considerable distance from London, there lived a little man named Nathaniel Pipkin, who was the parish clerk of the little town, and lived in a little house in the little High Street, within ten minutes' walk from the little church; and who was to be found every day, from nine till four, teaching a little learning to the little boys. Nathaniel Pipkin was a harmless, inoffensive, good-natured being, with a turned-up nose, and rather turned-in legs, a cast in his eye, and a halt in his gait; and he divided his time between the church and his school, verily believing that there existed not, on the face of the earth, so clever a man as the curate, so imposing an apartment as the vestry-room, or so well-ordered a seminary as his own. Once, and only once, in his life, Nathaniel Pipkin had seen a bishop--a real bishop, with his arms in lawn sleeves, and his head in a wig. He had seen him walk, and heard him talk, at a confirmation, on which momentous occasion Nathaniel Pipkin was so overcome with reverence and awe, when the aforesaid bishop laid his hand on his head, that he fainted right clean away, and was borne out of church in the arms of the beadle. 'This was a great event, a tremendous era, in Nathaniel Pipkin's life, and it was the only one that had ever occurred to ruffle the smooth current of his quiet existence, when happening one fine afternoon, in a fit of mental abstraction, to raise his eyes from the slate on which he was devising some tremendous problem in compound addition for an offending urchin to solve, they suddenly rested on the blooming countenance of Maria Lobbs, the only daughter of old Lobbs, the great saddler over the way. Now, the eyes of Mr. Pipkin had rested on the pretty face of Maria Lobbs many a time and oft before, at church and elsewhere; but the eyes of Maria Lobbs had never looked so bright, the cheeks of Maria Lobbs had never looked so ruddy, as upon this particular occasion. No wonder then, that Nathaniel Pipkin was unable to take his eyes from the countenance of Miss Lobbs; no wonder that Miss Lobbs, finding herself stared at by a young man, withdrew her head from the window out of which she had been peeping, and shut the casement and pulled down the blind; no wonder that Nathaniel Pipkin, immediately thereafter, fell upon the young urchin who had previously offended, and cuffed and knocked him about to his heart's content. All this was very natural, and there's nothing at all to wonder at about it. 'It _is_ matter of wonder, though, that anyone of Mr. Nathaniel Pipkin's retiring disposition, nervous temperament, and most particularly diminutive income, should from this day forth, have dared to aspire to the hand and heart of the only daughter of the fiery old Lobbs--of old Lobbs, the great saddler, who could have bought up the whole village at one stroke of his pen, and never felt the outlay--old Lobbs, who was well known to have heaps of money, invested in the bank at the nearest market town--who was reported to have countless and inexhaustible treasures hoarded up in the little iron safe with the big keyhole, over the chimney-piece in the back parlour--and who, it was well known, on festive occasions garnished his board with a real silver teapot, cream- ewer, and sugar-basin, which he was wont, in the pride of his heart, to boast should be his daughter's property when she found a man to her mind. I repeat it, to be matter of profound astonishment and intense wonder, that Nathaniel Pipkin should have had the temerity to cast his eyes in this direction. But love is blind; and Nathaniel had a cast in his eye; and perhaps these two circumstances, taken together, prevented his seeing the matter in its proper light. 'Now, if old Lobbs had entertained the most remote or distant idea of the state of the affections of Nathaniel Pipkin, he would just have razed the school-room to the ground, or exterminated its master from the surface of the earth, or committed some other outrage and atrocity of an equally ferocious and violent description; for he was a terrible old fellow, was Lobbs, when his pride was injured, or his blood was up. Swear! Such trains of oaths would come rolling and pealing over the way, sometimes, when he was denouncing the idleness of the bony apprentice with the thin legs, that Nathaniel Pipkin would shake in his shoes with horror, and the hair of the pupils' heads would stand on end with fright. 'Well! Day after day, when school was over, and the pupils gone, did Nathaniel Pipkin sit himself down at the front window, and, while he feigned to be reading a book, throw sidelong glances over the way in search of the bright eyes of Maria Lobbs; and he hadn't sat there many days, before the bright eyes appeared at an upper window, apparently deeply engaged in reading too. This was delightful, and gladdening to the heart of Nathaniel Pipkin. It was something to sit there for hours together, and look upon that pretty face when the eyes were cast down; but when Maria Lobbs began to raise her eyes from her book, and dart their rays in the direction of Nathaniel Pipkin, his delight and admiration were perfectly boundless. At last, one day when he knew old Lobbs was out, Nathaniel Pipkin had the temerity to kiss his hand to Maria Lobbs; and Maria Lobbs, instead of shutting the window, and pulling down the blind, kissed _hers _to him, and smiled. Upon which Nathaniel Pipkin determined, that, come what might, he would develop the state of his feelings, without further delay. 'A prettier foot, a gayer heart, a more dimpled face, or a smarter form, never bounded so lightly over the earth they graced, as did those of Maria Lobbs, the old saddler's daughter. There was a roguish twinkle in her sparkling eyes, that would have made its way to far less susceptible bosoms than that of Nathaniel Pipkin; and there was such a joyous sound in her merry laugh, that the sternest misanthrope must have smiled to hear it. Even old Lobbs himself, in the very height of his ferocity, couldn't resist the coaxing of his pretty daughter; and when she, and her cousin Kate--an arch, impudent-looking, bewitching little person-- made a dead set upon the old man together, as, to say the truth, they very often did, he could have refused them nothing, even had they asked for a portion of the countless and inexhaustible treasures, which were hidden from the light, in the iron safe. 'Nathaniel Pipkin's heart beat high within him, when he saw this enticing little couple some hundred yards before him one summer's evening, in the very field in which he had many a time strolled about till night-time, and pondered on the beauty of Maria Lobbs. But though he had often thought then, how briskly he would walk up to Maria Lobbs and tell her of his passion if he could only meet her, he felt, now that she was unexpectedly before him, all the blood in his body mounting to his face, manifestly to the great detriment of his legs, which, deprived of their usual portion, trembled beneath him. When they stopped to gather a hedge flower, or listen to a bird, Nathaniel Pipkin stopped too, and pretended to be absorbed in meditation, as indeed he really was; for he was thinking what on earth he should ever do, when they turned back, as they inevitably must in time, and meet him face to face. But though he was afraid to make up to them, he couldn't bear to lose sight of them; so when they walked faster he walked faster, when they lingered he lingered, and when they stopped he stopped; and so they might have gone on, until the darkness prevented them, if Kate had not looked slyly back, and encouragingly beckoned Nathaniel to advance. There was something in Kate's manner that was not to be resisted, and so Nathaniel Pipkin complied with the invitation; and after a great deal of blushing on his part, and immoderate laughter on that of the wicked little cousin, Nathaniel Pipkin went down on his knees on the dewy grass, and declared his resolution to remain there for ever, unless he were permitted to rise the accepted lover of Maria Lobbs. Upon this, the merry laughter of Miss Lobbs rang through the calm evening air--without seeming to disturb it, though; it had such a pleasant sound--and the wicked little cousin laughed more immoderately than before, and Nathaniel Pipkin blushed deeper than ever. At length, Maria Lobbs being more strenuously urged by the love-worn little man, turned away her head, and whispered her cousin to say, or at all events Kate did say, that she felt much honoured by Mr. Pipkin's addresses; that her hand and heart were at her father's disposal; but that nobody could be insensible to Mr. Pipkin's merits. As all this was said with much gravity, and as Nathaniel Pipkin walked home with Maria Lobbs, and struggled for a kiss at parting, he went to bed a happy man, and dreamed all night long, of softening old Lobbs, opening the strong box, and marrying Maria. The next day, Nathaniel Pipkin saw old Lobbs go out upon his old gray pony, and after a great many signs at the window from the wicked little cousin, the object and meaning of which he could by no means understand, the bony apprentice with the thin legs came over to say that his master wasn't coming home all night, and that the ladies expected Mr. Pipkin to tea, at six o'clock precisely. How the lessons were got through that day, neither Nathaniel Pipkin nor his pupils knew any more than you do; but they were got through somehow, and, after the boys had gone, Nathaniel Pipkin took till full six o'clock to dress himself to his satisfaction. Not that it took long to select the garments he should wear, inasmuch as he had no choice about the matter; but the putting of them on to the best advantage, and the touching of them up previously, was a task of no inconsiderable difficulty or importance. 'There was a very snug little party, consisting of Maria Lobbs and her cousin Kate, and three or four romping, good-humoured, rosy-cheeked girls. Nathaniel Pipkin had ocular demonstration of the fact, that the rumours of old Lobbs's treasures were not exaggerated. There were the real solid silver teapot, cream-ewer, and sugar-basin, on the table, and real silver spoons to stir the tea with, and real china cups to drink it out of, and plates of the same, to hold the cakes and toast in. The only eye-sore in the whole place was another cousin of Maria Lobbs's, and a brother of Kate, whom Maria Lobbs called "Henry," and who seemed to keep Maria Lobbs all to himself, up in one corner of the table. It's a delightful thing to see affection in families, but it may be carried rather too far, and Nathaniel Pipkin could not help thinking that Maria Lobbs must be very particularly fond of her relations, if she paid as much attention to all of them as to this individual cousin. After tea, too, when the wicked little cousin proposed a game at blind man's buff, it somehow or other happened that Nathaniel Pipkin was nearly always blind, and whenever he laid his hand upon the male cousin, he was sure to find that Maria Lobbs was not far off. And though the wicked little cousin and the other girls pinched him, and pulled his hair, and pushed chairs in his way, and all sorts of things, Maria Lobbs never seemed to come near him at all; and once--once--Nathaniel Pipkin could have sworn he heard the sound of a kiss, followed by a faint remonstrance from Maria Lobbs, and a half-suppressed laugh from her female friends. All this was odd--very odd--and there is no saying what Nathaniel Pipkin might or might not have done, in consequence, if his thoughts had not been suddenly directed into a new channel. 'The circumstance which directed his thoughts into a new channel was a loud knocking at the street door, and the person who made this loud knocking at the street door was no other than old Lobbs himself, who had unexpectedly returned, and was hammering away, like a coffin-maker; for he wanted his supper. The alarming intelligence was no sooner communicated by the bony apprentice with the thin legs, than the girls tripped upstairs to Maria Lobbs's bedroom, and the male cousin and Nathaniel Pipkin were thrust into a couple of closets in the sitting- room, for want of any better places of concealment; and when Maria Lobbs and the wicked little cousin had stowed them away, and put the room to rights, they opened the street door to old Lobbs, who had never left off knocking since he first began. 'Now it did unfortunately happen that old Lobbs being very hungry was monstrous cross. Nathaniel Pipkin could hear him growling away like an old mastiff with a sore throat; and whenever the unfortunate apprentice with the thin legs came into the room, so surely did old Lobbs commence swearing at him in a most Saracenic and ferocious manner, though apparently with no other end or object than that of easing his bosom by the discharge of a few superfluous oaths. At length some supper, which had been warming up, was placed on the table, and then old Lobbs fell to, in regular style; and having made clear work of it in no time, kissed his daughter, and demanded his pipe. 'Nature had placed Nathaniel Pipkin's knees in very close juxtaposition, but when he heard old Lobbs demand his pipe, they knocked together, as if they were going to reduce each other to powder; for, depending from a couple of hooks, in the very closet in which he stood, was a large, brown-stemmed, silver-bowled pipe, which pipe he himself had seen in the mouth of old Lobbs, regularly every afternoon and evening, for the last five years. The two girls went downstairs for the pipe, and upstairs for the pipe, and everywhere but where they knew the pipe was, and old Lobbs stormed away meanwhile, in the most wonderful manner. At last he thought of the closet, and walked up to it. It was of no use a little man like Nathaniel Pipkin pulling the door inwards, when a great strong fellow like old Lobbs was pulling it outwards. Old Lobbs gave it one tug, and open it flew, disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bolt upright inside, and shaking with apprehension from head to foot. Bless us! what an appalling look old Lobbs gave him, as he dragged him out by the collar, and held him at arm's length. '"Why, what the devil do you want here?" said old Lobbs, in a fearful voice. 'Nathaniel Pipkin could make no reply, so old Lobbs shook him backwards and forwards, for two or three minutes, by way of arranging his ideas for him. '"What do you want here?" roared Lobbs; "I suppose you have come after my daughter, now!" 'Old Lobbs merely said this as a sneer: for he did not believe that mortal presumption could have carried Nathaniel Pipkin so far. What was his indignation, when that poor man replied-- '"Yes, I did, Mr. Lobbs, I did come after your daughter. I love her, Mr. Lobbs." '"Why, you snivelling, wry-faced, puny villain," gasped old Lobbs, paralysed by the atrocious confession; "what do you mean by that? Say this to my face! Damme, I'll throttle you!" 'It is by no means improbable that old Lobbs would have carried his threat into execution, in the excess of his rage, if his arm had not been stayed by a very unexpected apparition: to wit, the male cousin, who, stepping out of his closet, and walking up to old Lobbs, said-- '"I cannot allow this harmless person, Sir, who has been asked here, in some girlish frolic, to take upon himself, in a very noble manner, the fault (if fault it is) which I am guilty of, and am ready to avow. I love your daughter, sir; and I came here for the purpose of meeting her." 'Old Lobbs opened his eyes very wide at this, but not wider than Nathaniel Pipkin. '"You did?" said Lobbs, at last finding breath to speak. '"I did." '"And I forbade you this house, long ago." '"You did, or I should not have been here, clandestinely, to-night." 'I am sorry to record it of old Lobbs, but I think he would have struck the cousin, if his pretty daughter, with her bright eyes swimming in tears, had not clung to his arm. '"Don't stop him, Maria," said the young man; "if he has the will to strike me, let him. I would not hurt a hair of his gray head, for the riches of the world." 'The old man cast down his eyes at this reproof, and they met those of his daughter. I have hinted once or twice before, that they were very bright eyes, and, though they were tearful now, their influence was by no means lessened. Old Lobbs turned his head away, as if to avoid being persuaded by them, when, as fortune would have it, he encountered the face of the wicked little cousin, who, half afraid for her brother, and half laughing at Nathaniel Pipkin, presented as bewitching an expression of countenance, with a touch of slyness in it, too, as any man, old or young, need look upon. She drew her arm coaxingly through the old man's, and whispered something in his ear; and do what he would, old Lobbs couldn't help breaking out into a smile, while a tear stole down his cheek at the same time. 'Five minutes after this, the girls were brought down from the bedroom with a great deal of giggling and modesty; and while the young people were making themselves perfectly happy, old Lobbs got down the pipe, and smoked it; and it was a remarkable circumstance about that particular pipe of tobacco, that it was the most soothing and delightful one he ever smoked. 'Nathaniel Pipkin thought it best to keep his own counsel, and by so doing gradually rose into high favour with old Lobbs, who taught him to smoke in time; and they used to sit out in the garden on the fine evenings, for many years afterwards, smoking and drinking in great state. He soon recovered the effects of his attachment, for we find his name in the parish register, as a witness to the marriage of Maria Lobbs to her cousin; and it also appears, by reference to other documents, that on the night of the wedding he was incarcerated in the village cage, for having, in a state of extreme intoxication, committed sundry excesses in the streets, in all of which he was aided and abetted by the bony apprentice with the thin legs.' Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Noch immer in Eatanswill werden die Pickwickier zu einem Kostümfrühstück von Mrs. Leo Hunter, einer elenden Dichterin, eingeladen, die nach berühmten Bekanntschaften sucht und ihren Ehemann als Botenjungen verkleidet. Mr. Pickwick wird wütend, als Tupman sagt, dass er sich unangemessen als Bandit verkleiden will. Aber der Streit wird beigelegt und die Pickwickier erscheinen auf Mrs. Leo Hunters Party. Der Ort ist voller Poseure - kleineren Prominenten, die sich gerne so kleiden würden, wie sie erscheinen möchten, aber nur ihre Albernheit zur Schau stellen. Graf Smorltork hat eine vage, malapropianische Vorstellung von Englisch, aber er hält sich selbst für einen Experten auf dem Gebiet des englischen Lebens nach einem Besuch von zwei Wochen. Alfred Jingle taucht als Mr. Fitz-Marshall verkleidet auf und verlässt den Ort eilig, als er auf Mr. Pickwick trifft, der ihm bis Bury St. Edmunds hinterherjagt, um ihn bloßzustellen. Mr. Pickwick und Sam Weller kommen in Bury St. Edmunds an und gehen zu einer großen Gaststätte, dem Angel. Am nächsten Morgen trifft Sam Jingles Diener, Job Trotter, einen hageren, tränenreichen Mann. Job erzählt Sam von den Plänen seines Herrn, mit einem reichen Mädchen aus einer nahegelegenen Internatsschule durchzubrennen. Job Trotter schlägt dann Mr. Pickwick einen Plan vor, wie das Mädchen gerettet werden kann. Dies beinhaltet, dass Mr. Pickwick im Garten der Internatsschule wartet, um Jingle bei der Tat zu überraschen. Mr. Pickwick handelt entsprechend und gerät in einen schrecklichen Sturm. Der Sturm zwingt ihn, in die Internatsschule zu flüchten, die voller hysterischer Frauen ist. Die Frauen sperren ihn in einen Schrank voller Sandwichbeutel und er bittet sie, seinen Diener Sam zu schicken, der später mit Mr. Wardle und Mrs. Trundle kommt. Wardle ist in der Gegend auf einer Jagdreise und hat zufällig von Mr. Pickwicks Anwesenheit erfahren. Das Missverständnis wird ausgeräumt, aber in dieser Nacht schwören Mr. Pickwick und Sam, Jingle und Job Trotter für diesen Streich zu bestrafen. Mr. Pickwick liegt ein paar Tage mit Rheuma im Bett, schafft es aber, seine gute Stimmung wiederzuerlangen. Im Hotel erzählt er Wardle und Trundle die Geschichte des Kirchenvorstehers. Ein provinzieller Schulleiter namens Nathaniel Pipkin verliebt sich in das hübsche Maria Lobbs und in das Geld ihres Vaters. Maria neckt ihn, aber ohne romantische Absichten. Sie lädt ihn zum Tee in ihr Haus ein, wenn ihr schrecklich gelaunter Vater, Old Lobbs, abwesend ist. Marias gutaussehender Cousin Henry ist auch auf der Party, und Nathaniel wird eifersüchtig, als er Marias Interesse an ihrem Cousin bemerkt. Old Lobbs kehrt zurück und Henry und Nathaniel verstecken sich in Schränken, aber sie werden entdeckt. Maria bittet für Henry, der sich als ehrenhaft erweist, und Old Lobbs stimmt der Heirat zu. Der frustrierte Nathaniel läuft am Hochzeitstag Amok.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XII Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright, In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly, With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd melancholy. GRAY The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing she was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested the Count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the chateau. 'And you know, my dear sir,' added Blanche, 'how delighted I shall be with such a companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to read with, since Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma's friend only.' The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter yielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of their danger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus readily expand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily, with attention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased with her, as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short an acquaintance. The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also given him a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious as to those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent of St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded with his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau. On this subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady Blanche's welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or to befriend the orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably interested. On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but Mons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the room, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a very old friend, to prolong his stay at the chateau; an invitation, which Du Pont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near Emily; and, though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that she would ever return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to attempt, at present, to overcome it. Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend over the grounds belonging to the chateau, as much delighted with the surrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had wished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of the monastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed to go. 'Ah!' said Blanche with surprise, 'I am but just released from a convent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure I feel in wandering here, at liberty,--and in seeing the sky and the fields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.' Emily, smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed, that she did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life. 'No, you may not intend it now,' said Blanche; 'but you do not know to what the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they will appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.' When they returned to the chateau, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to her favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the ancient chambers, which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused by observing the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of their old but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with those of the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and grotesque. She was also interested by Dorothee the house-keeper, who attended them, whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects around her, and who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she frequently gazed with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear what was said to her. While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with surprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;--the fields and woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La Voisin, one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in her way from the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to be the chateau, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he had dropped some remarkable hints. Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for some time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father had betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other circumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her. The music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous of knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothee whether it returned at midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered. 'Yes, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, 'that music is still heard, but the musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I believe; though there are some people, who can guess.' 'Indeed!' said Emily, 'then why do they not pursue the enquiry?' 'Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has been made--but who can pursue a spirit?' Emily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to be led away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion; yet, in spite of her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her curiosity, on this subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in silence, now enquired what this music was, and how long it had been heard. 'Ever since the death of my lady, madam,' replied Dorothee. 'Why, the place is not haunted, surely?' said Blanche, between jesting and seriousness. 'I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,' continued Dorothee, 'and never before then. But that is nothing to some things I could tell of.' 'Do, pray, tell them, then,' said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest than in jest. 'I am much interested, for I have heard sister Henriette, and sister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange appearances, which they themselves had witnessed!' 'You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the chateau, and go and live in a cottage,' said Dorothee. 'Never!' replied Blanche with impatience. 'Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis'--Dorothee checked herself, hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the curiosity of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily to escape her, and she pressed the old house-keeper to proceed with her account, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; and it was evident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into which she had already betrayed herself. 'I perceive,' said Emily, smiling, 'that all old mansions are haunted; I am lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily, since I left it, I have heard almost all of them explained.' Blanche was silent; Dorothee looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt herself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she chose to acknowledge. Just then, she remembered the spectacle she had witnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence, the alarming words, that had accidentally met her eye in the MS. papers, which she had destroyed, in obedience to the command of her father; and she shuddered at the meaning they seemed to impart, almost as much as at the horrible appearance, disclosed by the black veil. The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothee to explain the subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the door, that terminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on the preceding day, to see the suite of rooms beyond. 'Dear young lady,' said the housekeeper, 'I have told you my reason for not opening them; I have never seen them, since my dear lady died; and it would go hard with me to see them now. Pray, madam, do not ask me again.' 'Certainly I will not,' replied Blanche, 'if that is really your objection.' 'Alas! it is,' said the old woman: 'we all loved her well, and I shall always grieve for her. Time runs round! it is now many years, since she died; but I remember every thing, that happened then, as if it was but yesterday. Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quite from my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as if in a glass.' She paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the gallery, added to Emily, 'this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to my mind; I can remember, when she looked just as blooming, and very like her, when she smiles. Poor lady! how gay she was, when she first came to the chateau!' 'And was she not gay, afterwards?' said Blanche. Dorothee shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly expressive of the interest she now felt. 'Let us sit down in this window,' said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the gallery: 'and pray, Dorothee, if it is not painful to you, tell us something more about the Marchioness. I should like to look into the glass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances, which you say often pass over it.' 'No, my lady,' replied Dorothee; 'if you knew as much as I do, you would not, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often wish I could shut them out, but they will rise to my mind. I see my dear lady on her death-bed,--her very look,--and remember all she said--it was a terrible scene!' 'Why was it so terrible?' said Emily with emotion. 'Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?' replied Dorothee. To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothee was silent; and Emily, observing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and endeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some object in the gardens, where the Count, with the Countess and Monsieur Du Pont, appearing, they went down to join them. When he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her to the Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most powerfully to her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude to him, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who, however, received her with one of those fascinating smiles, which her caprice sometimes allowed her to assume, and which was now the result of a conversation the Count had held with her, concerning Emily. Whatever this might be, or whatever had passed in his conversation with the lady abbess, whom he had just visited, esteem and kindness were strongly apparent in his manner, when he addressed Emily, who experienced that sweet emotion, which arises from the consciousness of possessing the approbation of the good; for to the Count's worth she had been inclined to yield her confidence almost from the first moment, in which she had seen him. Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she had received, and mention of her design of going immediately to the convent, she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at the chateau, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an appearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished to see her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over her father's grave, she consented to remain a few days at the chateau. To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival in Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a boarder; she also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt, whom she merely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew not where the latter might be stationed, she directed her letter to his brother's seat in Gascony. In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to the cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in approaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St. Aubert, though it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing sadness in indulging the recollections, which this scene recalled. La Voisin was still living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the tranquil evening of a blameless life. He was sitting at the door of his cottage, watching some of his grandchildren, playing on the grass before him, and, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation, encouraging their sports. He immediately recollected Emily, whom he was much pleased to see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had not lost one of his family, since her departure. 'Yes, ma'amselle,' said the old man, 'we all live merrily together still, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to be found in Languedoc, than ours.' Emily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died; and, after half an hour's conversation with La Voisin and his family, she left the cottage. During these the first days of her stay at Chateau-le-Blanc, she was often affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, at times, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, which disarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw herself as soon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De Villefort would permit. The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the anxiety of the Count, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret of his hopeless affection, which, however, the former could only commiserate, though he secretly determined to befriend his suit, if an opportunity of doing so should ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation of Du Pont, he but feebly opposed his intention of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on the following day, but drew from him a promise of a longer visit, when he could return with safety to his peace. Emily herself, though she could not encourage his affection, esteemed him both for the many virtues he possessed, and for the services she had received from him; and it was not without tender emotions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw him depart for his family seat in Gascony; while he took leave of her with a countenance so expressive of love and grief, as to interest the Count more warmly in his cause than before. In a few days, Emily also left the chateau, but not before the Count and Countess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon; and she was welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness she had formerly experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression of regard. The well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many melancholy recollections, but with these were mingled others, that inspired gratitude for having escaped the various dangers, that had pursued her, since she quitted it, and for the good, which she yet possessed; and, though she once more wept over her father's grave, with tears of tender affection, her grief was softened from its former acuteness. Some time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter from her uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had arrived in France, and to her enquiries, concerning such of her affairs as he had undertaken to conduct during her absence, especially as to the period for which La Vallee had been let, whither it was her wish to return, if it should appear, that her income would permit her to do so. The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and formal, as she expected, expressing neither concern for the evils she suffered, nor pleasure, that she was now removed from them; nor did he allow the opportunity to pass, of reproving her for her rejection of Count Morano, whom he affected still to believe a man of honour and fortune; nor of vehemently declaiming against Montoni, to whom he had always, till now, felt himself to be inferior. On Emily's pecuniary concerns, he was not very explicit; he informed her, however, that the term, for which La Vallee had been engaged, was nearly expired; but, without inviting her to his own house, added, that her circumstances would by no means allow her to reside there, and earnestly advised her to remain, for the present, in the convent of St. Claire. Auf ihre Anfragen bezüglich der armen alten Theresa, der Dienerin ihres verstorbenen Vaters, gab er keine Antwort. In der Postskript zu seinem Brief erwähnte Monsieur Quesnel M. Motteville, in dessen Händen der verstorbene St. Aubert den größten Teil seines persönlichen Eigentums hinterlassen hatte, und dass er seine Angelegenheiten fast zur Zufriedenheit seiner Gläubiger regeln würde, und dass Emily viel mehr von ihrem Vermögen zurückbekommen würde, als sie zuvor zu erwarten hatte. Der Brief enthielt auch einen Auftrag an einen Händler in Narbonne für einen kleinen Geldbetrag. Die Ruhe des Klosters und die Freiheit, die sie hatte, um in den Wäldern und an den Küsten dieser wunderschönen Provinz umherzuschweifen, brachten nach und nach ihre Gemütsverfassung wieder in ihren natürlichen Zustand zurück, abgesehen davon, dass hin und wieder Sorge aufkam, was Valancourt betraf, da die Zeit näher rückte, zu der sie eine Antwort auf ihren Brief erhalten könnte. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Blanche und Em werden schnell Freunde, da sie beide gerne Burgen erkunden und die Schönheit der Natur genießen. Sie versuchen, die alte Dorothee dazu zu bringen, etwas über die ehemalige Herrin des Schlosses, die Markgräfin de Villeroi, auszuplaudern, aber die Dienerin hält dicht. Dorothee erwähnt jedoch, dass Em der Ebenbild der Markgräfin ist. Hmmm. Du Pont ist immer noch so verliebt in Em wie eh und je, also beschließt Em, eine kleine Pause vom Chateau-le-Blanc einzulegen. Sie verspricht jedoch, bald zurückzukommen. Ems Onkel, Monsieur Quesnel, schreibt ihr, aber es scheint ihm egal zu sein, dass sie dem bösen Montoni entkommen ist. Er weiß auch nicht, ob sie ihr Eigentum von ihm zurückbekommen kann. Wah-wah.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: 41 The Butcher I saw a great deal of trouble among the horses in London, and much of it might have been prevented by a little common sense. We horses do not mind hard work if we are treated reasonably, and I am sure there are many driven by quite poor men who have a happier life than I had when I used to go in the Countess of W----'s carriage, with my silver-mounted harness and high feeding. It often went to my heart to see how the little ponies were used, straining along with heavy loads or staggering under heavy blows from some low, cruel boy. Once I saw a little gray pony with a thick mane and a pretty head, and so much like Merrylegs that if I had not been in harness I should have neighed to him. He was doing his best to pull a heavy cart, while a strong rough boy was cutting him under the belly with his whip and chucking cruelly at his little mouth. Could it be Merrylegs? It was just like him; but then Mr. Blomefield was never to sell him, and I think he would not do it; but this might have been quite as good a little fellow, and had as happy a place when he was young. I often noticed the great speed at which butchers' horses were made to go, though I did not know why it was so till one day when we had to wait some time in St. John's Wood. There was a butcher's shop next door, and as we were standing a butcher's cart came dashing up at a great pace. The horse was hot and much exhausted; he hung his head down, while his heaving sides and trembling legs showed how hard he had been driven. The lad jumped out of the cart and was getting the basket when the master came out of the shop much displeased. After looking at the horse he turned angrily to the lad. "How many times shall I tell you not to drive in this way? You ruined the last horse and broke his wind, and you are going to ruin this in the same way. If you were not my own son I would dismiss you on the spot; it is a disgrace to have a horse brought to the shop in a condition like that; you are liable to be taken up by the police for such driving, and if you are you need not look to me for bail, for I have spoken to you till I'm tired; you must look out for yourself." During this speech the boy had stood by, sullen and dogged, but when his father ceased he broke out angrily. It wasn't his fault, and he wouldn't take the blame; he was only going by orders all the time. "You always say, 'Now be quick; now look sharp!' and when I go to the houses one wants a leg of mutton for an early dinner and I must be back with it in a quarter of an hour; another cook has forgotten to order the beef; I must go and fetch it and be back in no time, or the mistress will scold; and the housekeeper says they have company coming unexpectedly and must have some chops sent up directly; and the lady at No. 4, in the Crescent, never orders her dinner till the meat comes in for lunch, and it's nothing but hurry, hurry, all the time. If the gentry would think of what they want, and order their meat the day before, there need not be this blow up!" "I wish to goodness they would," said the butcher; "'twould save me a wonderful deal of harass, and I could suit my customers much better if I knew beforehand--But there! what's the use of talking--who ever thinks of a butcher's convenience or a butcher's horse! Now, then, take him in and look to him well; mind, he does not go out again to-day, and if anything else is wanted you must carry it yourself in the basket." With that he went in, and the horse was led away. But all boys are not cruel. I have seen some as fond of their pony or donkey as if it had been a favorite dog, and the little creatures have worked away as cheerfully and willingly for their young drivers as I work for Jerry. It may be hard work sometimes, but a friend's hand and voice make it easy. There was a young coster-boy who came up our street with greens and potatoes; he had an old pony, not very handsome, but the cheerfullest and pluckiest little thing I ever saw, and to see how fond those two were of each other was a treat. The pony followed his master like a dog, and when he got into his cart would trot off without a whip or a word, and rattle down the street as merrily as if he had come out of the queen's stables. Jerry liked the boy, and called him "Prince Charlie", for he said he would make a king of drivers some day. There was an old man, too, who used to come up our street with a little coal cart; he wore a coal-heaver's hat, and looked rough and black. He and his old horse used to plod together along the street, like two good partners who understood each other; the horse would stop of his own accord at the doors where they took coal of him; he used to keep one ear bent toward his master. The old man's cry could be heard up the street long before he came near. I never knew what he said, but the children called him "Old Ba-a-ar Hoo", for it sounded like that. Polly took her coal of him, and was very friendly, and Jerry said it was a comfort to think how happy an old horse might be in a poor place. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Beauty sagt, er habe viele Probleme mit den Pferden in London gesehen, "und vieles davon hätte mit ein bisschen gesundem Menschenverstand verhindert werden können". Es fällt ihm schwer, zuzusehen, wie kleine Ponys dazu gebracht werden, schwere Lasten zu ziehen - eines Tages sieht er eines, das ihn an Merrylegs erinnert, wie es geschlagen und misshandelt wird. Er bemerkt, dass die Pferde der Metzger besonders schnell gefahren werden und fragt sich warum, bis er eines Tages neben einem Metzgerladen wartet. Er beobachtet, wie der Metzger seinen jungen Sohn dafür schimpft, dass er ihr Pferd zu hart antreibt, aber der Sohn sagt ihm, dass er immer angewiesen wird, es zu beeilen, besonders wenn es um die Lieferung von frischem Fleisch in letzter Minute geht. "Wenn die vornehmen Leute nur daran denken würden, was sie wollen, und ihr Fleisch einen Tag im Voraus bestellen würden, müsste es diesen Aufruhr nicht geben!", beklagt der junge Junge. Also ist er im Grunde der Pizzalieferant des viktorianischen Londons. Beauty sagt auch, dass einige Jungen ihre Pferde freundlich behandeln, insbesondere ein Junge, der Gemüse mit einem alten Pony verkauft. "Das Pony folgte seinem Herrn wie ein Hund und rasselte fröhlich die Straße hinunter, als käme es aus den Ställen der Königin", sagt Beauty. Jerry nennt den Jungen "Prinz Charlie" und sagt, er "würde eines Tages ein König unter den Kutschern sein". Beauty beschreibt auch einen alten Mann mit einem Kohlenkarren, der eine sehr enge Beziehung zu seinem alten Pferd hat, und Jerry sagt: "Es war eine Beruhigung zu denken, wie glücklich ein altes Pferd an einem armen Ort sein könnte". Also ist Geld nicht unbedingt der Schlüssel zum Glück eines Pferdes.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 Tertius. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a troope of Souldiers. Duke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard The fundamentall reasons of this warre, Whose great decision hath much blood let forth And more thirsts after 1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell Vpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull On the opposer Duke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France Would in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome Against our borrowing prayers French E. Good my Lord, The reasons of our state I cannot yeelde, But like a common and an outward man, That the great figure of a Counsaile frames, By selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not Say what I thinke of it, since I haue found My selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile As often as I guest Duke. Be it his pleasure Fren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature, That surfet on their ease, will day by day Come heere for Physicke Duke. Welcome shall they bee: And all the honors that can flye from vs, Shall on them settle: you know your places well, When better fall, for your auailes they fell, To morrow to'th the field. Flourish. Enter Countesse and Clowne. Count. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue that he comes not along with her Clo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie melancholly man Count. By what obseruance I pray you Clo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing: mend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke his teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of melancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song Lad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes to come Clow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court. Our old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing like your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an old man loues money, with no stomacke Lad. What haue we heere? Clo. In that you haue there. Exit A Letter. I haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the King, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her, and sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am runne away, know it before the report come. If there bee bredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne, Bertram. This is not well rash and vnbridled boy, To flye the fauours of so good a King, To plucke his indignation on thy head, By the misprising of a Maide too vertuous For the contempt of Empire. Enter Clowne. Clow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene two souldiers, and my yong Ladie La. What is the matter Clo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some comfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght he would La. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he does, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of men, though it be the getting of children. Heere they come will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your sonne was run away. Enter Hellen and two Gentlemen. French E. Saue you good Madam Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone French G. Do not say so La. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen, I haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe, That the first face of neither on the start Can woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you? Fren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence, We met him thitherward, for thence we came: And after some dispatch in hand at Court, Thither we bend againe Hel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport. When thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer shall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie, that I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then) I write a Neuer. This is a dreadfull sentence La. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen? 1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie for our paines Old La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere, If thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine, Thou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne, But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he? Fren.G. I Madam La. And to be a souldier Fren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't The Duke will lay vpon him all the honor That good conuenience claimes La. Returne you thither Fren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed Hel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France, 'Tis bitter La. Finde you that there? Hel. I Madame Fren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting too Lad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife: There's nothing heere that is too good for him But onely she, and she deserues a Lord That twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon, And call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him? Fren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I haue sometime knowne La. Parolles was it not? Fren.E. I my good Ladie, hee La. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse, My sonne corrupts a well deriued nature With his inducement Fren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of that, too much, which holds him much to haue La. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you when you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can neuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate you written to beare along Fren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your worthiest affaires La. Not so, but as we change our courtesies, Will you draw neere? Enter. Hel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France. Nothing in France vntill he has no wife: Thou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France, Then hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I That chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose Those tender limbes of thine, to the euent Of the none-sparing warre? And is it I, That driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou Was't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke Of smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride vpon the violent speede of fire, Fly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire That sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord: Who euer shoots at him, I set him there. Who euer charges on his forward brest I am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't, And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was so effected: Better 'twere I met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd With sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere, That all the miseries which nature owes Were mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion, Whence honor but of danger winnes a scarre, As oft it looses all. I will be gone: My being heere it is, that holds thee hence, Shall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although The ayre of Paradise did fan the house, And Angels offic'd all: I will be gone, That pittifull rumour may report my flight To consolate thine eare. Come night, end day, For with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away. Enter. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and trumpets, soldiers, Parrolles. Duke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we Great in our hope, lay our best loue and credence Vpon thy promising fortune Ber. Sir it is A charge too heauy for my strength, but yet Wee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake, To th' extreme edge of hazard Duke. Then go thou forth, And fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme As thy auspicious mistris Ber. This very day Great Mars I put my selfe into thy file, Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue A louer of thy drumme, hater of loue. Exeunt. omnes Enter Countesse & Steward. La. Alas! and would you take the letter of her: Might you not know she would do, as she has done, By sending me a Letter. Reade it agen. Letter. I am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious loue hath so in me offended, That bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon With sainted vow my faults to haue amended Write, write, that from the bloodie course of warre, My deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie, Blesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre, His name with zealous feruour sanctifie: His taken labours bid him me forgiue: I his despightfull Iuno sent him forth, From Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue, Where death and danger dogges the heeles of worth. He is too good and faire for death, and mee, Whom I my selfe embrace, to set him free. Ah what sharpe stings are in her mildest words? Rynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much, As letting her passe so: had I spoke with her, I could haue well diuerted her intents, Which thus she hath preuented Ste. Pardon me Madam, If I had giuen you this at ouer-night, She might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes Pursuite would be but vaine La. What Angell shall Blesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue, Vnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare And loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath Of greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo, To this vnworthy husband of his wife, Let euerie word waigh heauie of her worth, That he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe, Though little he do feele it, set downe sharpely. Dispatch the most conuenient messenger, When haply he shall heare that she is gone, He will returne, and hope I may that shee Hearing so much, will speede her foote againe, Led hither by pure loue: which of them both Is deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence To make distinction: prouide this Messenger: My heart is heauie, and mine age is weake, Greefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake. Exeunt. A Tucket afarre off. Enter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and Mariana, with other Citizens. Widdow. Nay come, For if they do approach the Citty, We shall loose all the sight Diana. They say, the French Count has done Most honourable seruice Wid. It is reported, That he has taken their great'st Commander, And that with his owne hand he slew The Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour, They are gone a contrarie way: harke, you may know by their Trumpets Maria. Come lets returne againe, And suffice our selues with the report of it. Well Diana, take heed of this French Earle, The honor of a Maide is her name, And no Legacie is so rich As honestie Widdow. I haue told my neighbour How you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman His Companion Maria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles, a filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young Earle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements, oathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene seduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so terrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot for all that disswade succession, but that they are limed with the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede not to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace will keepe you where you are, though there were no further danger knowne, but the modestie which is so lost Dia. You shall not neede to feare me. Enter Hellen. Wid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know she will lye at my house, thither they send one another, Ile question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are bound? Hel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand. Where do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port Hel. Is this the way? A march afarre. Wid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way: If you will tarrie holy Pilgrime But till the troopes come by, I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd, The rather for I thinke I know your hostesse As ample as my selfe Hel. Is it your selfe? Wid. If you shall please so Pilgrime Hel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure Wid. You came I thinke from France? Hel. I did so Wid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours That has done worthy seruice Hel. His name I pray you? Dia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one? Hel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him: His face I know not Dia. What somere he is He's brauely taken heere. He stole from France As 'tis reported: for the King had married him Against his liking. Thinke you it is so? Hel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady Dia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count, Reports but coursely of her Hel. What's his name? Dia. Monsieur Parrolles Hel. Oh I beleeue with him, In argument of praise, or to the worth Of the great Count himselfe, she is too meane To haue her name repeated, all her deseruing Is a reserued honestie, and that I haue not heard examin'd Dian. Alas poore Ladie, 'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting Lord Wid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is, Her hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her A shrewd turne if she pleas'd Hel. How do you meane? May be the amorous Count solicites her In the vnlawfull purpose Wid. He does indeede, And brokes with all that can in such a suite Corrupt the tender honour of a Maide: But she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard In honestest defence. Drumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the whole Armie. Mar. The goddes forbid else Wid. So, now they come: That is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne, That Escalus Hel. Which is the Frenchman? Dia. Hee, That with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow, I would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman Hel. I like him well Di. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue That leades him to these places: were I his Ladie, I would poison that vile Rascall Hel. Which is he? Dia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee melancholly? Hel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile Par. Loose our drum? Well Mar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he has spyed vs Wid. Marrie hang you Mar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier. Enter. Wid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring you, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents There's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound, Alreadie at my house Hel. I humbly thanke you: Please it this Matron, and this gentle Maide To eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking Shall be for me, and to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts of this Virgin, Worthy the note Both. Wee'l take your offer kindly. Exeunt. Enter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first. Cap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him haue his way Cap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding, hold me no more in your respect Cap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble Ber. Do you thinke I am so farre Deceiued in him Cap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him as my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite and endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the owner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships entertainment Cap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too farre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some great and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle you Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him Cap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his drumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake to do C.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize him; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes not from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring him to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present at his examination, if he do not for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to betray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his soule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie thing Cap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his drumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your Lordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to what mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted if you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement, your inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes. Enter Parrolles. Cap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor of his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any hand Ber. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely in your disposition Cap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme Par. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so lost. There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne souldiers Cap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C�sar him selfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to command Ber. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe: some dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum, but it is not to be recouered Par. It might haue beene recouered Ber. It might, but it is not now Par. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice is sildome attributed to the true and exact performer, I would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet Ber. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if you thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this instrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be magnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in it, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost syllable of your worthinesse Par. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it Ber. But you must not now slumber in it Par. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently pen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my certaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation: and by midnight looke to heare further from me Ber. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it Par. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord, but the attempt I vow Ber. I know th'art valiant, And to the possibility of thy souldiership, Will subscribe for thee: Farewell Par. I loue not many words. Exit Cap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this a strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to vndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be done, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd then to doo't Cap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe, certaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour, and for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries, but when you finde him out, you haue him euer after Ber. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at all of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe vnto? Cap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention, and clap vpon you two or three probable lies: but we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to night; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect Cap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord Lafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie night Cap.E. I must go looke my twigges, He shall be caught Ber. Your brother he shall go along with me Cap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you Ber. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you The Lasse I spoke of Cap.E. But you say she's honest Ber. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once, And found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her By this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde Tokens and Letters, which she did resend, And this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature, Will you go see her? Cap.E. With all my heart my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hellen, and Widdow. Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee, I know not how I shall assure you further, But I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon Wid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne, Nothing acquainted with these businesses, And would not put my reputation now In any staining act Hel. Nor would I wish you. First giue me trust, the Count he is my husband, And what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken, Is so from word to word: and then you cannot By the good ayde that I of you shall borrow, Erre in bestowing it Wid. I should beleeue you, For you haue shew'd me that which well approues Y'are great in fortune Hel. Take this purse of Gold, And let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre, Which I will ouer-pay, and pay againe When I haue found it. The Count he woes your daughter, Layes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie, Resolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent As wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it: Now his important blood will naught denie, That shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares, That downward hath succeeded in his house From sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents, Since the first father wore it. This Ring he holds In most rich choice: yet in his idle fire, To buy his will, it would not seeme too deere, How ere repented after Wid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose Hel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more, But that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne, Desires this Ring; appoints him an encounter; In fine, deliuers me to fill the time, Her selfe most chastly absent: after To marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes To what is past already Wid. I haue yeelded: Instruct my daughter how she shall perseuer, That time and place with this deceite so lawfull May proue coherent. Euery night he comes With Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd To her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs To chide him from our eeues, for he persists As if his life lay on't Hel. Why then to night Let vs assay our plot, which if it speed, Is wicked meaning in a lawfull deede; And lawfull meaning in a lawfull act, Where both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact. But let's about it. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In dreiundzwanzig Versen führt Shakespeare die Stadt Florenz, Italien, in das Stück ein, während der Herzog dieser Stadt gegenüber einem französischen Adligen über die Neutralität des französischen Königs in den italienischen Kriegen rätselt. Der französische Lord stimmt zu: "Heilig scheint der Streit / Auf eurer Gnaden Seite; schwarz und furchterregend / Auf der des Gegners." In Szene 2 ist der Narr nach Rousillon zurückgekehrt, wo er einen Brief von Bertram an seine Mutter übergibt, in dem er ihr mitteilt, dass er vor seiner Ehe davongelaufen ist; in dem Brief sagt er: "Wenn es genug Weite in der Welt gibt, werde ich einen großen Abstand halten." Dies verärgert die Gräfin: "Das ist nicht gut, rasender und ungebändigter Junge, / Die Gunst eines so guten Königs abzulehnen." Helenas Kummer, als sie Bertrams Brief an sie liest, verstärkt das Gefühl. Sie bezeichnet seinen Brief als "Pass" - das heißt, eine Erlaubnis, auf offener Straße zu betteln - und sagt, dass es ein "furchtbarer Satz" ist. Wenn du es schaffst, den Ring an meinen Finger zu bekommen, der niemals abgehen wird, und mir ein Kind zeigst, das von deinem Körper gezeugt wurde und zu dem ich Vater bin, dann nenne mich Ehemann; aber in einem solchen "dann" schreibe ich ein "Nie". Die Gräfin verleugnet Bertram als ihren Sohn und fragt dann, ob er immer noch in Begleitung von Parolles, dem "sehr verdorbenen Kerl und voller Bosheit", reist. Die Szene endet mit einem Monolog von Helena, die schwört, Frankreich zu verlassen, um den Weg für Bertram frei zu machen, um von den gefährlichen Kriegen nach Hause zurückzukehren: Nein, komm nach Hause, Rousillon,Von wo Ehre nur durch Gefahr eine Narbe gewinnt,Wie oft verliert sie alles. Ich werde gehen, - Mein Hiersein hält dich hier zurück. Soll ich hier bleiben, um es zu tun? Nein, nein.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of red and white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other; and just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle; where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of places, from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company, carolling perpetually. Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards to death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-on, which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous. As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place, are not only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many considered as the great art of authorship: an author's skill in his craft being, by such critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition. Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle's mind, too great for utterance. Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial care. 'Drat that beadle!' said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the garden-gate. 'If it isn't him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr. Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it IS a pleasure, this is! Come into the parlour, sir, please.' The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and showed him, with great attention and respect, into the house. 'Mrs. Mann,' said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself into a seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself gradually and slowly down into a chair; 'Mrs. Mann, ma'am, good morning.' 'Well, and good morning to _you_, sir,' replied Mrs. Mann, with many smiles; 'and hoping you find yourself well, sir!' 'So-so, Mrs. Mann,' replied the beadle. 'A porochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann.' 'Ah, that it isn't indeed, Mr. Bumble,' rejoined the lady. And all the infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety, if they had heard it. 'A porochial life, ma'am,' continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with his cane, 'is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.' Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed. 'Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!' said the beadle. Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said, 'Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.' 'Lauk, Mr. Bumble!' cried Mrs. Mann, starting back. 'To London, ma'am,' resumed the inflexible beadle, 'by coach. I and two paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and the board has appointed me--me, Mrs. Mann--to dispose to the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question,' added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, 'whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me.' 'Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir,' said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly. 'The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble; 'and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only themselves to thank.' There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said, 'You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them paupers in carts.' 'That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann,' said the beadle. 'We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking cold.' 'Oh!' said Mrs. Mann. 'The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,' said Mr. Bumble. 'They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em--that is, if we can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!' When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat; and he became grave. 'We are forgetting business, ma'am,' said the beadle; 'here is your porochial stipend for the month.' Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote. 'It's very much blotted, sir,' said the farmer of infants; 'but it's formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I'm sure.' Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and inquired how the children were. 'Bless their dear little hearts!' said Mrs. Mann with emotion, 'they're as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick.' 'Isn't that boy no better?' inquired Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Mann shook her head. 'He's a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,' said Mr. Bumble angrily. 'Where is he?' 'I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir,' replied Mrs. Mann. 'Here, you Dick!' After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle. The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man. Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble's glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the beadle's voice. 'Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?' said Mrs. Mann. The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble. 'What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?' inquired Mr. Bumble, with well-timed jocularity. 'Nothing, sir,' replied the child faintly. 'I should think not,' said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble's humour. 'You want for nothing, I'm sure.' 'I should like--' faltered the child. 'Hey-day!' interposed Mr. Mann, 'I suppose you're going to say that you DO want for something, now? Why, you little wretch--' 'Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!' said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. 'Like what, sir, eh?' 'I should like,' faltered the child, 'if somebody that can write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.' 'Why, what does the boy mean?' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was to such things. 'What do you mean, sir?' 'I should like,' said the child, 'to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him,' said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, 'that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together.' Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, 'They're all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!' 'I couldn't have believed it, sir' said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick. 'I never see such a hardened little wretch!' 'Take him away, ma'am!' said Mr. Bumble imperiously. 'This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann. 'I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn't my fault, sir?' said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically. 'They shall understand that, ma'am; they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case,' said Mr. Bumble. 'There; take him away, I can't bear the sight on him.' Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr. Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey. At six o'clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked hat for a round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a cape to it: took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course of time, he arrived in London. He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in shivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel quite uncomfortable; although he had a great-coat on. Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper. The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble's eye rested, was the following advertisement. 'FIVE GUINEAS REWARD 'Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on Thursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since been heard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will give such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested.' And then followed a full description of Oliver's dress, person, appearance, and disappearance: with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow at full length. Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and carefully, three several times; and in something more than five minutes was on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted. 'Is Mr. Brownlow at home?' inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door. To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive reply of 'I don't know; where do you come from?' Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into the passage in a breathless state. 'Come in, come in,' said the old lady: 'I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so all along.' Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did. He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation: 'A beadle. A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head.' 'Pray don't interrupt just now,' said Mr. Brownlow. 'Take a seat, will you?' Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little impatience, 'Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?' 'Yes, sir,' said Mr. Bumble. 'And you ARE a beadle, are you not?' inquired Mr. Grimwig. 'I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,' rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly. 'Of course,' observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, 'I knew he was. A beadle all over!' Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed: 'Do you know where this poor boy is now?' 'No more than nobody,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'Well, what DO you know of him?' inquired the old gentleman. 'Speak out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What DO you know of him?' 'You don't happen to know any good of him, do you?' said Mr. Grimwig, caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features. Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with portentous solemnity. 'You see?' said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow. Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble's pursed-up countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few words as possible. Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments' reflection, commenced his story. It would be tedious if given in the beadle's words: occupying, as it did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from his master's house. In proof of his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow's observations. 'I fear it is all too true,' said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after looking over the papers. 'This is not much for your intelligence; but I would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy.' It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew. Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much disturbed by the beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further. At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently. 'Mrs. Bedwin,' said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; 'that boy, Oliver, is an imposter.' 'It can't be, sir. It cannot be,' said the old lady energetically. 'I tell you he is,' retorted the old gentleman. 'What do you mean by can't be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life.' 'I never will believe it, sir,' replied the old lady, firmly. 'Never!' 'You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-books,' growled Mr. Grimwig. 'I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!' And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish. 'He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,' retorted Mrs. Bedwin, indignantly. 'I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty years; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about them. That's my opinion!' This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow. 'Silence!' said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from feeling. 'Never let me hear the boy's name again. I rang to tell you that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest.' There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's that night. Oliver's heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken outright. 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.

Dieses Kapitel beginnt mit einem weiteren Exkurs ähnlich wie derjenige, der Kapitel Fünfzehn eröffnet, aber diesmal erklärt Dickens, dass das Wechseln zwischen Tragödie und Spannung sowie Komödie und alltäglicheren Dingen zum guten Geschichten-Erzählen gehört und dass das wahre Leben sowieso so ist. Also beginnt das eigentliche Geschehen des Kapitels ein paar Absätze später, als Mr. Bumble auf Mrs. Manns Babyfarm ankommt. Mrs. Mann fragt höflicherweise, wie es ihm geht, und Mr. Bumble ist eingebildet genug zu denken, dass es ihr tatsächlich wichtig ist, also erzählt er ihr: "Ein Gemeindeleben ist ein Leben voller Sorgen, Ärger und Härte; aber alle öffentlichen Personen, sozusagen, müssen Verfolgung ertragen". Nach weiteren prahlerischen Reden erzählt Mr. Bumble Mrs. Mann, dass er nach London reisen müsse, um mit einer "rechtlichen Angelegenheit" umzugehen, die "bezüglich einer Abmachung im Gange" ist, und er muss "vor dem Viertelsgericht in Clerkinwell darüber aussagen". Okay, das war überhaupt nicht klar - im Grunde genommen gibt es ein paar Armenhäusler, die von Mr. Bumbles Gemeinde unterstützt werden wollen, aber es gibt Uneinigkeit darüber, zu welcher Gemeinde sie gehören. Also muss Mr. Bumble nach London reisen, um vor Gericht zu beweisen, dass sich seine Gemeinde nicht um diese beiden armen Menschen kümmern muss. Mrs. Mann scheint schockiert zu sein, dass Mr. Bumble mit der Kutsche anstatt mit einem offenen Wagen reisen will, da er mit den beiden Armenhäuslern reist. Aber anscheinend bezahlt die konkurrierende Gemeinde die Kutsche, denn die beiden Armenhäusler sind dem Tod nahe, und man hat berechnet, dass es günstiger ist, sie zu bewegen, als sie zu begraben. Mr. Bumble zahlt dann Mrs. Mann ihr Gehalt und fragt nach den Waisenkindern. Sie sagt, dass es ihnen allen gut geht - außer den beiden, die letzte Woche gestorben sind, und dem kleinen Dick, der noch nicht gesund ist. Mr. Bumble scheint beleidigt zu sein, dass Dick krank ist, als wäre es eine Beleidigung für die ganze Gemeinde. Dick tritt in den Raum und fragt, ob jemand ihm einen Brief aufschreiben kann, der Oliver übergeben werden soll, nachdem er gestorben ist. Mr. Bumble ist erstaunt und fragt nach einer Erklärung. Dick sagt, er möchte Oliver sagen, wie sehr er an ihn gedacht hat und bei dem Gedanken an den armen Oliver, der alleine in der Kälte umherirrt, geweint hat und wie glücklich er ist, jung zu sterben, damit er und seine verstorbene Schwester im Himmel zusammen Kinder sein können. Mr. Bumble ist schockiert über diese depressive Rede von jemandem, der, wie er denkt, so viel Grund zur Dankbarkeit hat, und gibt Oliver die Schuld daran, dass er die anderen Kinder "entkräftet". Also wird Dick natürlich zur Strafe in den Kohlenkeller gesperrt. Mr. Bumble fährt weiter nach London und als sie für die Nacht anhalten, bemerkt er eine Anzeige in der Zeitung, die Informationen über Oliver Twist sucht und eine Belohnung von fünf Guineen anbietet. Fünf Guineen sind viel Geld. Mr. Bumble rennt nach Pentonville und klopft an Mr. Brownlows Tür, begierig, ihm alles zu erzählen, was er über Oliver weiß. Mr. Grimwig kann sofort erkennen, dass Mr. Bumble ein Gemeindediener ist - irgendetwas an seinem Mantelschnitt verrät es. Mr. Brownlow fragt ihn, was er über Oliver weiß, und Mr. Grimwig fällt ihm ins Wort und fragt, "kennen Sie zufällig irgendetwas Gutes über ihn?" Mr. Bumble nimmt seinen Ton von Grimwig an und erzählt Olivers Geschichte in nicht sehr schmeichelhaften Worten - wie er "von niedrigen und nichtsnutzigen Eltern geboren wurde, die seine kurze Karriere mit einem blutigen und feigen Angriff auf einen wehrlosen Jungen beendet haben," usw., usw. Mr. Brownlow ist traurig darüber, aber fürchtet, dass es wahr sein muss. Er gibt Mr. Bumble die fünf Guineen und sagt, er hätte gerne das Dreifache bezahlt, wenn die Nachricht für Oliver günstiger gewesen wäre. Mr. Bumble wünscht, er hätte das früher gewusst, aber es ist jetzt zu spät - er verlässt das Haus. Mrs. Bedwin will es immer noch nicht glauben, wenn man es ihr erzählt. Sie sagt, sie kennt Kinder besser als beide Männer. Mr. Brownlow sagt, dass er Olivers Namen nie wieder hören will.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: DRINK Tom Foster came to Winesburg from Cincinnati when he was still young and could get many new impressions. His grandmother had been raised on a farm near the town and as a young girl had gone to school there when Winesburg was a village of twelve or fifteen houses clustered about a general store on the Trunion Pike. What a life the old woman had led since she went away from the frontier settlement and what a strong, capable little old thing she was! She had been in Kansas, in Canada, and in New York City, traveling about with her husband, a mechanic, before he died. Later she went to stay with her daughter, who had also married a mechanic and lived in Covington, Kentucky, across the river from Cincinnati. Then began the hard years for Tom Foster's grandmother. First her son-in-law was killed by a policeman during a strike and then Tom's mother became an invalid and died also. The grandmother had saved a little money, but it was swept away by the illness of the daughter and by the cost of the two funerals. She became a half worn-out old woman worker and lived with the grandson above a junk shop on a side street in Cincinnati. For five years she scrubbed the floors in an office building and then got a place as dish washer in a restaurant. Her hands were all twisted out of shape. When she took hold of a mop or a broom handle the hands looked like the dried stems of an old creeping vine clinging to a tree. The old woman came back to Winesburg as soon as she got the chance. One evening as she was coming home from work she found a pocket-book containing thirty-seven dollars, and that opened the way. The trip was a great adventure for the boy. It was past seven o'clock at night when the grandmother came home with the pocket-book held tightly in her old hands and she was so excited she could scarcely speak. She insisted on leaving Cincinnati that night, saying that if they stayed until morning the owner of the money would be sure to find them out and make trouble. Tom, who was then sixteen years old, had to go trudging off to the station with the old woman, bearing all of their earthly belongings done up in a worn-out blanket and slung across his back. By his side walked the grandmother urging him forward. Her toothless old mouth twitched nervously, and when Tom grew weary and wanted to put the pack down at a street crossing, she snatched it up and if he had not prevented would have slung it across her own back. When they got into the train and it had run out of the city she was as delighted as a girl and talked as the boy had never heard her talk before. All through the night as the train rattled along, the grandmother told Tom tales of Winesburg and of how he would enjoy his life working in the fields and shooting wild things in the woods there. She could not believe that the tiny village of fifty years before had grown into a thriving town in her absence, and in the morning when the train came to Winesburg did not want to get off. "It isn't what I thought. It may be hard for you here," she said, and then the train went on its way and the two stood confused, not knowing where to turn, in the presence of Albert Longworth, the Winesburg baggage master. But Tom Foster did get along all right. He was one to get along anywhere. Mrs. White, the banker's wife, employed his grandmother to work in the kitchen and he got a place as stable boy in the banker's new brick barn. In Winesburg servants were hard to get. The woman who wanted help in her housework employed a "hired girl" who insisted on sitting at the table with the family. Mrs. White was sick of hired girls and snatched at the chance to get hold of the old city woman. She furnished a room for the boy Tom upstairs in the barn. "He can mow the lawn and run errands when the horses do not need attention," she explained to her husband. Tom Foster was rather small for his age and had a large head covered with stiff black hair that stood straight up. The hair emphasized the bigness of his head. His voice was the softest thing imaginable, and he was himself so gentle and quiet that he slipped into the life of the town without attracting the least bit of attention. One could not help wondering where Tom Foster got his gentleness. In Cincinnati he had lived in a neighborhood where gangs of tough boys prowled through the streets, and all through his early formative years he ran about with tough boys. For a while he was a messenger for a telegraph company and delivered messages in a neighborhood sprinkled with houses of prostitution. The women in the houses knew and loved Tom Foster and the tough boys in the gangs loved him also. He never asserted himself. That was one thing that helped him escape. In an odd way he stood in the shadow of the wall of life, was meant to stand in the shadow. He saw the men and women in the houses of lust, sensed their casual and horrible love affairs, saw boys fighting and listened to their tales of thieving and drunkenness, unmoved and strangely unaffected. Once Tom did steal. That was while he still lived in the city. The grandmother was ill at the time and he himself was out of work. There was nothing to eat in the house, and so he went into a harness shop on a side street and stole a dollar and seventy-five cents out of the cash drawer. The harness shop was run by an old man with a long mustache. He saw the boy lurking about and thought nothing of it. When he went out into the street to talk to a teamster Tom opened the cash drawer and taking the money walked away. Later he was caught and his grandmother settled the matter by offering to come twice a week for a month and scrub the shop. The boy was ashamed, but he was rather glad, too. "It is all right to be ashamed and makes me understand new things," he said to the grandmother, who didn't know what the boy was talking about but loved him so much that it didn't matter whether she understood or not. For a year Tom Foster lived in the banker's stable and then lost his place there. He didn't take very good care of the horses and he was a constant source of irritation to the banker's wife. She told him to mow the lawn and he forgot. Then she sent him to the store or to the post office and he did not come back but joined a group of men and boys and spent the whole afternoon with them, standing about, listening and occasionally, when addressed, saying a few words. As in the city in the houses of prostitution and with the rowdy boys running through the streets at night, so in Winesburg among its citizens he had always the power to be a part of and yet distinctly apart from the life about him. After Tom lost his place at Banker White's he did not live with his grandmother, although often in the evening she came to visit him. He rented a room at the rear of a little frame building belonging to old Rufus Whiting. The building was on Duane Street, just off Main Street, and had been used for years as a law office by the old man, who had become too feeble and forgetful for the practice of his profession but did not realize his inefficiency. He liked Tom and let him have the room for a dollar a month. In the late afternoon when the lawyer had gone home the boy had the place to himself and spent hours lying on the floor by the stove and thinking of things. In the evening the grandmother came and sat in the lawyer's chair to smoke a pipe while Tom remained silent, as he always did in the presence of everyone. Often the old woman talked with great vigor. Sometimes she was angry about some happening at the banker's house and scolded away for hours. Out of her own earnings she bought a mop and regularly scrubbed the lawyer's office. Then when the place was spotlessly clean and smelled clean she lighted her clay pipe and she and Tom had a smoke together. "When you get ready to die then I will die also," she said to the boy lying on the floor beside her chair. Tom Foster enjoyed life in Winesburg. He did odd jobs, such as cutting wood for kitchen stoves and mowing the grass before houses. In late May and early June he picked strawberries in the fields. He had time to loaf and he enjoyed loafing. Banker White had given him a cast-off coat which was too large for him, but his grandmother cut it down, and he had also an overcoat, got at the same place, that was lined with fur. The fur was worn away in spots, but the coat was warm and in the winter Tom slept in it. He thought his method of getting along good enough and was happy and satisfied with the way life in Winesburg had turned out for him. The most absurd little things made Tom Foster happy. That, I suppose, was why people loved him. In Hern's Grocery they would be roasting coffee on Friday afternoon, preparatory to the Saturday rush of trade, and the rich odor invaded lower Main Street. Tom Foster appeared and sat on a box at the rear of the store. For an hour he did not move but sat perfectly still, filling his being with the spicy odor that made him half drunk with happiness. "I like it," he said gently. "It makes me think of things far away, places and things like that." One night Tom Foster got drunk. That came about in a curious way. He never had been drunk before, and indeed in all his life had never taken a drink of anything intoxicating, but he felt he needed to be drunk that one time and so went and did it. In Cincinnati, when he lived there, Tom had found out many things, things about ugliness and crime and lust. Indeed, he knew more of these things than anyone else in Winesburg. The matter of sex in particular had presented itself to him in a quite horrible way and had made a deep impression on his mind. He thought, after what he had seen of the women standing before the squalid houses on cold nights and the look he had seen in the eyes of the men who stopped to talk to them, that he would put sex altogether out of his own life. One of the women of the neighborhood tempted him once and he went into a room with her. He never forgot the smell of the room nor the greedy look that came into the eyes of the woman. It sickened him and in a very terrible way left a scar on his soul. He had always before thought of women as quite innocent things, much like his grandmother, but after that one experience in the room he dismissed women from his mind. So gentle was his nature that he could not hate anything and not being able to understand he decided to forget. And Tom did forget until he came to Winesburg. After he had lived there for two years something began to stir in him. On all sides he saw youth making love and he was himself a youth. Before he knew what had happened he was in love also. He fell in love with Helen White, daughter of the man for whom he had worked, and found himself thinking of her at night. That was a problem for Tom and he settled it in his own way. He let himself think of Helen White whenever her figure came into his mind and only concerned himself with the manner of his thoughts. He had a fight, a quiet determined little fight of his own, to keep his desires in the channel where he thought they belonged, but on the whole he was victorious. And then came the spring night when he got drunk. Tom was wild on that night. He was like an innocent young buck of the forest that has eaten of some maddening weed. The thing began, ran its course, and was ended in one night, and you may be sure that no one in Winesburg was any the worse for Tom's outbreak. In the first place, the night was one to make a sensitive nature drunk. The trees along the residence streets of the town were all newly clothed in soft green leaves, in the gardens behind the houses men were puttering about in vegetable gardens, and in the air there was a hush, a waiting kind of silence very stirring to the blood. Tom left his room on Duane Street just as the young night began to make itself felt. First he walked through the streets, going softly and quietly along, thinking thoughts that he tried to put into words. He said that Helen White was a flame dancing in the air and that he was a little tree without leaves standing out sharply against the sky. Then he said that she was a wind, a strong terrible wind, coming out of the darkness of a stormy sea and that he was a boat left on the shore of the sea by a fisherman. That idea pleased the boy and he sauntered along playing with it. He went into Main Street and sat on the curbing before Wacker's tobacco store. For an hour he lingered about listening to the talk of men, but it did not interest him much and he slipped away. Then he decided to get drunk and went into Willy's saloon and bought a bottle of whiskey. Putting the bottle into his pocket, he walked out of town, wanting to be alone to think more thoughts and to drink the whiskey. Tom got drunk sitting on a bank of new grass beside the road about a mile north of town. Before him was a white road and at his back an apple orchard in full bloom. He took a drink out of the bottle and then lay down on the grass. He thought of mornings in Winesburg and of how the stones in the graveled driveway by Banker White's house were wet with dew and glistened in the morning light. He thought of the nights in the barn when it rained and he lay awake hearing the drumming of the raindrops and smelling the warm smell of horses and of hay. Then he thought of a storm that had gone roaring through Winesburg several days before and, his mind going back, he relived the night he had spent on the train with his grandmother when the two were coming from Cincinnati. Sharply he remembered how strange it had seemed to sit quietly in the coach and to feel the power of the engine hurling the train along through the night. Tom got drunk in a very short time. He kept taking drinks from the bottle as the thoughts visited him and when his head began to reel got up and walked along the road going away from Winesburg. There was a bridge on the road that ran out of Winesburg north to Lake Erie and the drunken boy made his way along the road to the bridge. There he sat down. He tried to drink again, but when he had taken the cork out of the bottle he became ill and put it quickly back. His head was rocking back and forth and so he sat on the stone approach to the bridge and sighed. His head seemed to be flying about like a pinwheel and then projecting itself off into space and his arms and legs flopped helplessly about. At eleven o'clock Tom got back into town. George Willard found him wandering about and took him into the Eagle printshop. Then he became afraid that the drunken boy would make a mess on the floor and helped him into the alleyway. The reporter was confused by Tom Foster. The drunken boy talked of Helen White and said he had been with her on the shore of a sea and had made love to her. George had seen Helen White walking in the street with her father during the evening and decided that Tom was out of his head. A sentiment concerning Helen White that lurked in his own heart flamed up and he became angry. "Now you quit that," he said. "I won't let Helen White's name be dragged into this. I won't let that happen." He began shaking Tom's shoulder, trying to make him understand. "You quit it," he said again. For three hours the two young men, thus strangely thrown together, stayed in the printshop. When he had a little recovered George took Tom for a walk. They went into the country and sat on a log near the edge of a wood. Something in the still night drew them together and when the drunken boy's head began to clear they talked. "It was good to be drunk," Tom Foster said. "It taught me something. I won't have to do it again. I will think more dearly after this. You see how it is." George Willard did not see, but his anger concerning Helen White passed and he felt drawn toward the pale, shaken boy as he had never before been drawn toward anyone. With motherly solicitude, he insisted that Tom get to his feet and walk about. Again they went back to the printshop and sat in silence in the darkness. The reporter could not get the purpose of Tom Foster's action straightened out in his mind. When Tom spoke again of Helen White he again grew angry and began to scold. "You quit that," he said sharply. "You haven't been with her. What makes you say you have? What makes you keep saying such things? Now you quit it, do you hear?" Tom war verletzt. Er konnte sich nicht mit George Willard streiten, weil er dazu unfähig war, also stand er auf, um wegzugehen. Als George Willard beharrlich war, streckte er seine Hand aus, legte sie auf den Arm des älteren Jungen und versuchte zu erklären. "Nun ja", sagte er leise, "ich weiß nicht, wie es war. Ich war glücklich. Du siehst, wie es war. Helen White hat mich glücklich gemacht und die Nacht auch. Ich wollte leiden, irgendwie verletzt werden. Ich dachte, das wäre das Richtige. Ich wollte leiden, verstehst du, weil jeder leidet und Unrecht tut. Ich habe über viele Dinge nachgedacht, die ich tun könnte, aber sie funktionierten nicht. Sie haben alle jemand anderen verletzt." Tom Fosters Stimme erhob sich, und einmal in seinem Leben wurde er fast aufgeregt. "Es war wie Liebe machen, das meine ich", erklärte er. "Siehst du nicht, wie es ist? Es hat mich verletzt, das zu tun und alles seltsam gemacht. Deshalb habe ich es getan. Ich bin auch froh darüber. Es hat mir etwas beigebracht, das ist es, was ich wollte. Verstehst du nicht? Ich wollte Dinge lernen, siehst du. Deshalb habe ich es getan." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Toms Großmutter zieht Tom Foster groß. Die Großmutter hat ein hartes Leben gehabt, von Ort zu Ort gezogen, um sich für sich selbst und für Tom nach dem Tod von Toms Eltern durchzuschlagen. Als sie eine Geldbörse mit etwas Geld findet, bekommen sie die Gelegenheit, nach Winesburg zurückzukehren. Also packen beide ihre Sachen und kehren in die Heimatstadt der Großmutter zurück. Tom ist ein ruhiger, zurückhaltender Junge, der sich in jede Umgebung einfügt, sei es bei den harten Gang-Jungs in Cincinnati oder bei den ruhigen Leuten in Winesburg. Die Großmutter findet Arbeit im Haus von Mrs. White. Tom arbeitet anfangs auch dort, verlässt es dann aber und mietet sich ein Zimmer. Tom macht Gelegenheitsjobs, um seinen Magen zu füllen, und faulenzt sonst nur herum, hört Menschen zu und genießt das Leben in Winesburg. Kleine und belanglose Dinge machen ihn glücklich, wie der Geruch von geröstetem Kaffee oder das Schlafen neben einem warmen Ofen. Eines Tages beschließt Tom, sich zu betrinken. Er hat in Cincinnati Hässlichkeit und Verbrechen gesehen und ist angewidert von dem Anblick. Auch Sex erscheint ihm widerlich. Aber hier in Winesburg hat sich etwas in ihm geregt und er verliebt sich in Helen White, die Tochter seiner früheren Arbeitgeber. In der Nacht, in der Tom betrunken wird, wird er wild. Er fängt an, mit sich selbst über Helen zu reden und seine Liebesflamme scheint heller zu brennen. Spät in der Nacht ist er völlig betrunken, als er George Willard trifft. George versucht, ihn zu beruhigen, aber er kann es nicht. Doch als er Tom über Helen reden hört, wird er wütend und besteht darauf, dass er nicht über sie sprechen sollte. Schließlich erklärt Tom, in seinem betrunkenen Zustand, dass es sein glücklicher Zustand ist, der solche Gedanken ausspricht. Sich zu betrinken war gut für sein System. Er wollte Leiden lernen, aber niemandem wehtun. Also betrank er sich und das hat ihm auch etwas beigebracht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Lily, lingering for a moment on the corner, looked out on the afternoon spectacle of Fifth Avenue. It was a day in late April, and the sweetness of spring was in the air. It mitigated the ugliness of the long crowded thoroughfare, blurred the gaunt roof-lines, threw a mauve veil over the discouraging perspective of the side streets, and gave a touch of poetry to the delicate haze of green that marked the entrance to the Park. As Lily stood there, she recognized several familiar faces in the passing carriages. The season was over, and its ruling forces had disbanded; but a few still lingered, delaying their departure for Europe, or passing through town on their return from the South. Among them was Mrs. Van Osburgh, swaying majestically in her C-spring barouche, with Mrs. Percy Gryce at her side, and the new heir to the Gryce millions enthroned before them on his nurse's knees. They were succeeded by Mrs. Hatch's electric victoria, in which that lady reclined in the lonely splendour of a spring toilet obviously designed for company; and a moment or two later came Judy Trenor, accompanied by Lady Skiddaw, who had come over for her annual tarpon fishing and a dip into "the street." This fleeting glimpse of her past served to emphasize the sense of aimlessness with which Lily at length turned toward home. She had nothing to do for the rest of the day, nor for the days to come; for the season was over in millinery as well as in society, and a week earlier Mme. Regina had notified her that her services were no longer required. Mme. Regina always reduced her staff on the first of May, and Miss Bart's attendance had of late been so irregular--she had so often been unwell, and had done so little work when she came--that it was only as a favour that her dismissal had hitherto been deferred. Lily did not question the justice of the decision. She was conscious of having been forgetful, awkward and slow to learn. It was bitter to acknowledge her inferiority even to herself, but the fact had been brought home to her that as a bread-winner she could never compete with professional ability. Since she had been brought up to be ornamental, she could hardly blame herself for failing to serve any practical purpose; but the discovery put an end to her consoling sense of universal efficiency. As she turned homeward her thoughts shrank in anticipation from the fact that there would be nothing to get up for the next morning. The luxury of lying late in bed was a pleasure belonging to the life of ease; it had no part in the utilitarian existence of the boarding-house. She liked to leave her room early, and to return to it as late as possible; and she was walking slowly now in order to postpone the detested approach to her doorstep. But the doorstep, as she drew near it, acquired a sudden interest from the fact that it was occupied--and indeed filled--by the conspicuous figure of Mr. Rosedale, whose presence seemed to take on an added amplitude from the meanness of his surroundings. The sight stirred Lily with an irresistible sense of triumph. Rosedale, a day or two after their chance meeting, had called to enquire if she had recovered from her indisposition; but since then she had not seen or heard from him, and his absence seemed to betoken a struggle to keep away, to let her pass once more out of his life. If this were the case, his return showed that the struggle had been unsuccessful, for Lily knew he was not the man to waste his time in an ineffectual sentimental dalliance. He was too busy, too practical, and above all too much preoccupied with his own advancement, to indulge in such unprofitable asides. In the peacock-blue parlour, with its bunches of dried pampas grass, and discoloured steel engravings of sentimental episodes, he looked about him with unconcealed disgust, laying his hat distrustfully on the dusty console adorned with a Rogers statuette. Lily sat down on one of the plush and rosewood sofas, and he deposited himself in a rocking-chair draped with a starched antimacassar which scraped unpleasantly against the pink fold of skin above his collar. "My goodness--you can't go on living here!" he exclaimed. Lily smiled at his tone. "I am not sure that I can; but I have gone over my expenses very carefully, and I rather think I shall be able to manage it." "Be able to manage it? That's not what I mean--it's no place for you!" "It's what I mean; for I have been out of work for the last week." "Out of work--out of work! What a way for you to talk! The idea of your having to work--it's preposterous." He brought out his sentences in short violent jerks, as though they were forced up from a deep inner crater of indignation. "It's a farce--a crazy farce," he repeated, his eyes fixed on the long vista of the room reflected in the blotched glass between the windows. Lily continued to meet his expostulations with a smile. "I don't know why I should regard myself as an exception----" she began. "Because you ARE; that's why; and your being in a place like this is a damnable outrage. I can't talk of it calmly." She had in truth never seen him so shaken out of his usual glibness; and there was something almost moving to her in his inarticulate struggle with his emotions. He rose with a start which left the rocking-chair quivering on its beam ends, and placed himself squarely before her. "Look here, Miss Lily, I'm going to Europe next week: going over to Paris and London for a couple of months--and I can't leave you like this. I can't do it. I know it's none of my business--you've let me understand that often enough; but things are worse with you now than they have been before, and you must see that you've got to accept help from somebody. You spoke to me the other day about some debt to Trenor. I know what you mean--and I respect you for feeling as you do about it." A blush of surprise rose to Lily's pale face, but before she could interrupt him he had continued eagerly: "Well, I'll lend you the money to pay Trenor; and I won't--I--see here, don't take me up till I've finished. What I mean is, it'll be a plain business arrangement, such as one man would make with another. Now, what have you got to say against that?" Lily's blush deepened to a glow in which humiliation and gratitude were mingled; and both sentiments revealed themselves in the unexpected gentleness of her reply. "Only this: that it is exactly what Gus Trenor proposed; and that I can never again be sure of understanding the plainest business arrangement." Then, realizing that this answer contained a germ of injustice, she added, even more kindly: "Not that I don't appreciate your kindness--that I'm not grateful for it. But a business arrangement between us would in any case be impossible, because I shall have no security to give when my debt to Gus Trenor has been paid." Rosedale received this statement in silence: he seemed to feel the note of finality in her voice, yet to be unable to accept it as closing the question between them. In the silence Lily had a clear perception of what was passing through his mind. Whatever perplexity he felt as to the inexorableness of her course--however little he penetrated its motive--she saw that it unmistakably tended to strengthen her hold over him. It was as though the sense in her of unexplained scruples and resistances had the same attraction as the delicacy of feature, the fastidiousness of manner, which gave her an external rarity, an air of being impossible to match. As he advanced in social experience this uniqueness had acquired a greater value for him, as though he were a collector who had learned to distinguish minor differences of design and quality in some long-coveted object. Lily, perceiving all this, understood that he would marry her at once, on the sole condition of a reconciliation with Mrs. Dorset; and the temptation was the less easy to put aside because, little by little, circumstances were breaking down her dislike for Rosedale. The dislike, indeed, still subsisted; but it was penetrated here and there by the perception of mitigating qualities in him: of a certain gross kindliness, a rather helpless fidelity of sentiment, which seemed to be struggling through the hard surface of his material ambitions. Reading his dismissal in her eyes, he held out his hand with a gesture which conveyed something of this inarticulate conflict. "If you'd only let me, I'd set you up over them all--I'd put you where you could wipe your feet on 'em!" he declared; and it touched her oddly to see that his new passion had not altered his old standard of values. Lily took no sleeping-drops that night. She lay awake viewing her situation in the crude light which Rosedale's visit had shed on it. In fending off the offer he was so plainly ready to renew, had she not sacrificed to one of those abstract notions of honour that might be called the conventionalities of the moral life? What debt did she owe to a social order which had condemned and banished her without trial? She had never been heard in her own defence; she was innocent of the charge on which she had been found guilty; and the irregularity of her conviction might seem to justify the use of methods as irregular in recovering her lost rights. Bertha Dorset, to save herself, had not scrupled to ruin her by an open falsehood; why should she hesitate to make private use of the facts that chance had put in her way? After all, half the opprobrium of such an act lies in the name attached to it. Call it blackmail and it becomes unthinkable; but explain that it injures no one, and that the rights regained by it were unjustly forfeited, and he must be a formalist indeed who can find no plea in its defence. The arguments pleading for it with Lily were the old unanswerable ones of the personal situation: the sense of injury, the sense of failure, the passionate craving for a fair chance against the selfish despotism of society. She had learned by experience that she had neither the aptitude nor the moral constancy to remake her life on new lines; to become a worker among workers, and let the world of luxury and pleasure sweep by her unregarded. She could not hold herself much to blame for this ineffectiveness, and she was perhaps less to blame than she believed. Inherited tendencies had combined with early training to make her the highly specialized product she was: an organism as helpless out of its narrow range as the sea-anemone torn from the rock. She had been fashioned to adorn and delight; to what other end does nature round the rose-leaf and paint the humming-bird's breast? And was it her fault that the purely decorative mission is less easily and harmoniously fulfilled among social beings than in the world of nature? That it is apt to be hampered by material necessities or complicated by moral scruples? These last were the two antagonistic forces which fought out their battle in her breast during the long watches of the night; and when she rose the next morning she hardly knew where the victory lay. She was exhausted by the reaction of a night without sleep, coming after many nights of rest artificially obtained; and in the distorting light of fatigue the future stretched out before her grey, interminable and desolate. She lay late in bed, refusing the coffee and fried eggs which the friendly Irish servant thrust through her door, and hating the intimate domestic noises of the house and the cries and rumblings of the street. Her week of idleness had brought home to her with exaggerated force these small aggravations of the boarding-house world, and she yearned for that other luxurious world, whose machinery is so carefully concealed that one scene flows into another without perceptible agency. At length she rose and dressed. Since she had left Mme. Regina's she had spent her days in the streets, partly to escape from the uncongenial promiscuities of the boarding-house, and partly in the hope that physical fatigue would help her to sleep. But once out of the house, she could not decide where to go; for she had avoided Gerty since her dismissal from the milliner's, and she was not sure of a welcome anywhere else. The morning was in harsh contrast to the previous day. A cold grey sky threatened rain, and a high wind drove the dust in wild spirals up and down the streets. Lily walked up Fifth Avenue toward the Park, hoping to find a sheltered nook where she might sit; but the wind chilled her, and after an hour's wandering under the tossing boughs she yielded to her increasing weariness, and took refuge in a little restaurant in Fifty-ninth Street. She was not hungry, and had meant to go without luncheon; but she was too tired to return home, and the long perspective of white tables showed alluringly through the windows. The room was full of women and girls, all too much engaged in the rapid absorption of tea and pie to remark her entrance. A hum of shrill voices reverberated against the low ceiling, leaving Lily shut out in a little circle of silence. She felt a sudden pang of profound loneliness. She had lost the sense of time, and it seemed to her as though she had not spoken to any one for days. Her eyes sought the faces about her, craving a responsive glance, some sign of an intuition of her trouble. But the sallow preoccupied women, with their bags and note-books and rolls of music, were all engrossed in their own affairs, and even those who sat by themselves were busy running over proof-sheets or devouring magazines between their hurried gulps of tea. Lily alone was stranded in a great waste of disoccupation. She drank several cups of the tea which was served with her portion of stewed oysters, and her brain felt clearer and livelier when she emerged once more into the street. She realized now that, as she sat in the restaurant, she had unconsciously arrived at a final decision. The discovery gave her an immediate illusion of activity: it was exhilarating to think that she had actually a reason for hurrying home. To prolong her enjoyment of the sensation she decided to walk; but the distance was so great that she found herself glancing nervously at the clocks on the way. One of the surprises of her unoccupied state was the discovery that time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace. Usually it loiters; but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly break into a wild irrational gallop. She found, however, on reaching home, that the hour was still early enough for her to sit down and rest a few minutes before putting her plan into execution. The delay did not perceptibly weaken her resolve. She was frightened and yet stimulated by the reserved force of resolution which she felt within herself: she saw it was going to be easier, a great deal easier, than she had imagined. At five o'clock she rose, unlocked her trunk, and took out a sealed packet which she slipped into the bosom of her dress. Even the contact with the packet did not shake her nerves as she had half-expected it would. She seemed encased in a strong armour of indifference, as though the vigorous exertion of her will had finally benumbed her finer sensibilities. She dressed herself once more for the street, locked her door and went out. When she emerged on the pavement, the day was still high, but a threat of rain darkened the sky and cold gusts shook the signs projecting from the basement shops along the street. She reached Fifth Avenue and began to walk slowly northward. She was sufficiently familiar with Mrs. Dorset's habits to know that she could always be found at home after five. She might not, indeed, be accessible to visitors, especially to a visitor so unwelcome, and against whom it was quite possible that she had guarded herself by special orders; but Lily had written a note which she meant to send up with her name, and which she thought would secure her admission. She had allowed herself time to walk to Mrs. Dorset's, thinking that the quick movement through the cold evening air would help to steady her nerves; but she really felt no need of being tranquillized. Her survey of the situation remained calm and unwavering. As she reached Fiftieth Street the clouds broke abruptly, and a rush of cold rain slanted into her face. She had no umbrella and the moisture quickly penetrated her thin spring dress. She was still half a mile from her destination, and she decided to walk across to Madison Avenue and take the electric car. As she turned into the side street, a vague memory stirred in her. The row of budding trees, the new brick and limestone house-fronts, the Georgian flat-house with flowerboxes on its balconies, were merged together into the setting of a familiar scene. It was down this street that she had walked with Selden, that September day two years ago; a few yards ahead was the doorway they had entered together. The recollection loosened a throng of benumbed sensations--longings, regrets, imaginings, the throbbing brood of the only spring her heart had ever known. It was strange to find herself passing his house on such an errand. She seemed suddenly to see her action as he would see it--and the fact of his own connection with it, the fact that, to attain her end, she must trade on his name, and profit by a secret of his past, chilled her blood with shame. What a long way she had travelled since the day of their first talk together! Even then her feet had been set in the path she was now following--even then she had resisted the hand he had held out. All her resentment of his fancied coldness was swept away in this overwhelming rush of recollection. Twice he had been ready to help her--to help her by loving her, as he had said--and if, the third time, he had seemed to fail her, whom but herself could she accuse? . . . Well, that part of her life was over; she did not know why her thoughts still clung to it. But the sudden longing to see him remained; it grew to hunger as she paused on the pavement opposite his door. The street was dark and empty, swept by the rain. She had a vision of his quiet room, of the bookshelves, and the fire on the hearth. She looked up and saw a light in his window; then she crossed the street and entered the house. The library looked as she had pictured it. The green-shaded lamps made tranquil circles of light in the gathering dusk, a little fire flickered on the hearth, and Selden's easy-chair, which stood near it, had been pushed aside when he rose to admit her. He had checked his first movement of surprise, and stood silent, waiting for her to speak, while she paused a moment on the threshold, assailed by a rush of memories. The scene was unchanged. She recognized the row of shelves from which he had taken down his La Bruyere, and the worn arm of the chair he had leaned against while she examined the precious volume. But then the wide September light had filled the room, making it seem a part of the outer world: now the shaded lamps and the warm hearth, detaching it from the gathering darkness of the street, gave it a sweeter touch of intimacy. Becoming gradually aware of the surprise under Selden's silence, Lily turned to him and said simply: "I came to tell you that I was sorry for the way we parted--for what I said to you that day at Mrs. Hatch's." The words rose to her lips spontaneously. Even on her way up the stairs, she had not thought of preparing a pretext for her visit, but she now felt an intense longing to dispel the cloud of misunderstanding that hung between them. Selden returned her look with a smile. "I was sorry too that we should have parted in that way; but I am not sure I didn't bring it on myself. Luckily I had foreseen the risk I was taking----" "So that you really didn't care----?" broke from her with a flash of her old irony. "So that I was prepared for the consequences," he corrected good-humouredly. "But we'll talk of all this later. Do come and sit by the fire. I can recommend that arm-chair, if you'll let me put a cushion behind you." While he spoke she had moved slowly to the middle of the room, and paused near his writing-table, where the lamp, striking upward, cast exaggerated shadows on the pallour of her delicately-hollowed face. "You look tired--do sit down," he repeated gently. She did not seem to hear the request. "I wanted you to know that I left Mrs. Hatch immediately after I saw you," she said, as though continuing her confession. "Yes--yes; I know," he assented, with a rising tinge of embarrassment. "And that I did so because you told me to. Before you came I had already begun to see that it would be impossible to remain with her--for the reasons you gave me; but I wouldn't admit it--I wouldn't let you see that I understood what you meant." "Ah, I might have trusted you to find your own way out--don't overwhelm me with the sense of my officiousness!" His light tone, in which, had her nerves been steadier, she would have recognized the mere effort to bridge over an awkward moment, jarred on her passionate desire to be understood. In her strange state of extra-lucidity, which gave her the sense of being already at the heart of the situation, it seemed incredible that any one should think it necessary to linger in the conventional outskirts of word-play and evasion. "It was not that--I was not ungrateful," she insisted. But the power of expression failed her suddenly; she felt a tremor in her throat, and two tears gathered and fell slowly from her eyes. Selden moved forward and took her hand. "You are very tired. Why won't you sit down and let me make you comfortable?" He drew her to the arm-chair near the fire, and placed a cushion behind her shoulders. "And now you must let me make you some tea: you know I always have that amount of hospitality at my command." She shook her head, and two more tears ran over. But she did not weep easily, and the long habit of self-control reasserted itself, though she was still too tremulous to speak. "You know I can coax the water to boil in five minutes," Selden continued, speaking as though she were a troubled child. His words recalled the vision of that other afternoon when they had sat together over his tea-table and talked jestingly of her future. There were moments when that day seemed more remote than any other event in her life; and yet she could always relive it in its minutest detail. She made a gesture of refusal. "No: I drink too much tea. I would rather sit quiet--I must go in a moment," she added confusedly. Selden continued to stand near her, leaning against the mantelpiece. The tinge of constraint was beginning to be more distinctly perceptible under the friendly ease of his manner. Her self-absorption had not allowed her to perceive it at first; but now that her consciousness was once more putting forth its eager feelers, she saw that her presence was becoming an embarrassment to him. Such a situation can be saved only by an immediate outrush of feeling; and on Selden's side the determining impulse was still lacking. The discovery did not disturb Lily as it might once have done. She had passed beyond the phase of well-bred reciprocity, in which every demonstration must be scrupulously proportioned to the emotion it elicits, and generosity of feeling is the only ostentation condemned. But the sense of loneliness returned with redoubled force as she saw herself forever shut out from Selden's inmost self. She had come to him with no definite purpose; the mere longing to see him had directed her; but the secret hope she had carried with her suddenly revealed itself in its death-pang. "I must go," she repeated, making a motion to rise from her chair. "But I may not see you again for a long time, and I wanted to tell you that I have never forgotten the things you said to me at Bellomont, and that sometimes--sometimes when I seemed farthest from remembering them--they have helped me, and kept me from mistakes; kept me from really becoming what many people have thought me." Strive as she would to put some order in her thoughts, the words would not come more clearly; yet she felt that she could not leave him without trying to make him understand that she had saved herself whole from the seeming ruin of her life. A change had come over Selden's face as she spoke. Its guarded look had yielded to an expression still untinged by personal emotion, but full of a gentle understanding. "I am glad to have you tell me that; but nothing I have said has really made the difference. The difference is in yourself--it will always be there. And since it IS there, it can't really matter to you what people think: you are so sure that your friends will always understand you." "Ah, don't say that--don't say that what you have told me has made no difference. It seems to shut me out--to leave me all alone with the other people." She had risen and stood before him, once more completely mastered by the inner urgency of the moment. The consciousness of his half-divined reluctance had vanished. Whether he wished it or not, he must see her wholly for once before they parted. Her voice had gathered strength, and she looked him gravely in the eyes as she continued. "Once--twice--you gave me the chance to escape from my life, and I refused it: refused it because I was a coward. Afterward I saw my mistake--I saw I could never be happy with what had contented me before. But it was too late: you had judged me--I understood. It was too late for happiness--but not too late to be helped by the thought of what I had missed. That is all I have lived on--don't take it from me now! Even in my worst moments it has been like a little light in the darkness. Some women are strong enough to be good by themselves, but I needed the help of your belief in me. Perhaps I might have resisted a great temptation, but the little ones would have pulled me down. And then I remembered--I remembered your saying that such a life could never satisfy me; and I was ashamed to admit to myself that it could. That is what you did for me--that is what I wanted to thank you for. I wanted to tell you that I have always remembered; and that I have tried--tried hard . . ." She broke off suddenly. Her tears had risen again, and in drawing out her handkerchief her fingers touched the packet in the folds of her dress. A wave of colour suffused her, and the words died on her lips. Then she lifted her eyes to his and went on in an altered voice. "I have tried hard--but life is difficult, and I am a very useless person. I can hardly be said to have an independent existence. I was just a screw or a cog in the great machine I called life, and when I dropped out of it I found I was of no use anywhere else. What can one do when one finds that one only fits into one hole? One must get back to it or be thrown out into the rubbish heap--and you don't know what it's like in the rubbish heap!" Her lips wavered into a smile--she had been distracted by the whimsical remembrance of the confidences she had made to him, two years earlier, in that very room. Then she had been planning to marry Percy Gryce--what was it she was planning now? The blood had risen strongly under Selden's dark skin, but his emotion showed itself only in an added seriousness of manner. "You have something to tell me--do you mean to marry?" he said abruptly. Lily's eyes did not falter, but a look of wonder, of puzzled self-interrogation, formed itself slowly in their depths. In the light of his question, she had paused to ask herself if her decision had really been taken when she entered the room. "You always told me I should have to come to it sooner or later!" she said with a faint smile. "And you have come to it now?" "I shall have to come to it--presently. But there is something else I must come to first." She paused again, trying to transmit to her voice the steadiness of her recovered smile. "There is some one I must say goodbye to. Oh, not YOU--we are sure to see each other again--but the Lily Bart you knew. I have kept her with me all this time, but now we are going to part, and I have brought her back to you--I am going to leave her here. When I go out presently she will not go with me. I shall like to think that she has stayed with you--and she'll be no trouble, she'll take up no room." She went toward him, and put out her hand, still smiling. "Will you let her stay with you?" she asked. He caught her hand, and she felt in his the vibration of feeling that had not yet risen to his lips. "Lily--can't I help you?" he exclaimed. She looked at him gently. "Do you remember what you said to me once? That you could help me only by loving me? Well--you did love me for a moment; and it helped me. It has always helped me. But the moment is gone--it was I who let it go. And one must go on living. Goodbye." She laid her other hand on his, and they looked at each other with a kind of solemnity, as though they stood in the presence of death. Something in truth lay dead between them--the love she had killed in him and could no longer call to life. But something lived between them also, and leaped up in her like an imperishable flame: it was the love his love had kindled, the passion of her soul for his. In its light everything else dwindled and fell away from her. She understood now that she could not go forth and leave her old self with him: that self must indeed live on in his presence, but it must still continue to be hers. Selden had retained her hand, and continued to scrutinize her with a strange sense of foreboding. The external aspect of the situation had vanished for him as completely as for her: he felt it only as one of those rare moments which lift the veil from their faces as they pass. "Lily," he said in a low voice, "you mustn't speak in this way. I can't let you go without knowing what you mean to do. Things may change--but they don't pass. You can never go out of my life." She met his eyes with an illumined look. "No," she said. "I see that now. Let us always be friends. Then I shall feel safe, whatever happens." "Whatever happens? What do you mean? What is going to happen?" She turned away quietly and walked toward the hearth. "Nothing at present--except that I am very cold, and that before I go you must make up the fire for me." She knelt on the hearth-rug, stretching her hands to the embers. Puzzled by the sudden change in her tone, he mechanically gathered a handful of wood from the basket and tossed it on the fire. As he did so, he noticed how thin her hands looked against the rising light of the flames. He saw too, under the loose lines of her dress, how the curves of her figure had shrunk to angularity; he remembered long afterward how the red play of the flame sharpened the depression of her nostrils, and intensified the blackness of the shadows which struck up from her cheekbones to her eyes. She knelt there for a few moments in silence; a silence which he dared not break. When she rose he fancied that he saw her draw something from her dress and drop it into the fire; but he hardly noticed the gesture at the time. His faculties seemed tranced, and he was still groping for the word to break the spell. She went up to him and laid her hands on his shoulders. "Goodbye," she said, and as he bent over her she touched his forehead with her lips. The street-lamps were lit, but the rain had ceased, and there was a momentary revival of light in the upper sky. Lily walked on unconscious of her surroundings. She was still treading the buoyant ether which emanates from the high moments of life. But gradually it shrank away from her and she felt the dull pavement beneath her feet. The sense of weariness returned with accumulated force, and for a moment she felt that she could walk no farther. She had reached the corner of Forty-first Street and Fifth Avenue, and she remembered that in Bryant Park there were seats where she might rest. Oh, please don't translate this exercise. "You precious--don't you be in too much of a hurry! Was it mad with mommer for getting its supper so late? Marry Anto'nette--that's what we call her: after the French queen in that play at the Garden--I told George the actress reminded me of you, and that made me fancy the name . . . I never thought I'd get married, you know, and I'd never have had the heart to go on working just for myself." She broke off again, and meeting the encouragement in Lily's eyes, went on, with a flush rising under her anaemic skin: "You see I wasn't only just SICK that time you sent me off--I was dreadfully unhappy too. I'd known a gentleman where I was employed--I don't know as you remember I did type-writing in a big importing firm--and--well--I thought we were to be married: he'd gone steady with me six months and given me his mother's wedding ring. But I presume he was too stylish for me--he travelled for the firm, and had seen a great deal of society. Work girls aren't looked after the way you are, and they don't always know how to look after themselves. I didn't . . . and it pretty near killed me when he went away and left off writing . . . "It was then I came down sick--I thought it was the end of everything. I guess it would have been if you hadn't sent me off. But when I found I was getting well I began to take heart in spite of myself. And then, when I got back home, George came round and asked me to marry him. At first I thought I couldn't, because we'd been brought up together, and I knew he knew about me. But after a while I began to see that that made it easier. I never could have told another man, and I'd never have married without telling; but if George cared for me enough to have me as I was, I didn't see why I shouldn't begin over again--and I did." The strength of the victory shone forth from her as she lifted her irradiated face from the child on her knees. "But, mercy, I didn't mean to go on like this about myself, with you sitting there looking so fagged out. Only it's so lovely having you here, and letting you see just how you've helped me." The baby had sunk back blissfully replete, and Mrs. Struther softly rose to lay the bottle aside. Then she paused before Miss Bart. "I only wish I could help YOU--but I suppose there's nothing on earth I could do," she murmured wistfully. Lily, instead of answering, rose with a smile and held out her arms; and the mother, understanding the gesture, laid her child in them. The baby, feeling herself detached from her habitual anchorage, made an instinctive motion of resistance; but the soothing influences of digestion prevailed, and Lily felt the soft weight sink trustfully against her breast. The child's confidence in its safety thrilled her with a sense of warmth and returning life, and she bent over, wondering at the rosy blur of the little face, the empty clearness of the eyes, the vague tendrilly motions of the folding and unfolding fingers. At first the burden in her arms seemed as light as a pink cloud or a heap of down, but as she continued to hold it the weight increased, sinking deeper, and penetrating her with a strange sense of weakness, as though the child entered into her and became a part of herself. She looked up, and saw Nettie's eyes resting on her with tenderness and exultation. "Wouldn't it be too lovely for anything if she could grow up to be just like you? Of course I know she never COULD--but mothers are always dreaming the craziest things for their children." Lily clasped the child close for a moment and laid her back in her mother's arms. "Oh, she must not do that--I should be afraid to come and see her too often!" she said with a smile; and then, resisting Mrs. Struther's anxious offer of companionship, and reiterating the promise that of course she would come back soon, and make George's acquaintance, and see the baby in her bath, she passed out of the kitchen and went alone down the tenement stairs. As she reached the street she realized that she felt stronger and happier: the little episode had done her good. It was the first time she had ever come across the results of her spasmodic benevolence, and the surprised sense of human fellowship took the mortal chill from her heart. It was not till she entered her own door that she felt the reaction of a deeper loneliness. It was long after seven o'clock, and the light and odours proceeding from the basement made it manifest that the boarding-house dinner had begun. She hastened up to her room, lit the gas, and began to dress. She did not mean to pamper herself any longer, to go without food because her surroundings made it unpalatable. Since it was her fate to live in a boarding-house, she must learn to fall in with the conditions of the life. Nevertheless she was glad that, when she descended to the heat and glare of the dining-room, the repast was nearly over. In her own room again, she was seized with a sudden fever of activity. For weeks past she had been too listless and indifferent to set her possessions in order, but now she began to examine systematically the contents of her drawers and cupboard. She had a few handsome dresses left--survivals of her last phase of splendour, on the Sabrina and in London--but when she had been obliged to part with her maid she had given the woman a generous share of her cast-off apparel. The remaining dresses, though they had lost their freshness, still kept the long unerring lines, the sweep and amplitude of the great artist's stroke, and as she spread them out on the bed the scenes in which they had been worn rose vividly before her. An association lurked in every fold: each fall of lace and gleam of embroidery was like a letter in the record of her past. She was startled to find how the atmosphere of her old life enveloped her. But, after all, it was the life she had been made for: every dawning tendency in her had been carefully directed toward it, all her interests and activities had been taught to centre around it. She was like some rare flower grown for exhibition, a flower from which every bud had been nipped except the crowning blossom of her beauty. Last of all, she drew forth from the bottom of her trunk a heap of white drapery which fell shapelessly across her arm. It was the Reynolds dress she had worn in the Bry TABLEAUX. It had been impossible for her to give it away, but she had never seen it since that night, and the long flexible folds, as she shook them out, gave forth an odour of violets which came to her like a breath from the flower-edged fountain where she had stood with Lawrence Selden and disowned her fate. She put back the dresses one by one, laying away with each some gleam of light, some note of laughter, some stray waft from the rosy shores of pleasure. She was still in a state of highly-wrought impressionability, and every hint of the past sent a lingering tremor along her nerves. She had just closed her trunk on the white folds of the Reynolds dress when she heard a tap at her door, and the red fist of the Irish maid-servant thrust in a belated letter. Carrying it to the light, Lily read with surprise the address stamped on the upper corner of the envelope. It was a business communication from the office of her aunt's executors, and she wondered what unexpected development had caused them to break silence before the appointed time. She opened the envelope and a cheque fluttered to the floor. As she stooped to pick it up the blood rushed to her face. The cheque represented the full amount of Mrs. Peniston's legacy, and the letter accompanying it explained that the executors, having adjusted the business of the estate with less delay than they had expected, had decided to anticipate the date fixed for the payment of the bequests. Lily sat down beside the desk at the foot of her bed, and spreading out the cheque, read over and over the TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS written across it in a steely business hand. Ten months earlier the amount it stood for had represented the depths of penury; but her standard of values had changed in the interval, and now visions of wealth lurked in every flourish of the pen. As she continued to gaze at it, she felt the glitter of the visions mounting to her brain, and after a while she lifted the lid of the desk and slipped the magic formula out of sight. It was easier to think without those five figures dancing before her eyes; and she had a great deal of thinking to do before she slept. She opened her cheque-book, and plunged into such anxious calculations as had prolonged her vigil at Bellomont on the night when she had decided to marry Percy Gryce. Poverty simplifies book-keeping, and her financial situation was easier to ascertain than it had been then; but she had not yet learned the control of money, and during her transient phase of luxury at the Emporium she had slipped back into habits of extravagance which still impaired her slender balance. A careful examination of her cheque-book, and of the unpaid bills in her desk, showed that, when the latter had been settled, she would have barely enough to live on for the next three or four months; and even after that, if she were to continue her present way of living, without earning any additional money, all incidental expenses must be reduced to the vanishing point. She hid her eyes with a shudder, beholding herself at the entrance of that ever-narrowing perspective down which she had seen Miss Silverton's dowdy figure take its despondent way. It was no longer, however, from the vision of material poverty that she turned with the greatest shrinking. She had a sense of deeper empoverishment--of an inner destitution compared to which outward conditions dwindled into insignificance. It was indeed miserable to be poor--to look forward to a shabby, anxious middle-age, leading by dreary degrees of economy and self-denial to gradual absorption in the dingy communal existence of the boarding-house. But there was something more miserable still--it was the clutch of solitude at her heart, the sense of being swept like a stray uprooted growth down the heedless current of the years. That was the feeling which possessed her now--the feeling of being something rootless and ephemeral, mere spin-drift of the whirling surface of existence, without anything to which the poor little tentacles of self could cling before the awful flood submerged them. And as she looked back she saw that there had never been a time when she had had any real relation to life. Her parents too had been rootless, blown hither and thither on every wind of fashion, without any personal existence to shelter them from its shifting gusts. She herself had grown up without any one spot of earth being dearer to her than another: there was no centre of early pieties, of grave endearing traditions, to which her heart could revert and from which it could draw strength for itself and tenderness for others. In whatever form a slowly-accumulated past lives in the blood--whether in the concrete image of the old house stored with visual memories, or in the conception of the house not built with hands, but made up of inherited passions and loyalties--it has the same power of broadening and deepening the individual existence, of attaching it by mysterious links of kinship to all the mighty sum of human striving. Such a vision of the solidarity of life had never before come to Lily. She had had a premonition of it in the blind motions of her mating-instinct; but they had been checked by the disintegrating influences of the life about her. All the men and women she knew were like atoms whirling away from each other in some wild centrifugal dance: her first glimpse of the continuity of life had come to her that evening in Nettie Struther's kitchen. The poor little working-girl who had found strength to gather up the fragments of her life, and build herself a shelter with them, seemed to Lily to have reached the central truth of existence. It was a meagre enough life, on the grim edge of poverty, with scant margin for possibilities of sickness or mischance, but it had the frail audacious permanence of a bird's nest built on the edge of a cliff--a mere wisp of leaves and straw, yet so put together that the lives entrusted to it may hang safely over the abyss. Yes--but it had taken two to build the nest; the man's faith as well as the woman's courage. Lily remembered Nettie's words: I KNEW HE KNEW ABOUT ME. Her husband's faith in her had made her renewal possible--it is so easy for a woman to become what the man she loves believes her to be! Well--Selden had twice been ready to stake his faith on Lily Bart; but the third trial had been too severe for his endurance. The very quality of his love had made it the more impossible to recall to life. If it had been a simple instinct of the blood, the power of her beauty might have revived it. But the fact that it struck deeper, that it was inextricably wound up with inherited habits of thought and feeling, made it as impossible to restore to growth as a deep-rooted plant torn from its bed. Selden had given her of his best; but he was as incapable as herself of an uncritical return to former states of feeling. There remained to her, as she had told him, the uplifting memory of his faith in her; but she had not reached the age when a woman can live on her memories. As she held Nettie Struther's child in her arms the frozen currents of youth had loosed themselves and run warm in her veins: the old life-hunger possessed her, and all her being clamoured for its share of personal happiness. Yes--it was happiness she still wanted, and the glimpse she had caught of it made everything else of no account. One by one she had detached herself from the baser possibilities, and she saw that nothing now remained to her but the emptiness of renunciation. It was growing late, and an immense weariness once more possessed her. It was not the stealing sense of sleep, but a vivid wakeful fatigue, a wan lucidity of mind against which all the possibilities of the future were shadowed forth gigantically. She was appalled by the intense cleanness of the vision; she seemed to have broken through the merciful veil which intervenes between intention and action, and to see exactly what she would do in all the long days to come. There was the cheque in her desk, for instance--she meant to use it in paying her debt to Trenor; but she foresaw that when the morning came she would put off doing so, would slip into gradual tolerance of the debt. The thought terrified her--she dreaded to fall from the height of her last moment with Lawrence Selden. But how could she trust herself to keep her footing? She knew the strength of the opposing impulses-she could feel the countless hands of habit dragging her back into some fresh compromise with fate. She felt an intense longing to prolong, to perpetuate, the momentary exaltation of her spirit. If only life could end now--end on this tragic yet sweet vision of lost possibilities, which gave her a sense of kinship with all the loving and foregoing in the world! She reached out suddenly and, drawing the cheque from her writing-desk, enclosed it in an envelope which she addressed to her bank. She then wrote out a cheque for Trenor, and placing it, without an accompanying word, in an envelope inscribed with his name, laid the two letters side by side on her desk. After that she continued to sit at the table, sorting her papers and writing, till the intense silence of the house reminded her of the lateness of the hour. In the street the noise of wheels had ceased, and the rumble of the "elevated" came only at long intervals through the deep unnatural hush. In the mysterious nocturnal separation from all outward signs of life, she felt herself more strangely confronted with her fate. The sensation made her brain reel, and she tried to shut out consciousness by pressing her hands against her eyes. But the terrible silence and emptiness seemed to symbolize her future--she felt as though the house, the street, the world were all empty, and she alone left sentient in a lifeless universe. But this was the verge of delirium . . . she had never hung so near the dizzy brink of the unreal. Sleep was what she wanted--she remembered that she had not closed her eyes for two nights. The little bottle was at her bed-side, waiting to lay its spell upon her. She rose and undressed hastily, hungering now for the touch of her pillow. She felt so profoundly tired that she thought she must fall asleep at once; but as soon as she had lain down every nerve started once more into separate wakefulness. It was as though a great blaze of electric light had been turned on in her head, and her poor little anguished self shrank and cowered in it, without knowing where to take refuge. She had not imagined that such a multiplication of wakefulness was possible: her whole past was reenacting itself at a hundred different points of consciousness. Where was the drug that could still this legion of insurgent nerves? The sense of exhaustion would have been sweet compared to this shrill beat of activities; but weariness had dropped from her as though some cruel stimulant had been forced into her veins. She could bear it--yes, she could bear it; but what strength would be left her the next day? Perspective had disappeared--the next day pressed close upon her, and on its heels came the days that were to follow--they swarmed about her like a shrieking mob. She must shut them out for a few hours; she must take a brief bath of oblivion. She put out her hand, and measured the soothing drops into a glass; but as she did so, she knew they would be powerless against the supernatural lucidity of her brain. She had long since raised the dose to its highest limit, but tonight she felt she must increase it. She knew she took a slight risk in doing so--she remembered the chemist's warning. If sleep came at all, it might be a sleep without waking. But after all that was but one chance in a hundred: the action of the drug was incalculable, and the addition of a few drops to the regular dose would probably do no more than procure for her the rest she so desperately needed.... She did not, in truth, consider the question very closely--the physical craving for sleep was her only sustained sensation. Her mind shrank from the glare of thought as instinctively as eyes contract in a blaze of light--darkness, darkness was what she must have at any cost. She raised herself in bed and swallowed the contents of the glass; then she blew out her candle and lay down. She lay very still, waiting with a sensuous pleasure for the first effects of the soporific. She knew in advance what form they would take--the gradual cessation of the inner throb, the soft approach of passiveness, as though an invisible hand made magic passes over her in the darkness. The very slowness and hesitancy of the effect increased its fascination: it was delicious to lean over and look down into the dim abysses of unconsciousness. Tonight the drug seemed to work more slowly than usual: each passionate pulse had to be stilled in turn, and it was long before she felt them dropping into abeyance, like sentinels falling asleep at their posts. But gradually the sense of complete subjugation came over her, and she wondered languidly what had made her feel so uneasy and excited. She saw now that there was nothing to be excited about--she had returned to her normal view of life. Tomorrow would not be so difficult after all: she felt sure that she would have the strength to meet it. She did not quite remember what it was that she had been afraid to meet, but the uncertainty no longer troubled her. She had been unhappy, and now she was happy--she had felt herself alone, and now the sense of loneliness had vanished. She stirred once, and turned on her side, and as she did so, she suddenly understood why she did not feel herself alone. It was odd--but Nettie Struther's child was lying on her arm: she felt the pressure of its little head against her shoulder. She did not know how it had come there, but she felt no great surprise at the fact, only a gentle penetrating thrill of warmth and pleasure. She settled herself into an easier position, hollowing her arm to pillow the round downy head, and holding her breath lest a sound should disturb the sleeping child. As she lay there she said to herself that there was something she must tell Selden, some word she had found that should make life clear between them. She tried to repeat the word, which lingered vague and luminous on the far edge of thought--she was afraid of not remembering it when she woke; and if she could only remember it and say it to him, she felt that everything would be well. Slowly the thought of the word faded, and sleep began to enfold her. She struggled faintly against it, feeling that she ought to keep awake on account of the baby; but even this feeling was gradually lost in an indistinct sense of drowsy peace, through which, of a sudden, a dark flash of loneliness and terror tore its way. She started up again, cold and trembling with the shock: for a moment she seemed to have lost her hold of the child. But no--she was mistaken--the tender pressure of its body was still close to hers: the recovered warmth flowed through her once more, she yielded to it, sank into it, and slept. The next morning rose mild and bright, with a promise of summer in the air. The sunlight slanted joyously down Lily's street, mellowed the blistered house-front, gilded the paintless railings of the door-step, and struck prismatic glories from the panes of her darkened window. When such a day coincides with the inner mood there is intoxication in its breath; and Selden, hastening along the street through the squalor of its morning confidences, felt himself thrilling with a youthful sense of adventure. He had cut loose from the familiar shores of habit, and launched himself on uncharted seas of emotion; all the old tests and measures were left behind, and his course was to be shaped by new stars. That course, for the moment, led merely to Miss Bart's boarding-house; but its shabby door-step had suddenly become the threshold of the untried. As he approached he looked up at the triple row of windows, wondering boyishly which one of them was hers. It was nine o'clock, and the house, being tenanted by workers, already showed an awakened front to the street. He remembered afterward having noticed that only one blind was down. He noticed too that there was a pot of pansies on one of the window sills, and at once concluded that the window must be hers: it was inevitable that he should connect her with the one touch of beauty in the dingy scene. Nine o'clock was an early hour for a visit, but Selden had passed beyond all such conventional observances. He only knew that he must see Lily Bart at once--he had found the word he meant to say to her, and it could not wait another moment to be said. It was strange that it had not come to his lips sooner--that he had let her pass from him the evening before without being able to speak it. But what did that matter, now that a new day had come? It was not a word for twilight, but for the morning. Selden ran eagerly up the steps and pulled the bell; and even in his state of self-absorption it came as a sharp surprise to him that the door should open so promptly. It was still more of a surprise to see, as he entered, that it had been opened by Gerty Farish--and that behind her, in an agitated blur, several other figures ominously loomed. "Lawrence!" Gerty cried in a strange voice, "how could you get here so quickly?"--and the trembling hand she laid on him seemed instantly to close about his heart. He noticed the other faces, vague with fear and conjecture--he saw the landlady's imposing bulk sway professionally toward him; but he shrank back, putting up his hand, while his eyes mechanically mounted the steep black walnut stairs, up which he was immediately aware that his cousin was about to lead him. A voice in the background said that the doctor might be back at any minute--and that nothing, upstairs, was to be disturbed. Some one else exclaimed: "It was the greatest mercy--" then Selden felt that Gerty had taken him gently by the hand, and that they were to be suffered to go up alone. In silence they mounted the three flights, and walked along the passage to a closed door. Gerty opened the door, and Selden went in after her. Though the blind was down, the irresistible sunlight poured a tempered golden flood into the room, and in its light Selden saw a narrow bed along the wall, and on the bed, with motionless hands and calm unrecognizing face, the semblance of Lily Bart. That it was her real self, every pulse in him ardently denied. Her real self had lain warm on his heart but a few hours earlier--what had he to do with this estranged and tranquil face which, for the first time, neither paled nor brightened at his coming? Gerty, strangely tranquil too, with the conscious self-control of one who has ministered to much pain, stood by the bed, speaking gently, as if transmitting a final message. "The doctor found a bottle of chloral--she had been sleeping badly for a long time, and she must have taken an overdose by mistake.... There is no doubt of that--no doubt--there will be no question--he has been very kind. I told him that you and I would like to be left alone with her--to go over her things before any one else comes. I know it is what she would have wished." Selden was hardly conscious of what she said. He stood looking down on the sleeping face which seemed to lie like a delicate impalpable mask over the living lineaments he had known. He felt that the real Lily was still there, close to him, yet invisible and inaccessible; and the tenuity of the barrier between them mocked him with a sense of helplessness. There had never been more than a little impalpable barrier between them--and yet he had suffered it to keep them apart! And now, though it seemed slighter and frailer than ever, it had suddenly hardened to adamant, and he might beat his life out against it in vain. He had dropped on his knees beside the bed, but a touch from Gerty aroused him. He stood up, and as their eyes met he was struck by the extraordinary light in his cousin's face. "You understand what the doctor has gone for? He has promised that there shall be no trouble--but of course the formalities must be gone through. And I asked him to give us time to look through her things first----" He nodded, and she glanced about the small bare room. "It won't take long," she concluded. "No--it won't take long," he agreed. She held his hand in hers a moment longer, and then, with a last look at the bed, moved silently toward the door. On the threshold she paused to add: "You will find me downstairs if you want me." Selden roused himself to detain her. "But why are you going? She would have wished----" Gerty shook her head with a smile. "No: this is what she would have wished----" and as she spoke a light broke through Selden's stony misery, and he saw deep into the hidden things of love. The door closed on Gerty, and he stood alone with the motionless sleeper on the bed. His impulse was to return to her side, to fall on his knees, and rest his throbbing head against the peaceful cheek on the pillow. They had never been at peace together, they two; and now he felt himself drawn downward into the strange mysterious depths of her tranquillity. But he remembered Gerty's warning words--he knew that, though time had ceased in this room, its feet were hastening relentlessly toward the door. Gerty had given him this supreme half-hour, and he must use it as she willed. He turned and looked about him, sternly compelling himself to regain his consciousness of outward things. There was very little furniture in the room. The shabby chest of drawers was spread with a lace cover, and set out with a few gold-topped boxes and bottles, a rose-coloured pin-cushion, a glass tray strewn with tortoise-shell hair-pins--he shrank from the poignant intimacy of these trifles, and from the blank surface of the toilet-mirror above them. These were the only traces of luxury, of that clinging to the minute observance of personal seemliness, which showed what her other renunciations must have cost. There was no other token of her personality about the room, unless it showed itself in the scrupulous neatness of the scant articles of furniture: a washing-stand, two chairs, a small writing-desk, and the little table near the bed. On this table stood the empty bottle and glass, and from these also he averted his eyes. The desk was closed, but on its slanting lid lay two letters which he took up. One bore the address of a bank, and as it was stamped and sealed, Selden, after a moment's hesitation, laid it aside. On the other letter he read Gus Trenor's name; and the flap of the envelope was still ungummed. Temptation leapt on him like the stab of a knife. He staggered under it, steadying himself against the desk. Why had she been writing to Trenor--writing, presumably, just after their parting of the previous evening? The thought unhallowed the memory of that last hour, made a mock of the word he had come to speak, and defiled even the reconciling silence upon which it fell. He felt himself flung back on all the ugly uncertainties from which he thought he had cast loose forever. After all, what did he know of her life? Only as much as she had chosen to show him, and measured by the world's estimate, how little that was! By what right--the letter in his hand seemed to ask--by what right was it he who now passed into her confidence through the gate which death had left unbarred? His heart cried out that it was by right of their last hour together, the hour when she herself had placed the key in his hand. Yes--but what if the letter to Trenor had been written afterward? He put it from him with sudden loathing, and setting his lips, addressed himself resolutely to what remained of his task. After all, that task would be easier to perform, now that his personal stake in it was annulled. He raised the lid of the desk, and saw within it a cheque-book and a few packets of bills and letters, arranged with the orderly precision which characterized all her personal habits. He looked through the letters first, because it was the most difficult part of the work. They proved to be few and unimportant, but among them he found, with a strange commotion of the heart, the note he had written her the day after the Brys' entertainment. "When may I come to you?"--his words overwhelmed him with a realization of the cowardice which had driven him from her at the very moment of attainment. Yes--he had always feared his fate, and he was too honest to disown his cowardice now; for had not all his old doubts started to life again at the mere sight of Trenor's name? He laid the note in his card-case, folding it away carefully, as something made precious by the fact that she had held it so; then, growing once more aware of the lapse of time, he continued his examination of the papers. To his surprise, he found that all the bills were receipted; there was not an unpaid account among them. He opened the cheque-book, and saw that, the very night before, a cheque of ten thousand dollars from Mrs. Peniston's executors had been entered in it. The legacy, then, had been paid sooner than Gerty had led him to expect. But, turning another page or two, he discovered with astonishment that, in spite of this recent accession of funds, the balance had already declined to a few dollars. A rapid glance at the stubs of the last cheques, all of which bore the date of the previous day, showed that between four or five hundred dollars of the legacy had been spent in the settlement of bills, while the remaining thousands were comprehended in one cheque, made out, at the same time, to Charles Augustus Trenor. Selden laid the book aside, and sank into the chair beside the desk. He leaned his elbows on it, and hid his face in his hands. The bitter waters of life surged high about him, their sterile taste was on his lips. Did the cheque to Trenor explain the mystery or deepen it? At first his mind refused to act--he felt only the taint of such a transaction between a man like Trenor and a girl like Lily Bart. Then, gradually, his troubled vision cleared, old hints and rumours came back to him, and out of the very insinuations he had feared to probe, he constructed an explanation of the mystery. It was true, then, that she had taken money from Trenor; but true also, as the contents of the little desk declared, that the obligation had been intolerable to her, and that at the first opportunity she had freed herself from it, though the act left her face to face with bare unmitigated poverty. That was all he knew--all he could hope to unravel of the story. The mute lips on the pillow refused him more than this--unless indeed they had told him the rest in the kiss they had left upon his forehead. Yes, he could now read into that farewell all that his heart craved to find there; he could even draw from it courage not to accuse himself for having failed to reach the height of his opportunity. He saw that all the conditions of life had conspired to keep them apart; since his very detachment from the external influences which swayed her had increased his spiritual fastidiousness, and made it more difficult for him to live and love uncritically. But at least he HAD loved her--had been willing to stake his future on his faith in her--and if the moment had been fated to pass from them before they could seize it, he saw now that, for both, it had been saved whole out of the ruin of their lives. Es war dieser Moment der Liebe, dieser flüchtige Sieg über sich selbst, der sie vor Atrophie und Auslöschung bewahrt hatte; der bei ihr in jedem Kampf gegen den Einfluss ihrer Umgebung zu ihm hinüberreichte und bei ihm den Glauben am Leben hielt, der ihn nun reuig und versöhnt an ihre Seite führte. Er kniete neben dem Bett und beugte sich über sie, und in der Stille wurde zwischen ihnen das Wort ausgetauscht, das alles klar machte. ENDE Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Buch II, Kapitel 11: Lily steht auf der Fifth Avenue und beobachtet die Kutschen, die mit den wohlhabenden Menschen an ihr vorbeifahren, mit denen sie früher Zeit verbrachte. Durch eine jährliche Mitarbeiterreduzierung hat sie ihren Job in der Hutwerkstatt verloren. Als sie zurück in ihrem Boardinghaus ankommt, trifft sie dort auf Rosedale. Er ist so erschüttert von ihrer Situation, dass er ihr anbietet, das Geld zu leihen, um Gus Trenor als reines Geschäftsgeschäft abzuzahlen. Lily lehnt sein Angebot erneut ab. In dieser Nacht versucht sie zu schlafen, liegt aber die ganze Nacht wach und kann nicht schlafen. Am nächsten Morgen geht sie nach draußen spazieren und trifft die Entscheidung, zu Mrs. Dorset zu gehen. Sie kehrt in ihr Zimmer zurück und nimmt das Paket mit den Briefen heraus. Als sie auf dem Weg zum Haus der Dorsets ist, kommt sie an Seldens Wohnung vorbei. In einem plötzlichen Moment der Inspiration betritt sie sein Haus.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star. Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow," she had thought. "I will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world. So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover. "Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matter with Cecil?" The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint. "No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right." "Perhaps he's tired." Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired. "Because otherwise"--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure--"because otherwise I cannot account for him." "I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that." "Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No--it is just the same thing everywhere." "Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?" "Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?" "Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makes him sometimes seem--" "Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet. "Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!" "Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same with Cecil all over." "By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London." This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs. Honeychurch resented it. "Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him. Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember." "I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he does not mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upset him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not uncivil to PEOPLE." "Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?" "You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do." "Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone's pleasure?" "We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song. She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time. "Go and dress, dear; you'll be late." "All right, mother--" "Don't say 'All right' and stop. Go." She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?" "Not that I know of." "Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie. "Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't." "Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?" "I tore the thing up." "Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?" "Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose." "Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with the meat." Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. "So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. "And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long." It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. "Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done." "Nonsense! It can." "If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise." "Minnie can sleep with you." "I won't have her." "Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy." "Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes. "It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make difficulties, but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up the house so." Alas! "The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte." "No, I don't. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven't seen her lately, and don't realize how tiresome she can be, though so good. So please, mother, don't worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come." "Hear, hear!" said Cecil. Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: "This isn't very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, and however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old." Cecil crumbled his bread. "I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike," put in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right." "I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return." But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: "I can't help it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's horrid of me." "From your own account, you told her as much." "Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried--" The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real. "I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well," said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking. "I didn't mean the egg was WELL boiled," corrected Freddy, "because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don't care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed." Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers, hydrangeas, maids--of such were their lives compact. "May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?" he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence. "We don't want no dessert." 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.

Lucy ist unzufrieden mit dem Verlauf ihrer Wiedervereinigung mit George. Sie hatte den Moment immer wieder in ihrem Kopf durchgespielt, aber wie sie feststellt, verlaufen diese Dinge selten so, wie wir sie planen. Während Lucy über dieses Dilemma nachdenkt, ist sie mit Mrs. Honeychurch und Cecil bei einem Besuch bei einer alten Freundin, Mrs. Butterworth. Cecil hasst solche Besuche und macht sich ziemlich schwierig. Als sie nach Windy Corner zurückkehren, offenbart Mrs. Honeychurch Lucy, dass sie nicht Cecils größter Fan ist - er ist immer unhöflich zu Leuten, die er nicht mag, und hindert die Honeychurches ständig daran, Spaß zu haben. Er mag es nicht einmal, wenn Freddy lustige Lieder singt, was für uns ziemlich unterhaltsam klingt. Was für ein Spielverderber. Lucy ist verwirrt über den Zusammenstoß von Cecils Welt und Honeychurchs Welt und das versetzt sie in eine schlechte Stimmung. Freddy nutzt unglücklicherweise diesen Moment, um auf sie zuzukommen und sie nach George zu fragen, den er sehr mag. Er möchte die Emersons am Sonntag zum Tennis einladen. Mrs. Honeychurch erwähnt Charlotte, die anscheinend Probleme mit ihrem Warmwasserboiler hat. Das ist das letzte, was Lucy hören möchte, und sie explodiert fast. Glücklicherweise bemerkt ihre Mutter das und beruhigt sie. Die emotionale Krise ist abgewendet und die Familie setzt sich zum Abendessen. Freddy bringt George erneut zur Sprache, aber Lucy lenkt alle ab, indem sie Miss Lavish erwähnt - es stellt sich heraus, dass Mrs. Honeychurch Schriftstellerinnen nicht mag. Aber das Gespräch über schreibende Frauen kann nicht ewig dauern und das Gespräch wendet sich schließlich wieder in die katastrophale Richtung. Mrs. Honeychurch schlägt etwas Schreckliches vor - sie plant, Charlotte zu bitten, zu kommen und zu bleiben, da sie Probleme mit der Installation ihres Hauses hat. Lucy und Cecil sind gegen diesen Plan, aber Freddy, der immer das Beste in den Menschen sieht, verteidigt Charlotte schwach. Wir erfahren, dass in der nächsten Woche viele Besucher kommen werden, was aufregend sein sollte... Die "Geister" von Lucys gequälten Erinnerungen sind überall - alles verändert sich für sie und selbst die Orte ihrer Kindheit werden von Bildern von George und Italien übernommen. Es wird beschlossen, dass Charlotte nächste Woche kommen wird. Cecil schließt das Kapitel abrupt ab, indem er unhöflich fragt, ob er und Lucy den Esstisch verlassen 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: <CHAPTER> 5. THE YOUNG GIRL. In her blue dress, with her cheeks lightly flushed, her blue, blue eyes, and her gold curls pinned up as though for the first time--pinned up to be out of the way for her flight--Mrs. Raddick's daughter might have just dropped from this radiant heaven. Mrs. Raddick's timid, faintly astonished, but deeply admiring glance looked as if she believed it, too; but the daughter didn't appear any too pleased--why should she?--to have alighted on the steps of the Casino. Indeed, she was bored--bored as though Heaven had been full of casinos with snuffy old saints for croupiers and crowns to play with. "You don't mind taking Hennie?" said Mrs. Raddick. "Sure you don't? There's the car, and you'll have tea and we'll be back here on this step--right here--in an hour. You see, I want her to go in. She's not been before, and it's worth seeing. I feel it wouldn't be fair to her." "Oh, shut up, mother," said she wearily. "Come along. Don't talk so much. And your bag's open; you'll be losing all your money again." "I'm sorry, darling," said Mrs. Raddick. "Oh, do come in! I want to make money," said the impatient voice. "It's all jolly well for you--but I'm broke!" "Here--take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!" I saw Mrs. Raddick pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors. Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a very broad, delighted smile. "I say," he cried, "there's an English bulldog. Are they allowed to take dogs in there?" "No, they're not." "He's a ripping chap, isn't he? I wish I had one. They're such fun. They frighten people so, and they're never fierce with their--the people they belong to." Suddenly he squeezed my arm. "I say, do look at that old woman. Who is she? Why does she look like that? Is she a gambler?" The ancient, withered creature, wearing a green satin dress, a black velvet cloak and a white hat with purple feathers, jerked slowly, slowly up the steps as though she were being drawn up on wires. She stared in front of her, she was laughing and nodding and cackling to herself; her claws clutched round what looked like a dirty boot-bag. But just at that moment there was Mrs. Raddick again with--her--and another lady hovering in the background. Mrs. Raddick rushed at me. She was brightly flushed, gay, a different creature. She was like a woman who is saying "good-bye" to her friends on the station platform, with not a minute to spare before the train starts. "Oh, you're here, still. Isn't that lucky! You've not gone. Isn't that fine! I've had the most dreadful time with--her," and she waved to her daughter, who stood absolutely still, disdainful, looking down, twiddling her foot on the step, miles away. "They won't let her in. I swore she was twenty-one. But they won't believe me. I showed the man my purse; I didn't dare to do more. But it was no use. He simply scoffed... And now I've just met Mrs. MacEwen from New York, and she just won thirteen thousand in the Salle Privee--and she wants me to go back with her while the luck lasts. Of course I can't leave--her. But if you'd--" At that "she" looked up; she simply withered her mother. "Why can't you leave me?" she said furiously. "What utter rot! How dare you make a scene like this? This is the last time I'll come out with you. You really are too awful for words." She looked her mother up and down. "Calm yourself," she said superbly. Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She was "wild" to go back with Mrs. MacEwen, but at the same time... I seized my courage. "Would you--do you care to come to tea with--us?" "Yes, yes, she'll be delighted. That's just what I wanted, isn't it, darling? Mrs. MacEwen... I'll be back here in an hour... or less... I'll--" Mrs. R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again. So we three were left. But really it wasn't my fault. Hennie looked crushed to the earth, too. When the car was there she wrapped her dark coat round her--to escape contamination. Even her little feet looked as though they scorned to carry her down the steps to us. "I am so awfully sorry," I murmured as the car started. "Oh, I don't mind," said she. "I don't want to look twenty-one. Who would--if they were seventeen! It's"--and she gave a faint shudder--"the stupidity I loathe, and being stared at by old fat men. Beasts!" Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window. We drew up before an immense palace of pink-and-white marble with orange-trees outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs. "Would you care to go in?" I suggested. She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. "Oh well, there seems nowhere else," said she. "Get out, Hennie." I went first--to find the table, of course--she followed. But the worst of it was having her little brother, who was only twelve, with us. That was the last, final straw--having that child, trailing at her heels. There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little blue tea-napkins for sails. "Shall we sit here?" She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. "We may as well. Why not?" said she. Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He felt awfully out of it. She didn't even take her gloves off. She lowered her eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she winced and bit her lip again. Silence. The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. "Tea--coffee? China tea--or iced tea with lemon?" Really she didn't mind. It was all the same to her. She didn't really want anything. Hennie whispered, "Chocolate!" But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, "Oh, you may as well bring me a chocolate, too." While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbed her lovely nose. "Hennie," she said, "take those flowers away." She pointed with her puff to the carnations, and I heard her murmur, "I can't bear flowers on a table." They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for she positively closed her eyes as I moved them away. The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the big, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a little gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her cup. She didn't notice it--didn't see it--until suddenly, quite by chance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. "Dreadfully sweet!" said she. A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came round with a tray of pastries--row upon row of little freaks, little inspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her. "Oh, I'm not at all hungry. Take them away." He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look--it must have been satisfactory--for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair, a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh strawberries. She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy swerved away she held up her plate. "Oh well, give me one," said she. The silver tongs dropped one, two, three--and a cherry tartlet. "I don't know why you're giving me all these," she said, and nearly smiled. "I shan't eat them; I couldn't!" I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened her eyes, and really did smile. "Of course," said she. "I always expect people to." But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table. Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away. "You utter little beast!" said she. Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, "Will you be abroad long?" But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was trying to remember something... She was miles away. "I--don't--know," she said slowly, from that far place. "I suppose you prefer it to London. It's more--more--" When I didn't go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. "More--?" "Enfin--gayer," I cried, waving my cigarette. But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, "Oh well, that depends!" was all she could safely say. Hennie had finished. He was still very warm. I seized the butterfly list off the table. "I say--what about an ice, Hennie? What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler. What about a fresh pineapple cream?" Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was taken when she looked up from her crumbs. "Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like ginger. You can bring me one." And then quickly, "I wish that orchestra wouldn't play things from the year One. We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It's too sickening!" But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed it, it warmed me. "I think this is rather a nice place, don't you, Hennie?" I said. Hennie said: "Ripping!" He meant to say it very low, but it came out very high in a kind of squeak. Nice? This place? Nice? For the first time she stared about her, trying to see what there was... She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A very good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a black ribbon. But him she simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the air where he was. She looked through and through him. Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Hennie looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. She had some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her way. She tugged at it--tried to break the stupid little thing--it wouldn't break. Finally, she had to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she couldn't stand this place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turned away while I went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea. And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky was sprinkled with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited for the car to come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her foot, looking down. Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back with--oh--such a sigh! "Tell him," she gasped, "to drive as fast as he can." Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. "Allie veet!" said he. Then he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us. The gold powder-box came out again. Again the poor little puff was shaken; again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance between her and the mirror. We tore through the black-and-gold town like a pair of scissors tearing through brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to look as though he were hanging on to something. And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs. Raddick wasn't there. There wasn't a sign of her on the steps--not a sign. "Will you stay in the car while I go and look?" But no--she wouldn't do that. Good heavens, no! Hennie could stay. She couldn't bear sitting in a car. She'd wait on the steps. "But I scarcely like to leave you," I murmured. "I'd very much rather not leave you here." At that she threw back her coat; she turned and faced me; her lips parted. "Good heavens--why! I--I don't mind it a bit. I--I like waiting." And suddenly her cheeks crimsoned, her eyes grew dark--for a moment I thought she was going to cry. "L--let me, please," she stammered, in a warm, eager voice. "I like it. I love waiting! Really--really I do! I'm always waiting--in all kinds of places... " Her dark coat fell open, and her white throat--all her soft young body in the blue dress--was like a flower that is just emerging from its dark bud. </CHAPTER> 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.

Frau Raddick und ihre schöne Tochter warteten auf den Stufen des Casinos. Die Tochter war unglaublich schön mit geröteten Wangen, blauen Augen und goldenen Locken. Sie "könnte gerade von diesem strahlenden Himmel gefallen sein", und Frau Raddick schien das auch so zu denken - wenn man ihre anerkennenden Blicke als Indiz nahm. Die Tochter jedoch wirkte nur gelangweilt, als ob der Himmel voller Casinos gewesen wäre und sie kein Interesse mehr daran hatte. Frau Raddick kam auf mich zu, ihre Handtasche halb geöffnet und das Geld in Gefahr, herauszufallen. Ihr zwölfjähriger Sohn Hennie folgte ihr. Sie bedankte sich bei mir, dass ich Hennie für den Tag mitgenommen habe, damit sie mit ihrer Tochter ins Casino gehen konnte. "Oh, halt den Mund, Mutter", sagte das Mädchen und ihre Mutter schwieg. Verzweifelt, dem Mädchen zu gefallen, gab Frau Raddick ihr hundert Francs, die sie im Casino verwenden konnte. Sie gingen an mir vorbei und gingen die Treppen hinauf, um zu spielen. Hennie bemerkte eine ältere Frau und wurde von ihrem ungepflegten Aussehen beunruhigt und fragte mich, ob sie eine Spielerin sei. Während Hennie und ich immer noch auf den Stufen des Casinos auf das Auto warteten, war ich überrascht, Frau Raddick zurückkehren zu sehen, ihre Tochter folgte ihr. Frau Raddick flehte mich an, sowohl Hennie als auch das Mädchen mitzunehmen. Es stellte sich heraus, dass ihre Tochter zu jung zum Spielen war und Frau Raddick hatte große Probleme mit ihr. Das Mädchen stand in der Nähe auf den Stufen, ein verächtlicher Ausdruck auf ihrem Gesicht, als ob die ganze Welt unter ihr wäre. Eine andere Frau, Mrs. MacEwen aus New York, schwebte im Hintergrund. Frau Raddick erklärte, dass Mrs. MacEwen bereits eine große Summe Geld gewonnen hatte und sie mit ihrem Gewinn wieder ins Casino gehen würden. Frau Raddick ließ uns drei auf den Stufen zurück und kehrte ins Casino zurück. Hennie sah niedergeschlagen aus und ich war irritiert, versuchte jedoch das Beste aus der Situation zu machen. Als das Auto ankam, wickelte sich das Mädchen in ihren Mantel und "selbst ihre kleinen Füße sahen so aus, als ob sie es verachteten , uns die Treppe hinunter zu tragen". Im Auto sagte das Mädchen, dass sie sowieso nicht ins Casino wollte und von fetten alten Männern angestarrt werden wollte. Wir fuhren zu einem großen Palast aus rosa und weißem Marmor, um Tee zu trinken. Drinnen wählte ich einen Tisch und das Mädchen setzte sich widerwillig hin, schmerzte bei dem Geräusch einer nahegelegenen Geige. Wir bestellten Getränke und obwohl das Mädchen behauptete, nichts zu wollen, bestellte sie heiße Schokolade; Hennie machte dasselbe. Ich beobachtete, wie das Mädchen ihre Puderdose mit einem Spiegel auf dem Deckel herausnahm und mit einem kleinen Puschel Make-up auf ihre Nase auftrug. Sie sagte Hennie, dass er die Blumen auf dem Tisch entfernen solle und schloss während des Prozesses die Augen, als ob sie starke Schmerzen hätte. Die Kellnerin brachte die Getränke und das Mädchen erklärte, dass ihre Schokolade zu süß war. Ein Junge kam mit einem Tablett mit Pasteten vorbei und Hennie nahm einige für seinen Teller. Das Mädchen konnte Hennie nicht beim Essen beobachten und bat nur um ein Gebäck von dem Tablett. Der Junge gab ihr stattdessen vier und das Mädchen lachte und sagte, sie könne sie nicht alle essen. Ich begann mich zu entspannen und fühlte mich in Anwesenheit des Mädchens wohler. Ich fragte sie, ob ich am Tisch rauchen dürfe, worauf sie antwortete: "Natürlich, ich erwarte, dass die Leute es tun". Hennie durchstach eine seiner Tartes zu stark und die Hälfte schoss von seinem Teller. Das Mädchen schimpfte mit ihm und um ihren Ärger abzubauen, fragte ich, ob sie es mochte, im Ausland zu sein. Sie überlegte eine lange Zeit und gab eine unverbindliche Antwort. Ihr Geist war meilenweit entfernt. Als nächstes bestellten sie Eis und ich fragte das Mädchen, ob es ihr hier gefalle und sie schaute sich um, als ob sie den Ort überhaupt nicht kennen würde. Ein attraktiver älterer Mann starrte sie unverhohlen aus der Ferne an, aber sie sah durch ihn hindurch, ihre schönen Augen auf etwas gerichtet, das sonst niemand sehen konnte. Schließlich war der Tee vorbei und ich spürte, dass das Mädchen gehen wollte. Sie hatte Schwierigkeiten, ihren Handschuh über ihr Diamantarmband zu bekommen und drehte sich weg, während ich die Rechnung bezahlte. Wir stiegen zurück ins Auto und das Mädchen bat den Chauffeur, so schnell wie möglich zurück zum Casino zu fahren. Die Puderdose tauchte wieder auf und sie tauschte einen "tödlichen Blick" mit ihrem Spiegelbild aus. Frau Raddick war nicht da, um uns zu empfangen, als wir ankamen, und Ich bat das Mädchen im Auto zu warten, aber sie wurde aufgeregt und sagte, dass sie auf den Stufen warten wolle und dass sie immer an einem Ort oder einem anderen warten müsse. Ich beobachtete sie einen Moment lang. "Ihr dunkler Mantel fiel auf und ihre weiße Kehle - ihr ganzer weicher junger Körper im blauen Kleid - war wie eine Blume, die gerade aus ihrer dunklen Knospe hervorkommt".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Sizilien. Vor dem Palast des Leontes Autolycus betritt die Szene, gefolgt von einem Herrn. Autolycus: Flehe dich an, Herr, warst du bei dieser Erzählung anwesend? Erster Herr: Ich war dabei, als der alte Hirte den Inhalt des Gepäcks öffnete und uns erzählte, wie er es gefunden hat. Danach wurden wir alle aus dem Raum beordert, nur dies dachte ich zu hören, der Hirte habe das Kind gefunden. Autolycus: Ich würde gerne das Ergebnis davon wissen. Erster Herr: Ich gebe hier nur einen bruchstückhaften Bericht ab, aber die Veränderungen, die ich beim König und bei Camillo bemerkte, waren sehr auffällig. Sie schienen fast, einander mit weit aufgerissenen Augen die Blicke aus den Höhlen ziehen zu wollen. In ihrem Schweigen war Rede, in ihrer Gestik war Sprache, sie sahen aus, als hätten sie von einer erlösten oder zerstörten Welt gehört. Eine bemerkenswerte Leidenschaft des Staunens zeigte sich bei ihnen, aber der weiseste Beobachter, der nichts weiter wusste als zu sehen, konnte nicht sagen, ob die Bedeutung Freude oder Trauer war - aber in der äußersten Ausprägung von einem von beiden musste es sein. Ein anderer Herr betritt die Szene. Hier kommt ein Herr, der vielleicht mehr weiß. Die Neuigkeiten, Rogero? Zweiter Herr: Nichts als Freudenfeuer. Das Orakel hat sich erfüllt: Die Tochter des Königs ist gefunden. So viel Staunen ist in dieser Stunde ausgebrochen, dass die Liedermacher es nicht ausdrücken können. Ein anderer Herr betritt die Szene. Hier kommt der Verwalter von Lady Paulina; er kann Ihnen mehr berichten. Wie steht es, Sir? Diese Nachricht, von der behauptet wird, sie sei wahr, ähnelt so sehr einer alten Geschichte, dass ihre Wahrheit in starkem Zweifel steht. Hat der König seinen Erben gefunden? Dritter Herr: Das ist wahr, wenn je eine Wahrheit von den Umständen geboren wurde. Was du hörst, würdest du schwören, dass du es mit eigenen Augen gesehen hast, so einheitlich sind die Beweise. Der Mantel von Königin Hermiones, ihr Schmuck um den Hals, die Briefe von Antigonus, die damit gefunden wurden und die als sein Schriftstücke bekannt sind, die Majestät des Wesens, das der Mutter ähnelt, die vornehme Natürlichkeit, die sie über ihre Erziehung hinaus zeigt, und viele andere Beweise - all das verkündet mit aller Sicherheit, dass sie die Tochter des Königs ist. Hast du das Zusammentreffen der beiden Könige gesehen? Zweiter Herr: Nein. Dritter Herr: Dann hast du eine Begegnung verpasst, die gesehen werden sollte, aber nicht beschrieben werden kann. Dort hättest du sehen können, wie eine Freude die andere krönt, so dass es schien, als würde die Trauer weinen, um Abschied von ihnen zu nehmen; denn ihre Freude versank in Tränen. Die Augen wurden aufgeschlagen, die Hände gehoben, mit einem so verwirrten Gesichtsausdruck, dass man sie an ihrer Kleidung, nicht an ihrem Aussehen erkennen konnte. Unser König, bereit vor Freude über seine wiedergefundene Tochter aus sich selbst herauszuspringen, als ob diese Freude jetzt einen Verlust bedeutete, rief: "Oh, deine Mutter, deine Mutter!" und bat dann Böhmen um Vergebung, umarmte dann seinen Schwiegersohn, quälte dann aber wieder seine Tochter, indem er sie drückte. Jetzt bedankt er sich beim alten Hirten, der da steht wie ein wettergegerbter Leitungskanal vieler Königsherrschaften. Ich habe noch nie von einer solchen Begegnung gehört, die den Bericht lahm legt und jede Beschreibung zunichtemacht. Der zweite Herr: Was ist eigentlich aus Antigonus geworden, der das Kind weggebracht hat? Der dritte Herr: Wie eine alte Geschichte, die immer noch Stoff zum Erzählen hat, auch wenn das Vertrauen schläft und kein Ohr offen ist: Er wurde von einem Bären in Stücke gerissen. Dies bestätigt der Sohn des Hirten, der nicht nur seine Unschuld verteidigen kann, was viel zu bedeuten scheint, sondern auch ein Taschentuch und Ringe von ihm hat, von denen Paulina weiß. Der erste Herr: Was ist aus seinem Boot und seinen Gefolgsleuten geworden? Der dritte Herr: Sie sind im selben Augenblick wie ihr Herr gestorben und vor den Augen des Hirten gesunken, so dass alle Werkzeuge, die halfen, das Kind auszusetzen, verloren waren, als es gefunden wurde. Aber, ach, der edle Kampf zwischen Freude und Trauer, der in Paulina ausgetragen wurde! Sie hatte ein Auge für den Verlust ihres Mannes gesenkt, das andere erhoben, weil das Orakel erfüllt war. Sie hob die Prinzessin vom Boden auf und schloss sie in ihre Arme ein, als ob sie sie an ihr Herz heften wollte, damit sie nie in Gefahr geriet, sie zu verlieren. Der erste Herr: Die Würde dieser Handlung war das Publikum von Königen und Fürsten wert, denn sie wurde von solchen vollbracht. Der dritte Herr: Einer der schönsten Momente von allen, und einer, der meine Augen erobert hat - ich erhaschte das Wasser, nicht den Fisch - war, als bei der Erzählung von Hermiones Tod, wie es dazu kam, das mutig gestand und vom König beweint wurde, wie aufmerksam seine Tochter war. Von einem Zeichen des Schmerzes zum nächsten ging sie mit einem "Ach!", ich möchte sagen, Tränen vergießen; denn ich bin sicher, mein Herz hat Blut geweint. Wer dort am wenigsten gerührt war, änderte seine Farbe; manche fielen in Ohnmacht, alle trauerten. Wenn die ganze Welt es hätte sehen können, wäre das Leid universell gewesen. Der erste Herr: Sind sie zum Hof zurückgekehrt? Der dritte Herr: Nein. Die Prinzessin hörte von der Statue ihrer Mutter, die in Paulinas Obhut ist - ein Werk, das viele Jahre gedauert und gerade von dem seltenen italienischen Meister Julio Romano vollendet wurde, der, hätte er selbst Ewigkeit und könnte er seinem Werk Leben einhauchen, die Natur ihrer üblichen Arbeit berauben würde, so vollendet ist er ihr Affe. Er hat Hermione so nahe gekommen, dass man sagt, man könne mit ihr sprechen und auf eine Antwort hoffen. Mit all ihrer Zuneigung sind sie dorthin gegangen und dort wollen sie speisen. Der zweite Herr: Ich dachte, sie hätte dort etwas Großes zu tun; denn sie hat seit dem Tod von Hermione zweimal oder dreimal am Tag heimlich dieses entfernte Haus besucht. Sollen wir dorthin gehen und mit unserer Anwesenheit das Fest begleiten? Der erste Herr: Wer würde gehen wollen, der nicht von den Zugangsmöglichkeiten profitiert? Bei jedem Augenzwinkern wird eine neue Gnade geboren. Unsere Abwesenheit macht uns in Bezug auf unser Wissen unproduktiv. Gehen wir also. Sie gehen ab. Autolycus: Wenn ich nicht den Anflug meines früheren Lebens in mir hätte, würde eine Beförderung auf meinen Kopf fallen. Ich habe den alten Mann und seinen Sohn an Bord des Prinzen gebracht, ihm erzählt, dass ich sie über ein Bündel habe reden hören und griff schon nicht mehr danach; aber er war damals so vernarrt in die Tochter des Hirten - so hielt er sie damals für - die damit begann, seekrank zu werden, und er selbst war nicht viel besser, und bei dem anhaltend schlechten Wetter blieb dieses Geheimnis unentdeckt. Aber es ist mir egal, denn selbst wenn ich der Entdecker dieses Geheimnisses gewesen wäre, hätte es mich nicht von meinen anderen Schande befreit. Der Hirte und der Knecht betreten die Szene. Hier kommen jene, denen ich widerwillig Gutes getan habe und die bereits in den Blüten ihres Glücks erscheinen. HIRT. Komm, Junge; ich habe keinen Wunsch nach weiteren Kindern, aber deine Söhne und Töchter werden alle als Gentlemen geboren sein. BAUER. Sie sind mir willkommen, Herr. Du hast abgelehnt, dich mit mir zu duellieren an diesem anderen Tag, weil ich nicht als Gentleman geboren wurde. Siehst du diese Kleidung? Tu so, als ob du sie nicht siehst und denke, dass ich immer noch nicht als Gentleman geboren bin. Du kannst gleich sagen, dass diese Roben nicht von Gentlemen gemacht sind. Nenn mich einen Lügner, tu es; und schau, ob ich jetzt nicht als Gentleman geboren bin. AUTOLYCUS. Ich weiß, dass du jetzt, Herr, als Gentleman geboren bist. BAUER. Ja, und das bin ich seit einigen Stunden. HIRT. Und das bin ich auch, Junge. BAUER. Ja, das bist du; aber ich wurde als Gentleman geboren noch vor meinem Vater; denn der Sohn des Königs nahm mich bei der Hand und nannte mich Bruder; und dann nannten die beiden Könige meinen Vater Bruder; und dann nannten der Prinz, mein Bruder, und die Prinzessin, meine Schwester, meinen Vater Vater. Und so weinten wir; und das waren die ersten gentleman-artigen Tränen, die wir jemals vergossen haben. HIRT. Wir werden vielleicht, Sohn, noch viele weitere Tränen vergießen. BAUER. Ja; oder es wäre ein harter Schicksalsschlag, in einem so absurden Zustand wie wir es sind. AUTOLYCUS. Ich bitte euch in Demut, Herr, mir alle Fehler zu verzeihen, die ich vor euch begangen habe, und dem Prinzen, meinem Herrn, ein gutes Zeugnis von mir zu geben. HIRT. Bitte, Sohn, tu es; denn nun müssen wir Gentleman sein, da wir welche sind. BAUER. Wirst du dein Leben bessern? AUTOLYCUS. Ja, wenn es Euch gefällt, gnädiger Herr. BAUER. Gib mir deine Hand. Ich schwöre dem Prinzen, du bist ein ehrlicher und treuer Geselle wie jeder in Böhmen. HIRT. Du kannst es sagen, aber nicht schwören. BAUER. Nicht schwören, jetzt, wo ich ein Gentleman bin? Lass es die Bauern und Freigelassenen sagen: Ich werde es schwören. HIRT. Was, wenn es falsch ist, Sohn? BAUER. Wenn es auch noch so falsch ist, ein wahrer Gentleman kann es im Namen seines Freundes schwören. Und ich werde dem Prinzen schwören, dass du ein großer Kerl mit den Händen bist und dass du nicht betrunken sein wirst; aber ich weiß, dass du kein großer Kerl mit den Händen bist und dass du betrunken sein wirst. Aber ich werde es schwören; und ich wünschte, du wärst ein großer Kerl mit den Händen. AUTOLYCUS. Ich werde es beweisen, Herr, soweit es mir möglich ist. BAUER. Ja, auf jede erdenkliche Weise werde ein großer Kerl. Wenn ich nicht wüsste, wie du dich wagst, betrunken zu werden, ohne ein großer Kerl zu sein, dann vertraue mir nicht. Hör! Die Könige und Prinzen, unsere Verwandten, gehen, um das Bild der Königin zu sehen. Komm, folge uns; wir werden deine guten Meister sein. Abgang. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Autolycus organisiert den Großteil der Ereignisse in dieser Szene, was eine große Hilfe ist, da sie fragmentarisch erzählt wird. Zunächst befragt Autolycus drei Herren über die Vorgänge im nahegelegenen Palast von Leontes. Nach und nach sammelt er Informationen über die Aussage des Schäfers. Der erste Herr hörte nur eine vage Anspielung darauf, dass jemand ein Kind gefunden hat; daher konnte er nicht erraten, ob Leontes und Camillo aus dem, was er sah, Freude oder Trauer zeigten. Ein zweiter Herr weiß, dass die Leute feiern, weil "die Tochter des Königs gefunden wurde." Ein dritter Herr, Verwalter von Paulina, hat genug Beweise, um Zweifel an dieser Wahrheit "schwanger/ durch Umstände" zu zerstreuen. Alle Hauptcharaktere im königlichen Drama haben sich mit einer Mischung aus Freude und Trauer verhalten, als sie von all den Leiden erfuhren, die vor sechzehn Jahren stattgefunden haben, und haben sich über die heutigen Neuigkeiten gefreut. Nun versammeln sie sich an der Stelle einer bemerkenswert lebensechten Statue von Hermione, um zu Abend zu essen, bei dem sie hoffen, neue und aufregende Entdeckungen zu machen. Autolycus reflektiert darüber, wie knapp er daran vorbeigeschrammt ist, derjenige zu sein, der diese Fakten offenbart. Als er den Clown und den Schäfer sieht, bemerkt er: "Hier kommen diejenigen, denen ich wider Willen Gutes getan habe." Er anerkennt die bevorzugte Belohnung des Clowns: Ich weiß, dass Sie jetzt, Sir, ein geborener Gentleman sind." Autolycus hört geduldig zu, wie die beiden Männer prahlen, dass sie seit vier Stunden "geborene Gentlemen" sind. Dann bittet Autolycus sie, seine Übertretung zu verzeihen und einen günstigen Bericht an Prinz Florizel zu geben. Sowohl der Clown als auch der Schäfer stimmen zu, weil sie glauben, dass sie als "Gentlemen" großzügig sein sollten. Daher laden sie Autolycus ein, sie als Diener zu begleiten, um die Statue von Hermione zu betrachten.

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

Erfüllung einer sozialen Verpflichtung plant Emma ein Abendessen für Mrs. Elton. Harriet bittet um Entschuldigung für ihre Teilnahme, was Emma die Gelegenheit gibt, ihr Gewissen in Bezug auf Jane Fairfax zu beruhigen, die prompt eingeladen wird, den leeren achten Platz zu füllen, als Harriet erklärt, dass sie nicht kommen wird. Auch Mr. John Knightley ist eingeladen, da er in Highbury sein wird und seine beiden ältesten Söhne auf einem Besuch bei ihrer Tante und ihrem Großvater begleitet. Auf der Party tadelt Mr. John Knightley Jane sanft, dass sie am Morgen im Regen Briefe von der Post geholt hat. Jane tut so, als wäre die Situation nicht so wichtig, aber sie errötet und bekommt tränenfeuchte Augen, und bald fängt der Rest der Party an, über die Angelegenheit zu diskutieren. Mrs. Elton besteht darauf, dass ihr Diener damit beauftragt werden sollte, Janes Briefe abzuholen, doch Jane wehrt sich entschieden dagegen. Das Gespräch kommt auf das Thema Handschrift. Mr. Knightley lobt Emmas Schreibstil, aber widerspricht, als sie die Handschrift von Frank Churchill lobt. Janes Eifer, ihre eigenen Briefe zu holen, weckt Emmas Verdacht, aber sie entscheidet sich, Jane nicht zu belästigen, indem sie sie danach fragt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 hatte nichts geantwortet, weil seine Worte die Situation vor sie gestellt hatten und sie war damit beschäftigt, es anzuschauen. Es war etwas in ihnen, das plötzlich tiefe Schwingungen auslöste, so dass sie sich nicht getraut hatte, sich selbst zu vertrauen und zu sprechen. Nachdem er gegangen war, lehnte sie sich in ihrem Stuhl zurück und schloss die Augen. Und für eine lange Zeit, weit in die Nacht hinein und noch weiter, saß sie im stillen Wohnzimmer und vertiefte sich in ihre Meditation. Ein Diener kam herein, um sich um das Feuer zu kümmern, und sie bat ihn, frische Kerzen zu bringen und dann zu Bett zu gehen. Osmond hatte ihr gesagt, über das nachzudenken, was er gesagt hatte; und das tat sie auch, und über viele andere Dinge. Der Vorschlag von jemand anderem, dass sie einen konkreten Einfluss auf Lord Warburton hatte - das hatte ihr den Start gegeben, der mit unerwarteter Wiedererkennung einhergeht. War es wahr, dass immer noch etwas zwischen ihnen war, das ihm ermöglichen könnte, sich Pansy gegenüber zu erklären - eine Empfänglichkeit seinerseits für Zustimmung, ein Wunsch, das zu tun, was sie erfreuen würde? Isabel hatte sich diese Frage bisher nicht gestellt, weil sie nicht dazu gezwungen worden war; aber jetzt, da sie ihr direkt präsentiert wurde, sah sie die Antwort und die Antwort erschreckte sie. Ja, es gab etwas - etwas auf Lord Warburtons Seite. Als er zum ersten Mal nach Rom gekommen war, glaubte sie, dass die Verbindung, die sie vereinte, komplett gekappt worden war; aber nach und nach wurde sie daran erinnert, dass sie noch immer eine greifbare Existenz hatte. Sie war so dünn wie ein Haar, aber es gab Momente, in denen sie schien, es schwingen zu hören. Für sie selbst hatte sich nichts geändert; Was sie einmal von ihm gehalten hatte, dachte sie immer noch; es war unnötig, dass dieses Gefühl sich änderte; es schien ihr in der Tat ein besseres Gefühl als je zuvor. Aber er? Hatte er immer noch die Vorstellung, dass sie für ihn mehr sein könnte als andere Frauen? Hatte er den Wunsch, von der Erinnerung an die wenigen intimen Momente, die sie einmal geteilt hatten, zu profitieren? Isabel wusste, dass sie einige der Zeichen einer solchen Haltung gelesen hatte. Aber was waren seine Hoffnungen, seine Ansprüche und auf welche seltsame Weise waren sie mit seiner offensichtlich sehr aufrichtigen Wertschätzung für die arme Pansy vermischt? War er in Gilbert Osmonds Frau verliebt, und wenn ja, welchen Trost erwartete er sich davon? Wenn er in Pansy verliebt war, dann war er nicht in ihre Stiefmutter verliebt, und wenn er in ihre Stiefmutter verliebt war, dann war er nicht in Pansy verliebt. Sollte sie den Vorteil, den sie besaß, nutzen, um ihn dazu zu bringen, sich zu Pansy zu verpflichten, in dem Wissen, dass er es für sie tun würde und nicht für die kleine Kreatur selbst - war das der Dienst, den ihr Ehemann von ihr verlangt hatte? Dies war jedenfalls die Aufgabe, der sie gegenüberstand - ab dem Moment, in dem sie sich eingestand, dass ihr alter Freund immer noch eine unverwurzelte Vorliebe für ihre Gesellschaft hatte. Es war keine angenehme Aufgabe; es war in der Tat eine abscheuliche. Sie fragte sich entsetzt, ob Lord Warburton vorgab, in Pansy verliebt zu sein, um eine andere Befriedigung und sozusagen andere Chancen zu erlangen. Von dieser Verfeinerung der Heimtücke sprach sie ihm jedoch bald frei; sie zog es vor, ihn für absolut aufrichtig zu halten. Aber wenn seine Bewunderung für Pansy eine Täuschung war, war dies kaum besser als eine Affektation. Isabel wanderte zwischen diesen hässlichen Möglichkeiten umher, bis sie sich völlig verirrt hatte; einige von ihnen, als sie ihnen plötzlich begegnete, schienen hässlich genug zu sein. Dann entkam sie dem Labyrinth, rieb sich die Augen und erklärte, dass ihre Vorstellungskraft ihr sicherlich wenig Ehre erweisen würde und dass die ihres Mannes ihm noch weniger erweisen würde. Lord Warburton war so uneigennützig, wie er es sein müsste, und sie war für ihn nicht mehr als sie sich wünschen konnte. Sie würde sich darauf verlassen, bis das Gegenteil bewiesen wäre; nachweislich wirksamer als durch einen zynischen Hinweis von Osmond. Eine derartige Lösung brachte ihr jedoch an diesem Abend wenig Frieden, denn ihre Seele wurde von Ängsten heimgesucht, die genauso schnell in den Vordergrund ihrer Gedanken drängten, wie ein Platz für sie geschaffen wurde. Was diese Ängste plötzlich verstärkt hatte, wusste sie kaum, es sei denn, es war der merkwürdige Eindruck, den sie am Nachmittag erhalten hatte, dass ihr Ehemann mit Madame Merle in direkterer Kommunikation stand als sie vermutete. Dieser Eindruck kam von Zeit zu Zeit zurück und nun fragte sie sich, warum er nie zuvor aufgekommen war. Abgesehen davon war ihr kurzes Gespräch mit Osmond vor einer halben Stunde ein deutliches Beispiel für seine Fähigkeit, alles vertrocknen zu lassen, was er berührte, alles für sie zu ruinieren, worauf er schaute. Es war schön, ihm einen Beweis für ihre Loyalität zu geben, aber in Wirklichkeit erhob sich eine Vermutung gegen das, was er erwartete. Es war, als hätte er den bösen Blick gehabt, als wäre seine Anwesenheit ein Fluch und seine Gunst ein Unglück. Lag der Fehler an ihm selbst oder nur am tiefen Misstrauen, das sie für ihn empfand? Dieses Misstrauen war nun das deutlichste Ergebnis ihrer kurzen Ehe; eine Kluft hatte sich zwischen ihnen aufgetan, über die sie einander mit Augen anschauten, die auf beiden Seiten eine Erklärung des erlittenen Betrugs waren. Es war eine seltsame Gegensätzlichkeit, von der sie nie geträumt hatte - ein Gegensatz, bei dem das elementare Prinzip des einen für den anderen verächtlich war. Es war nicht ihr Fehler - sie hatte keinen Betrug begangen; sie hatte nur bewundert und geglaubt. Sie hatte alle ersten Schritte in reinstem Vertrauen gemacht und dann hatte sie plötzlich festgestellt, dass die unendliche Aussicht auf ein vielfältiges Leben ein dunkler, enger Gang mit einer Sackgasse am Ende war. Anstatt zur Höhe des Glücks zu führen, von der aus die Welt unter einem zu liegen schien, so dass man mit einem Gefühl der Erhebung und des Vorteils hinunterschauen, beurteilen, wählen und bemitleiden konnte, führte es eher nach unten und zur Erde, in Bereiche der Begrenzung und Unterdrückung, wo man den Klang anderer, leichterer und freierer Leben von oben hörte und wo dieser Klang dazu diente, das Gefühl des Scheiterns zu vertiefen. Es war ihr tiefes Misstrauen gegenüber ihrem Ehemann - das war es, was die Welt verdunkelte. Das ist ein Gefühl, das leicht angedeutet, aber nicht so leicht erklärt werden kann und so zusammengesetzt ist, dass viel Zeit und noch viel mehr Leiden nötig waren, um es in seine jetzige Perfektion zu bringen. Leiden war bei Isabel ein aktiver Zustand; es war keine Kälte, kein Stupor, keine Verzweiflung; es war eine Leidenschaft des Denkens, des Nachdenkens, des Reagierens auf jeden Druck. Sie schmeichelte sich, dass sie ihren schwindenden Glauben für sich behalten hatte, dass niemand es ahnte außer Osmond. Oh, er wusste es, und es gab Zeiten, in denen sie dachte, er genieße es. Es war allmählich gekommen - es war nicht, bis das erste Jahr ihres gemeinsamen Lebens, das anfangs so bewundernswert intim war, vergangen war, dass sie Alarm schlug. Dann hatten sich die Schatten zu sammeln begonnen; es war, als ob Osmond absichtlich, fast böswillig, das Licht ausgelöscht hätte, eines nach dem anderen. Das Dämmerlicht war zunächst vage und dünn, und sie konnte immer noch ihren Weg darin sehen. Aber es vertiefte sich kontinuierlich, und wenn es hin und wieder gelegentlich gehoben wurde, gab es bestimmte Ecken in ihrer Aussicht, die undurchdringlich schwarz waren. Diese Schatten waren keine Emanation ihres eigenen Geistes: dessen war sie sich ganz sicher; sie hatte ihr Bestes getan, um gerecht und maßvoll zu sein, um nur die Wahrheit zu sehen. Sie waren ein Teil, sie waren eine Art Schöpfung und Folge, von der schieren Anwesenheit ihres Ehemanns. Es waren nicht seine Verbrechen, seine Gemeinheiten; sie beschuldigte ihn von nichts - außer von einer Sache, die KEIN Verbrechen war. Sie kannte kein Unrecht, das er begangen hatte; er war nicht gewalttätig, er war nicht grausam: Sie glaubte einfach, dass er sie hasste. Das war alles, wofür sie ihn beschuldigte, und das elende daran war genau das, dass es kein Verbrechen war, denn gegen ein Verbrechen hätte sie Abhilfe finden können. Er hatte herausgefunden, dass sie so anders war, dass sie nicht das war, was er gedacht hatte, dass sie sein würde. Er hatte anfangs gedacht, er könnte sie ändern, und sie hatte ihr Bestes getan, um zu sein, was ihm gefallen würde. Aber sie war letztendlich immer sie selbst geblieben - das konnte sie nicht ändern; und jetzt hatte es keinen Sinn mehr vorzugeben, eine Maske oder ein Kostüm zu tragen, denn er kannte sie und hatte sich eine Meinung gebildet. Sie fürchtete ihn nicht; sie befürchtete nicht, dass er ihr etwas antun würde; denn der Groll, den er ihr entgegenbrachte, war nicht von dieser Art. Wenn möglich, würde er ihr nie einen Vorwand geben, sich nie selbst ins Unrecht setzen. Isabel, die Zukunft mit trockenen, starren Augen betrachtend, sah, dass er in dieser Hinsicht im Vorteil sein würde. Sie würde ihm viele Vorwände liefern, sie würde sich oft selbst ins Unrecht setzen. Es gab Zeiten, in denen sie ihn fast bedauerte; denn wenn sie ihn auch in Absicht nicht getäuscht hatte, so verstand sie doch, wie sehr sie ihn in Wirklichkeit getäuscht haben musste. Sie hatte sich zurückgehalten, sozusagen, um ihm freie Hand zu lassen, und trotzdem hatte sie einen Teil für das Ganze verwechselt. Ach, sie hatte sich ungemein von ihm verzaubern lassen! Dieser Zauber war nicht verschwunden, er war immer noch da: sie wusste noch genau, was Osmond so liebenswert machte, wenn er wollte. Er hatte gewollt, als er sie verführt hatte, und da sie selbst verzaubert werden wollte, war es nicht verwunderlich, dass er Erfolg hatte. Er hatte Erfolg, weil er aufrichtig war; ihr kam es nun nicht mehr in den Sinn, das zu leugnen. Er bewunderte sie - und er hatte ihr gesagt, warum: weil sie die fantasievollste Frau war, die er je kennengelernt hatte. Das könnte sehr gut stimmten; denn während dieser Monate hatte sie sich eine Welt von Dingen vorgestellt, die keine Substanz hatten. Sie hatte eine noch wunderbarere Vorstellung von ihm gehabt, genährt durch verzauberte Sinne und eine so aufgewühlte Fantasie - sie hatte ihn nicht richtig eingeschätzt. Eine bestimmte Kombination von Merkmalen hatte sie berührt, und in ihnen hatte sie die beeindruckendste Figur gesehen. Dass er arm und einsam war und doch irgendwie edel - das hatte sie interessiert und schien ihr die Gelegenheit zu bieten. Es hatte etwas undefinierbar Schönes an ihm - in seiner Situation, in seinem Geist, in seinem Gesicht. Sie hatte gleichzeitig gespürt, dass er hilflos und ineffektiv war, aber das Gefühl hatte sich in einer Zärtlichkeit ausgedrückt, die die Blüte von Respekt war. Er war wie ein skeptischer Seefahrer, der am Strand spazieren ging, während er auf die Flut wartete, der zum Meer schaute, aber nicht in See stach. In all dem hatte sie ihre Gelegenheit gefunden. Sie würde sein Boot für ihn zu Wasser lassen; sie würde seine Vorsehung sein; es wäre eine gute Sache, ihn zu lieben. Und sie hatte ihn geliebt, sie hatte sich so sehnsüchtig und doch so leidenschaftlich hingegeben - viel von dem, was sie in ihm fand, aber auch viel von dem, was sie ihm brachte und was das Geschenk bereichern könnte. Als sie auf die Leidenschaft dieser vollen Wochen zurückblickte, erkannte sie darin eine Art mütterliche Anstrengung - das Glück einer Frau, die das Gefühl hatte, eine Beiträgerin zu sein, die mit vollen Händen kam. Aber ihr Geld, wie sie heute erkannte, wäre nie genug gewesen. Dann wanderte ihr Geist zu dem armen Mr. Touchett, der unter englischer Erde schlief, dem wohltätigen Verursacher von unendlichem Leid! Denn das war die fantastische Tatsache. Im Grunde genommen war ihr Geld eine Last gewesen, es hatte sie beschäftigt, sie wollte das Gewicht davon auf ein anderes Gewissen, auf ein besser vorbereitetes Gefäß übertragen. Was würde ihr eigenes Gewissen wirkungsvoller erleichtern, als es dem Mann mit dem besten Geschmack der Welt zu überlassen? Es gäbe nichts Besseres, was sie damit tun könnte, es sei denn, sie hätte es einem Krankenhaus gespendet; und es gab keine Wohltätigkeitsorganisation, für die sie sich so sehr interessiert hätte wie für Gilbert Osmond. Er würde ihr Vermögen auf eine Weise verwenden, die sie ihren Wert in einem anderen Licht betrachten lassen und einem unerwarteten Erbe eine gewisse Rohheit nehmen würde. Es war nichts besonders Feines daran gewesen, siebzehntausend Pfund zu erben; die Feinheit lag darin, dass Mr. Touchett sie ihr hinterlassen hatte. Aber Gilbert Osmond zu heiraten und ihm einen Anteil zu geben - das wäre auch für sie ein Akt der Feinheit gewesen. Für ihn wäre es weniger gewesen - das war wahr; aber das war seine Sache, und wenn er sie liebte, würde er nichts dagegen haben, dass sie reich war. Hatte er nicht den Mut gehabt zu sagen, er sei froh, dass sie reich war? Isabels Gesicht errötete, als sie sich fragte, ob sie wirklich aufgrund einer falschen Theorie geheiratet hatte, um etwas Edles mit ihrem Geld anzufangen. Aber sie konnte schnell genug antworten, dass das nur die halbe Geschichte war. Es war, weil eine bestimmte Begeisterung von ihr Besitz ergriffen hatte - ein Gefühl für die Ernsthaftigkeit seiner Zuneigung und eine Freude an seinen persönlichen Qualitäten. Er war besser als alle anderen. Von dieser höchsten Überzeugung war ihr Leben monatelang erfüllt gewesen, und es blieb genug davon übrig, um ihr zu beweisen, dass sie nicht anders hätte handeln können. Das Feinste - im Sinne von Subtilstes - männliche Organ, das sie je gekannt hatte, war ihr Eigentum geworden, und die Erkenntnis, dass sie nur ihre Hände ausstrecken und es nehmen musste, war ursprünglich eine Art Hingabe gewesen. Sie hatte sich nicht getäuscht über die Schönheit seines Geistes; sie kannte dieses Instrument jetzt perfekt. Sie hatte mit ihm gelebt, sie hatte fast in ihm gelebt - es schien ihr zur Behausung geworden zu sein. Wenn sie gefangen genommen worden war, hatte es einer festen Hand bedurft, um sie zu ergreifen; diese Überlegung hatte vielleicht einen gewissen Wert. Ein geistreicheres, biegsameres, kultivierteres Gehirn, das zu bewundernswerten Übungen geschult war, hatte sie nicht angetroffen; und mit diesem exquisiten Instrument hatte sie es nun zu tun. Sie verlor sich in unendlichem Entsetzen, wenn sie an das Ausmaß seiner Täuschung dachte. Angesichts dessen war es vielleicht erstaunlich, dass er sie nicht mehr hasste. Sie erinnerte sich perfekt daran, das erste Zeichen hat er gegeben hatte - es war wie die Glocke, die den Vorhang für das eigentliche Drama ihres Lebens aufziehen sollte. Er hatte ihr eines Tages gesagt, sie habe zu viele Ideen und müsse sich von ihnen befreien. Er hatte es ihr schon vor ihrer Ehe gesagt; aber dann hatte sie es nicht bemerkt: es war ihr erst danach eingefallen. Dieses Mal hätte sie es gut bemerken können, weil er es wirklich gemeint hatte. Die Worte waren oberflächlich nichts gewesen; aber als sie sie im Lichte zunehmender Erfahrung betrachtet hatte, hatten sie dann bedrohlich gewirkt. Er hatte es wirklich gemeint - er hätte es gerne gehabt, wenn sie nichts Eigenes hätte außer ihrem hübschen Aussehen. Sie hatte gewusst, dass sie zu viele Ideen hatte; sie hatte noch mehr, als er angenommen hatte, viel mehr als sie ihm geäußert hatte, als er sie gefragt hatte, ob sie ihn heiraten wolle. Ja, sie hatte heuchlerisch gehandelt; sie hatte ihn so sehr gemocht. Sie hatte zu viele Ideen für sich selbst; aber genau dafür heiratete man doch, um sie mit jemand anderem zu teilen. Man konnte sie nicht einfach ausreißen, obwohl man sie natürlich unterdrücken konnte, darauf achten, sie nicht zu äußern. Aber darum hatte es ihm nicht gegangen, dass er ihr widersprach; das war nichts gewesen. Sie hatte keine Meinungen - keine, die sie nicht bereit gewesen wäre, im Gefühl geliebt zu werden, opfern zu können. Was er gemeint hatte, war das Ganze - ihr Charakter, ihre Gefühle, ihre Urteile. Das war es, was sie zurückgehalten hatte; das war es, was er nicht gewusst hatte, bis er sich selbst - mit der Tür, sozusagen, hinter sich geschlossen - Auge in Auge damit gegenübersah. Sie hatte eine bestimmte Art, das Leben zu betrachten, und er nahm das persönlich. Gott weiß, dass es jetzt zumindest eine sehr demütige, anpassungsfähige Art war! Das Seltsame war, dass sie von Anfang an nicht ahnen sollte, wie anders seine eigene gewesen war. Sie hatte gedacht, sie war so groß, so aufgeklärt, so vollkommen die eines ehrlichen Mannes und Gentlemans. Hatte er ihr nicht versichert, dass er keine Aberglauben, keine trüben Einschränkungen, keine verblassten Vorurteile hatte? Hatte er nicht den Anschein eines Mannes gehabt, der in der offenen Welt lebt, gleichgültig gegenüber kleinen Überlegungen, der sich nur für Wahrheit und Wissen interessiert und glaubt, dass zwei intelligente Menschen gemeinsam danach suchen sollten und ob sie sie finden oder nicht, zumindest etwas Glück in der Suche finden würden? Er hatte ihr gesagt, er liebe das Konventionelle; aber in gewisser Hinsicht schien dies eine edle Erklärung zu sein. In diesem Sinne, dem der Liebe zur Harmonie und Ordnung und Anständigkeit und aller erhabenen Aufgaben des Lebens, ging sie frei mit ihm, und seine Warnung hatte nichts Unheilvolles enthalten. Aber als die Monate vergangen waren und sie ihm weiter folgen musste und er sie in die Villa seines eigenen Hauses geführt hatte, da hatte sie gesehen, wo sie wirklich war. Sie könnte es noch einmal erleben, den unglaublichen Terror, mit dem sie die Ausmaße ihres Wohnhauses erfasst hatte. Zwischen diesen vier Wänden hatte sie seitdem gelebt; sie würden sie für den Rest ihres Lebens umgeben. Es war das Haus der Dunkelheit, das Haus der Stummheit, das Haus der Erstickung. Osmonds schöner Geist spendete weder Licht noch Luft; Osmonds schöner Geist schien tatsächlich aus einem kleinen, hohen Fenster herauszuschauen und sie zu verspotten. Natürlich war es kein körperliches Leiden gewesen; gegen körperliches Leiden hätte es ein Heilmittel gegeben. Sie konnte kommen und gehen; sie hatte ihre Freiheit; ihr Ehemann war perfekt höflich. Er nahm sich so ernst; es war etwas Erschreckendes. Unter all seiner Kultur, Cleverness, Freundlichkeit, unter seiner Güte, seiner Fähigkeit, seinem Wissen vom Leben, gab sich sein Egoismus verborgen wie eine Schlange in einem Blumenbeet. Sie hatte ihn ernst genommen, aber nicht so ernst wie das. Wie konnte sie auch - insbesondere nachdem sie ihn besser gekannt hatte? Sie sollte an ihn denken, wie er an sich selbst dachte - als der erste Gentleman in Europa. So hatte sie anfangs an ihn gedacht, und das war in der Tat der Grund, warum sie ihn geheiratet hatte. Aber als sie zu erkennen begann, was das implizierte, zog sie sich zurück; in der Bindung war mehr enthalten, als sie unterzeichnen wollte. Es bedeutete eine souveräne Verachtung für jeden außer einigen drei oder vier sehr erhabenen Menschen, die er beneidete, und für alles in der Welt außerhalb von ein halbes Dutzend seiner eigenen Ideen. Das war sehr gut; sie wäre sogar mit ihm dorthin gegangen, eine weite Strecke; denn er hatte ihr so viel von der Gemeinheit und Schäbigkeit des Lebens gezeigt, ihre Augen so weit für die Dummheit, die Verkommenheit, die Unwissenheit der Menschheit geöffnet, dass sie angemessen beeindruckt war von der unendlichen Gemeinheit der Dinge und von der Tugend des unbefleckten Bewahrens ihrer Selbst davon. Aber diese niedere, wenn auch edle Welt schien schließlich das zu sein, um dessentwillen man leben sollte; man sollte sie für immer vor Augen haben, nicht um sie zu erhellen oder zu bekehren oder zu erlösen, sondern um eine Anerkennung der eigenen Überlegenheit aus ihr zu gewinnen. Einerseits war sie verachtenswert, aber andererseits bot sie einen Maßstab. Osmond hatte mit Isabel über seine Aufopferung, seine Gleichgültigkeit, die Leichtigkeit, mit der er auf die üblichen Hilfsmittel zum Erfolg verzichtete, gesprochen; und das alles hatte ihr bewundernswert erschienen. Sie hatte es für eine großartige Gleichgültigkeit, eine exquisite Unabhängigkeit gehalten. Aber Gleichgültigkeit war wirklich die letzte seiner Eigenschaften; sie hatte nie jemanden getroffen, der so viel an andere dachte. Was sie selbst betraf, hatte sie sich immer für die Welt interessiert und das Studium ihrer Mitmenschen war ihre ständige Leidenschaft gewesen. Sie wäre jedoch bereit gewesen, all ihre Neugier und Mitgefühl um eines persönlichen Lebens willen aufzugeben, wenn die betreffende Person sie nur hätte glauben lassen können, dass es ein Gewinn sei! Das war zumindest ihre gegenwärtige Überzeugung; und die Sache wäre sicherlich einfacher gewesen als sich für die Gesellschaft zu interessieren, so wie Osmond sich dafür interessierte. Er konnte nicht ohne sie leben, und sie sah, dass er es auch nie wirklich getan hatte; er hatte sie aus dem Fenster betrachtet, selbst wenn er am meisten davon losgelöst zu sein schien. Er hatte sein Ideal, so wie sie versucht hatte, ihres zu haben; nur war es seltsam, dass die Menschen in so unterschiedlichen Sphären nach Gerechtigkeit suchten. Sein Ideal war ein Konzept von hoher Wohlstand und Anstand, vom aristokratischen Leben, das sie jetzt erkannte, dass er sich immer in gewissem Sinne zumindest vorgestellt hatte, geführt zu haben. Er war nie davon abgekommen, nicht für eine Stunde; er hätte sich niemals von der Schande erholt, es zu tun. Auch das war sehr gut; auch hier wäre sie einverstanden gewesen; aber sie befestigten verschiedene Ideen, verschiedene Assoziationen und Wünsche an denselben Formeln. Ihre Vorstellung von einem aristokratischen Leben war einfach die Vereinigung von großem Wissen mit großer Freiheit; das Wissen würde einem ein Gefühl für Pflicht geben und die Freiheit ein Gefühl für Genuss. Aber für Osmond war es vor allem eine Sache der Formen, eine bewusste, berechnete Haltung. Er liebte das Alte, das Geweihte, das Überlieferte; sie tat das auch, aber sie gab vor, damit zu tun, was sie wollte. Er hatte eine immense Hochachtung vor der Tradition; er hatte ihr einmal gesagt, dass das Beste auf der Welt darin bestehe, sie zu haben, aber dass man, wenn man so unglücklich war, sie nicht zu haben, sofort anfangen müsse, sie zu schaffen. Sie wusste, dass er damit meinte, dass sie sie nicht hatte, er aber besser dran war; obwohl sie nie herausfand, aus welcher Quelle er seine Traditionen abgeleitet hatte. Er hatte jedoch eine sehr große Sammlung davon; das war sehr sicher, und nach einer Weile fing sie an, das zu sehen. Das Große war, im Einklang mit ihnen zu handeln; das Große, nicht nur für ihn, sondern auch für sie. Isabel hatte die vage Überzeugung, dass Traditionen, um für eine andere Person als ihren Eigentümer zu dienen, von einer gründlich überlegenen Art sein mussten; aber sie stimmte dennoch dieser Andeutung zu, dass auch sie im feierlichen Rhythmus marschieren müsse, der aus unbekannten Zeiten in der Vergangenheit ihres Ehemannes herabschwebte; sie, die früher so frei im Schritt, so abschweifend, so taktlos war, so sehr das Gegenteil eines Festzugs. Es gab gewisse Dinge, die sie tun mussten, eine gewisse Haltung, die sie einnehmen mussten, bestimmte Leute, die sie kennen und nicht kennen mussten. Als sie dieses starre System um sich herum sah, auch wenn es in Bildteppiche gehüllt war, bemächtigte sie sich dieses Sinns der Dunkelheit und Erstickung, von dem ich gesprochen habe; sie schien eingesperrt zu sein mit einem Geruch von Moder und Verfall. Sie hatte natürlich Widerstand geleistet; zunächst sehr humorvoll, ironisch, zärtlich; dann, als die Situation ernster wurde, eifrig, leidenschaftlich, flehend. Sie hatte für die Freiheit plädiert, dafür, zu tun, was sie wollten, sich nicht um das Aussehen und die Bezeichnung ihres Lebens zu kümmern - für andere Instinkte und Sehnsüchte, für ein ganz anderes Ideal. Dann trat sie, wie sie erkannte, mit ihrer Persönlichkeit, die bisher noch nie berührt worden war, hervor und stand aufrecht da. Die Dinge, die sie gesagt hatte, wurden nur mit seinem Spott beantwortet, und sie konnte sehen, dass er unendlich peinlich berührt von ihr war. Was dachte er von ihr - dass sie gemein, vulgär, niederträchtig war? Er wusste nun zumindest, dass sie keine Traditionen hatte! In seiner Vorstellung von den Dingen war es nicht vorgekommen, dass sie eine solche Nichtigkeit offenbaren würde; ihre Gefühle waren würdig einer radikalen Zeitung oder eines unitarischen Predigers. Die eigentliche Beleidigung, wie sie letztendlich erkannte, bestand darin, überhaupt einen eigenen Verstand zu haben. Ihr Geist sollte ihm gehören - an seinen eigenen wie ein kleines Blumentrö Sie war sich jetzt moralisch sicher, dass dieses Gefühl des Hasses, das anfangs eine Zuflucht und Erfrischung gewesen war, zu seiner Lebensbeschäftigung und -tröstung geworden war. Das Gefühl war tief, weil es aufrichtig war; er hatte die Offenbarung gehabt, dass sie letztendlich auch ohne ihn auskommen könnte. Wenn die Idee für sie selbst schockierend war, wenn sie sich zuerst als eine Art Untreue, eine Fähigkeit zur Verschmutzung präsentierte, welchen unendlichen Effekt könnte sie dann nicht auf IHN gehabt haben? Es war sehr einfach; er verachtete sie; sie hatte keine Traditionen und keine moralische Vorstellung eines unitarischen Priesters. Arme Isabel, die nie in der Lage war, den Unitarismus zu verstehen! Das war die Gewissheit, mit der sie jetzt seit geraumer Zeit gelebt hatte, ohne es zu bemessen. Was kam - was lag vor ihnen? Das war ihre ständige Frage. Was würde er tun - was sollte SIE tun? Wohin führt es, wenn ein Mann seine Frau hasst? Sie hasste ihn nicht, dessen war sie sich sicher, denn alle paar Minuten verspürte sie den leidenschaftlichen Wunsch, ihm eine angenehme Überraschung zu bereiten. Oft hatte sie jedoch Angst, und es kam über sie, wie ich angedeutet habe, dass sie ihn von Anfang an getäuscht hatte. Sie waren auf seltsame Weise verheiratet, auf jeden Fall, und es war ein schreckliches Leben. Bis an diesem Morgen hatte er kaum eine Woche lang mit ihr gesprochen; seine Art war so trocken wie ein ausgebranntes Feuer. Sie wusste, dass es einen besonderen Grund gab; er war verärgert darüber, dass Ralph Touchett in Rom geblieben war. Er dachte, sie sah zu viel von ihrem Cousin - er hatte ihr vor einer Woche gesagt, es sei unsittlich, dass sie zu ihm in sein Hotel gehe. Er hätte mehr gesagt, wenn Ralphs kränklicher Zustand nicht brutal ausgesehen hätte, ihn anzuklagen; aber wenn er sich selbst beherrschen musste, dann hatte sich sein Ekel nur vertieft. Isabel las all dies, wie sie die Zeit auf dem Zifferblatt lesen würde; sie war sich genauso bewusst, dass der Anblick ihres Interesses an ihrem Cousin den Zorn ihres Mannes weckte, als hätte Osmond sie in ihr Zimmer eingeschlossen - wovon sie sicher war, dass es das war, was er tun wollte. Es war ihre ehrliche Überzeugung, dass sie im Großen und Ganzen nicht trotzig war, aber sie konnte sicherlich nicht vorgeben, gleichgültig gegenüber Ralph zu sein. Sie glaubte, dass er letztendlich sterben würde und dass sie ihn nie wiedersehen würde, und das machte sie zärtlich ihm gegenüber, was sie zuvor nie gekannt hatte. Für sie war jetzt nichts mehr ein Vergnügen; wie könnte etwas ein Vergnügen für eine Frau sein, die wusste, dass sie ihr Leben weggeworfen hatte? Es lag eine ewige Last auf ihrem Herzen - überall herrschte ein lebhaftes Licht. Aber Ralphs kleiner Besuch war eine Lampe in der Dunkelheit; für die Stunde, die sie mit ihm saß, wurde ihr eigenes Leid irgendwie zu seinem Leid. Heute fühlte sie sich, als wäre er ihr Bruder gewesen. Sie hatte nie einen Bruder gehabt, aber wenn sie einen gehabt hätte und sie in Schwierigkeiten wäre und er wäre im Sterben, dann wäre er ihr so lieb wie Ralph gewesen. Ach ja, wenn Gilbert eifersüchtig auf sie war, gab es vielleicht einen Grund; es machte Gilbert nicht besser, wenn er eine halbe Stunde mit Ralph verbrachte. Es ging nicht darum, dass sie über ihn sprachen - es ging nicht darum, dass sie sich beschwerte. Sein Name wurde nie zwischen ihnen ausgesprochen. Es war einfach so, dass Ralph großzügig war und ihr Mann nicht. Es gab etwas in Ralphs Rede, in seinem Lächeln, in der bloßen Tatsache, dass er in Rom war, das den verfluchten Kreis um sie herum größer machte. Er ließ sie das Gute in der Welt spüren; er ließ sie spüren, was hätte sein können. Immerhin war er genauso intelligent wie Osmond - ganz abgesehen davon, dass er besser war. Und so schien es ihr eine Form der Hingabe zu sein, ihr Elend vor ihm zu verbergen. Sie verbarg es aufwendig; sie hängte ständig in ihrem Gespräch Vorhänge auf und vor ihr - es lebte wieder vor ihr, es hatte keine Zeit gehabt zu sterben - der Morgen im Garten von Florenz, als er sie vor Osmond gewarnt hatte. Sie musste nur die Augen schließen, um den Ort zu sehen, seine Stimme zu hören und die warme, süße Luft zu spüren. Wie konnte er das wissen? Was für ein Mysterium, was für ein Wunder der Weisheit! So intelligent wie Gilbert? Er war viel intelligenter - um ein solches Urteil zu fällen. Gilbert war noch nie so tief, so gerecht gewesen. Sie hatte ihm damals gesagt, dass er von ihr zumindest nie erfahren würde, ob er recht hatte; und das war es, wofür sie jetzt sorgte. Es gab ihr viel zu tun; es gab Leidenschaft, Verzückung, Religion darin. Frauen finden manchmal ihre Religion in seltsamen Übungen, und Isabel hatte im Moment die Vorstellung, dass sie ihm eine Freundlichkeit erweise, indem sie eine Rolle vor ihrem Cousin spiele. Es wäre vielleicht eine Freundlichkeit gewesen, wenn er für einen einzigen Augenblick ein Schwachkopf gewesen wäre. So wie es war, bestand die Freundlichkeit hauptsächlich darin, ihn glauben zu machen, dass er ihr einmal sehr weh getan hatte und dass das Ereignis ihn in Verlegenheit gebracht hatte, aber da sie sehr großzügig war und er so krank war, trägt sie ihm keinen Groll und verzichtet sogar auf das forschende Glück in seinem Gesicht. Ralph lächelte vor sich hin, als er auf seinem Sofa lag, über diese außergewöhnliche Art der Rücksichtnahme; aber er verzieh ihr, dass sie ihm verziehen hatte. Sie wollte nicht, dass er den Schmerz hätte, zu wissen, dass sie unglücklich war: das war das Wichtigste, und es spielte keine Rolle, dass dieses Wissen ihn eher korrigiert hätte. Für sich blieb sie noch lange in dem lautlosen Salon, nachdem das Feuer erloschen war. Sie konnte keine Kälte spüren; sie hatte Fieber. Sie hörte die kleine Stunde schlagen und dann die große, aber ihre Wache nahm keine Rücksicht auf die Zeit. Ihr Geist, von Visionen angegriffen, war in einem Zustand außergewöhnlicher Aktivität, und ihre Visionen könnten genauso gut zu ihr kommen, wo sie nun da saß, um ihnen zu begegnen, wie auf ihrem Kissen, um eine Verspottung der Ruhe zu machen. Wie gesagt, glaubte sie, dass sie nicht trotzig war, und was könnte ein besseren Beweis dafür sein, als dass sie dort die halbe Nacht verharrte und versuchte, sich selbst davon zu überzeugen, dass es keinen Grund gab, warum Pansy nicht so wie bei einer Post das Brief einwerfen sollte? Als die Uhr vier schlug, stand sie auf; sie ging schließlich zu Bett, denn die Lampe war längst erloschen und die Kerzen bis auf ihre Fassungen abgebrannt. Aber selbst dann blieb sie wieder mitten im Raum stehen und starrte auf eine erinnerte Vision - die ihres Mannes und Madame Merle, die sich unbewusst und vertraut verbunden hatten. 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.

Isabel antwortete Gilbert nicht, als er mit ihr sprach, weil die Art und Weise, wie er die Situation darstellte, sie zum Nachdenken darüber brachte. Sie sitzt bis spät in die Nacht hinein und denkt über die Situation nach, in der sie sich befindet. Sie fragt sich, ob Gilbert Recht hat, dass ihre Vergangenheit mit Lord Warburton heute noch Bedeutung hat. Sie fragt sich eine Weile lang über Lord Warburtons Motive nach und reißt sich dann selbst zurück in die Realität, in dem sie sich sagt, dass sie warten wird, bis Lord Warburton beweist, dass er unwürdig ist, es von ihm zu glauben. Sie denkt noch einmal an das Bild, das sie an diesem Nachmittag von Madame Merle und Gilbert zusammen hatte. Sie denkt an ihr kurzes Gespräch mit Gilbert davor zurück. Er lässt "alles verdorren, was er berührt." Sie wollte etwas Edles tun, die Rolle der guten Ehefrau spielen, indem sie versuchte, ihm bei Warburton und Pansy zu helfen, aber als er hereinkam und sie in diese Richtung drängte, wollte sie damit nichts mehr zu tun haben. Misstrauen ist das Leitmotiv ihrer Ehe. Als sie zum ersten Mal geheiratet hatte, hatte sie vollstes Vertrauen gehabt. Dann sah sie, dass ihr Leben nur ein "dunkler, enger Gang mit einer Mauer am Ende" sein würde. Anders als viele Menschen leidet Isabel aktiv und leidenschaftlich. Sie denkt an ihr erstes Ehejahr zurück, als sie dachte, sie seien so "bewundernswert intim". Erst am Ende dieses Jahres bekam sie den ersten Alarm. Sie erkannte eines Tages, dass Gilbert sie hasste. Sie erkannte, dass er sich vor ihrer Ehe vorgestellt hatte, sie ändern zu können. Sie versuchte, zu sein, was er von ihr wollte, aber sie war sie selbst und konnte das nicht ändern. Sie erkennt, dass sie während ihres Werbens um ihn "sich selbst ausradiert" hatte. Sie hatte versucht, genau das zu sein, was er von ihr wollte. Sie hatte "vorgegeben, dass es von ihr weniger gab, als es gab." Sie war einem mächtigen Zauber erlegen, den er auf sie ausgeübt hatte. Sie hatte damals nur die Hälfte seiner Natur gesehen. Er hatte ihr gesagt, sie sei die fantasievollste Frau, die er jemals gekannt habe. Jetzt denkt sie reuevoll an diese Beschreibung. Es waren ihre Vorstellungskraft, die sie in diese Ehe brachte. Sie hatte "eine Welt von Dingen vorgestellt, die keine Substanz hatten." Sie hatte sich ein Bild von ihm gemacht; sie hatte ihn "nicht richtig gelesen". Sie hatte gedacht, er sei wie ein skeptischer Entdecker und sie wollte sein Boot für ihn starten. Sie erkennt, dass darin ein seltsamer mütterlicher Zug lag. Aber sie erkennt auch, dass es nicht nur Wohltätigkeit war, die sie dazu brachte, ihn zu heiraten. Sie hatte die Last dieses ganzen Geldes gespürt und Gilbert Osmond war der beste Ort, um es unterzubringen. Sie übertrug es auf einen Mann, der den besten Geschmack der Welt hatte. Es gab auch etwas anderes als das. Sie hatte auch eine große Glut für ihn empfunden. Sie hatte gedacht, er sei besser als jeder andere und intelligenter. Sie hatte gedacht, dass das "feinste. . . männliche Wesen, das sie je gekannt hatte, ihr Eigentum geworden war." Sie schätzt noch immer seine Intelligenz und Feinheit der Wahrnehmung. Nun erinnert sie sich an das erste Anzeichen des großen Fehlers, den sie begangen hatte, als sie ihn heiratete. Eines Tages sagte er ihr, "dass sie zu viele Ideen habe und sich von ihnen trennen müsse." Sie erinnert sich, dass er ihr das vor ihrer Ehe gesagt hatte, aber sie hatte ihm nicht geglaubt oder hatte ihn falsch gehört. Sie erkennt, dass er damit meinte, dass er von ihr wollte, dass sie "das Ganze loswird - ihren Charakter, ihre Gefühle, ihre Art zu urteilen." Er nahm persönlich Anstoß an ihrer Art, das Leben zu betrachten. Sie empfand "ungläubigen Schrecken" bei dieser Erkenntnis. Sie erkannte schließlich seinen ungeheuerlichen Egoismus. Er betrachtete sich selbst als den "ersten Gentleman Europas" und sie hatte ihn in diesem Licht geheiratet. Er empfindet Verachtung für jeden in der Welt, aber er wünscht sich Anerkennung seines Wertes von Menschen, die er verachtet. Ihre Vorstellungen vom "aristokratischen Leben", erkannte sie damals, waren leider sehr unterschiedlich. Für Isabelle war das aristokratische Leben die "Vereinigung von großem Wissen mit großer Freiheit". Für Gilbert bedeutete es, nach Traditionen, Konventionen und Formen zu leben. Er zwang sie, innerhalb dieser sozialen Konventionen zu leben, die sie immer so leicht genommen hatte. Zuerst hatte sie versucht, "die Sache der Freiheit zu vertreten", aber dann erkannte sie, dass es keinen Sinn hatte, als sie erkannte, dass Gilbert sich für sie schämte. Er war gekränkt davon, dass sie einen eigenen Kopf hatte. Seine Vorstellung von ihren beiden Köpfen war, dass seiner ein Wildpark war und ihrer ein kleines Gartenbeet, das daran angeschlossen war. Er sollte die volle Kontrolle über ihres haben und es zum Blumenpflücken benutzen. Sie wurde auch moralisch abgestoßen von den Dingen, die er ihr erzählte. Er hatte ihr Dinge erzählt, die sie "grausam unrein" fand. Zum Beispiel hatte er ihr gesagt, dass alle verheirateten Frauen lügen und Affären haben. Sie fragte sich, ob er alle Frauen in dieselbe Klasse wie die Gräfin Gemini einordnete. Als er merkte, dass sie seine Annahmen verachtete, nahm er sich zusammen. Er hatte nie gedacht, dass seine kluge Frau Einwände gegen seine Ideen haben würde. Er mochte es, dass sie klug war, aber er betrachtete es als weiteren Vorteil für seinen eigenen Reichtum, nicht als etwas, mit dem er sich auseinandersetzen müsste. Was Isabel betrifft, hasst sie ihn nicht. Oft aber fühlt sie Angst. Er hat eine Woche lang nicht mit ihr gesprochen, bevor er sie heute Morgen traf. Sie weiß, dass er wütend auf sie ist, weil sie so viel Zeit mit Ralph Touchett verbracht hat. Isabel hat erkannt, dass Ralph wirklich im Sterben liegt, und sie empfindet große Zärtlichkeit für ihn. Sie erkennt, dass Ralph großzügig und gut ist. Wenn sie bei ihm ist, "spürt sie das Gute der Welt." Sie betrachtet es als "einen Akt der Hingabe, ihr Elend vor ihm zu verbergen." Sie erkennt nicht, dass er weiß, dass sie das tut. Isabel erkennt, dass es vier Uhr morgens ist und sich darauf vor, ins Bett zu gehen. Bevor sie das Wohnzimmer verlässt, denkt sie an das Bild, das sie an diesem Tag festgehalten hat: Ihr Mann und Madame Merle "unbewusst und vertraut miteinander verbunden".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: "Whoso prefers either Matrimony or other Ordinance before the Good of Man and the plain Exigence of Charity, let him profess Papist, or Protestant, or what he will, he is no better than a Pharisee."--J. MILTON. Shaston, the ancient British Palladour, From whose foundation first such strange reports arise, (as Drayton sang it), was, and is, in itself the city of a dream. Vague imaginings of its castle, its three mints, its magnificent apsidal abbey, the chief glory of South Wessex, its twelve churches, its shrines, chantries, hospitals, its gabled freestone mansions--all now ruthlessly swept away--throw the visitor, even against his will, into a pensive melancholy, which the stimulating atmosphere and limitless landscape around him can scarcely dispel. The spot was the burial-place of a king and a queen, of abbots and abbesses, saints and bishops, knights and squires. The bones of King Edward "the Martyr," carefully removed hither for holy preservation, brought Shaston a renown which made it the resort of pilgrims from every part of Europe, and enabled it to maintain a reputation extending far beyond English shores. To this fair creation of the great Middle-Age the Dissolution was, as historians tell us, the death-knell. With the destruction of the enormous abbey the whole place collapsed in a general ruin: the Martyr's bones met with the fate of the sacred pile that held them, and not a stone is now left to tell where they lie. The natural picturesqueness and singularity of the town still remain; but strange to say these qualities, which were noted by many writers in ages when scenic beauty is said to have been unappreciated, are passed over in this, and one of the queerest and quaintest spots in England stands virtually unvisited to-day. It has a unique position on the summit of a steep and imposing scarp, rising on the north, south, and west sides of the borough out of the deep alluvial Vale of Blackmoor, the view from the Castle Green over three counties of verdant pasture--South, Mid, and Nether Wessex--being as sudden a surprise to the unexpectant traveller's eyes as the medicinal air is to his lungs. Impossible to a railway, it can best be reached on foot, next best by light vehicles; and it is hardly accessible to these but by a sort of isthmus on the north-east, that connects it with the high chalk table-land on that side. Such is, and such was, the now world-forgotten Shaston or Palladour. Its situation rendered water the great want of the town; and within living memory, horses, donkeys and men may have been seen toiling up the winding ways to the top of the height, laden with tubs and barrels filled from the wells beneath the mountain, and hawkers retailing their contents at the price of a halfpenny a bucketful. This difficulty in the water supply, together with two other odd facts, namely, that the chief graveyard slopes up as steeply as a roof behind the church, and that in former times the town passed through a curious period of corruption, conventual and domestic, gave rise to the saying that Shaston was remarkable for three consolations to man, such as the world afforded not elsewhere. It was a place where the churchyard lay nearer heaven than the church steeple, where beer was more plentiful than water, and where there were more wanton women than honest wives and maids. It is also said that after the Middle Ages the inhabitants were too poor to pay their priests, and hence were compelled to pull down their churches, and refrain altogether from the public worship of God; a necessity which they bemoaned over their cups in the settles of their inns on Sunday afternoons. In those days the Shastonians were apparently not without a sense of humour. There was another peculiarity--this a modern one--which Shaston appeared to owe to its site. It was the resting-place and headquarters of the proprietors of wandering vans, shows, shooting-galleries, and other itinerant concerns, whose business lay largely at fairs and markets. As strange wild birds are seen assembled on some lofty promontory, meditatively pausing for longer flights, or to return by the course they followed thither, so here, in this cliff-town, stood in stultified silence the yellow and green caravans bearing names not local, as if surprised by a change in the landscape so violent as to hinder their further progress; and here they usually remained all the winter till they turned to seek again their old tracks in the following spring. It was to this breezy and whimsical spot that Jude ascended from the nearest station for the first time in his life about four o'clock one afternoon, and entering on the summit of the peak after a toilsome climb, passed the first houses of the aerial town; and drew towards the school-house. The hour was too early; the pupils were still in school, humming small, like a swarm of gnats; and he withdrew a few steps along Abbey Walk, whence he regarded the spot which fate had made the home of all he loved best in the world. In front of the schools, which were extensive and stone-built, grew two enormous beeches with smooth mouse-coloured trunks, as such trees will only grow on chalk uplands. Within the mullioned and transomed windows he could see the black, brown, and flaxen crowns of the scholars over the sills, and to pass the time away he walked down to the level terrace where the abbey gardens once had spread, his heart throbbing in spite of him. Unwilling to enter till the children were dismissed he remained here till young voices could be heard in the open air, and girls in white pinafores over red and blue frocks appeared dancing along the paths which the abbess, prioress, subprioress, and fifty nuns had demurely paced three centuries earlier. Retracing his steps he found that he had waited too long, and that Sue had gone out into the town at the heels of the last scholar, Mr. Phillotson having been absent all the afternoon at a teachers' meeting at Shottsford. Jude went into the empty schoolroom and sat down, the girl who was sweeping the floor having informed him that Mrs. Phillotson would be back again in a few minutes. A piano stood near--actually the old piano that Phillotson had possessed at Marygreen--and though the dark afternoon almost prevented him seeing the notes Jude touched them in his humble way, and could not help modulating into the hymn which had so affected him in the previous week. A figure moved behind him, and thinking it was still the girl with the broom Jude took no notice, till the person came close and laid her fingers lightly upon his bass hand. The imposed hand was a little one he seemed to know, and he turned. "Don't stop," said Sue. "I like it. I learnt it before I left Melchester. They used to play it in the training school." "I can't strum before you! Play it for me." "Oh well--I don't mind." Sue sat down, and her rendering of the piece, though not remarkable, seemed divine as compared with his own. She, like him, was evidently touched--to her own surprise--by the recalled air; and when she had finished, and he moved his hand towards hers, it met his own half-way. Jude grasped it--just as he had done before her marriage. "It is odd," she said, in a voice quite changed, "that I should care about that air; because--" "Because what?" "I am not that sort--quite." "Not easily moved?" "I didn't quite mean that." "Oh, but you ARE one of that sort, for you are just like me at heart!" "But not at head." She played on and suddenly turned round; and by an unpremeditated instinct each clasped the other's hand again. She uttered a forced little laugh as she relinquished his quickly. "How funny!" she said. "I wonder what we both did that for?" "I suppose because we are both alike, as I said before." "Not in our thoughts! Perhaps a little in our feelings." "And they rule thoughts... Isn't it enough to make one blaspheme that the composer of that hymn is one of the most commonplace men I ever met!" "What--you know him?" "I went to see him." "Oh, you goose--to do just what I should have done! Why did you?" "Because we are not alike," he said drily. "Now we'll have some tea," said Sue. "Shall we have it here instead of in my house? It is no trouble to get the kettle and things brought in. We don't live at the school you know, but in that ancient dwelling across the way called Old-Grove Place. It is so antique and dismal that it depresses me dreadfully. Such houses are very well to visit, but not to live in--I feel crushed into the earth by the weight of so many previous lives there spent. In a new place like these schools there is only your own life to support. Sit down, and I'll tell Ada to bring the tea-things across." He waited in the light of the stove, the door of which she flung open before going out, and when she returned, followed by the maiden with tea, they sat down by the same light, assisted by the blue rays of a spirit-lamp under the brass kettle on the stand. "This is one of your wedding-presents to me," she said, signifying the latter. "Yes," said Jude. The kettle of his gift sang with some satire in its note, to his mind; and to change the subject he said, "Do you know of any good readable edition of the uncanonical books of the New Testament? You don't read them in the school I suppose?" "Oh dear no!--'twould alarm the neighbourhood... Yes, there is one. I am not familiar with it now, though I was interested in it when my former friend was alive. Cowper's _Apocryphal Gospels_." "That sounds like what I want." His thoughts, however reverted with a twinge to the "former friend"--by whom she meant, as he knew, the university comrade of her earlier days. He wondered if she talked of him to Phillotson. "The Gospel of Nicodemus is very nice," she went on to keep him from his jealous thoughts, which she read clearly, as she always did. Indeed when they talked on an indifferent subject, as now, there was ever a second silent conversation passing between their emotions, so perfect was the reciprocity between them. "It is quite like the genuine article. All cut up into verses, too; so that it is like one of the other evangelists read in a dream, when things are the same, yet not the same. But, Jude, do you take an interest in those questions still? Are you getting up _Apologetica_?" "Yes. I am reading Divinity harder than ever." She regarded him curiously. "Why do you look at me like that?" said Jude. "Oh--why do you want to know?" "I am sure you can tell me anything I may be ignorant of in that subject. You must have learnt a lot of everything from your dear dead friend!" "We won't get on to that now!" she coaxed. "Will you be carving out at that church again next week, where you learnt the pretty hymn?" "Yes, perhaps." "That will be very nice. Shall I come and see you there? It is in this direction, and I could come any afternoon by train for half an hour?" "No. Don't come!" "What--aren't we going to be friends, then, any longer, as we used to be?" "No." "I didn't know that. I thought you were always going to be kind to me!" "No, I am not." "What have I done, then? I am sure I thought we two--" The _tremolo_ in her voice caused her to break off. "Sue, I sometimes think you are a flirt," said he abruptly. There was a momentary pause, till she suddenly jumped up; and to his surprise he saw by the kettle-flame that her face was flushed. "I can't talk to you any longer, Jude!" she said, the tragic contralto note having come back as of old. "It is getting too dark to stay together like this, after playing morbid Good Friday tunes that make one feel what one shouldn't! ... We mustn't sit and talk in this way any more. Yes--you must go away, for you mistake me! I am very much the reverse of what you say so cruelly--Oh, Jude, it WAS cruel to say that! Yet I can't tell you the truth--I should shock you by letting you know how I give way to my impulses, and how much I feel that I shouldn't have been provided with attractiveness unless it were meant to be exercised! Some women's love of being loved is insatiable; and so, often, is their love of loving; and in the last case they may find that they can't give it continuously to the chamber-officer appointed by the bishop's licence to receive it. But you are so straightforward, Jude, that you can't understand me! ... Now you must go. I am sorry my husband is not at home." "Are you?" "I perceive I have said that in mere convention! Honestly I don't think I am sorry. It does not matter, either way, sad to say!" As they had overdone the grasp of hands some time sooner, she touched his fingers but lightly when he went out now. He had hardly gone from the door when, with a dissatisfied look, she jumped on a form and opened the iron casement of a window beneath which he was passing in the path without. "When do you leave here to catch your train, Jude?" she asked. He looked up in some surprise. "The coach that runs to meet it goes in three-quarters of an hour or so." "What will you do with yourself for the time?" "Oh--wander about, I suppose. Perhaps I shall go and sit in the old church." "It does seem hard of me to pack you off so! You have thought enough of churches, Heaven knows, without going into one in the dark. Stay there." "Where?" "Where you are. I can talk to you better like this than when you were inside... It was so kind and tender of you to give up half a day's work to come to see me! ... You are Joseph the dreamer of dreams, dear Jude. And a tragic Don Quixote. And sometimes you are St. Stephen, who, while they were stoning him, could see Heaven opened. Oh, my poor friend and comrade, you'll suffer yet!" Now that the high window-sill was between them, so that he could not get at her, she seemed not to mind indulging in a frankness she had feared at close quarters. "I have been thinking," she continued, still in the tone of one brimful of feeling, "that the social moulds civilization fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. I am called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, living a calm wedded life with my counterpart of that name. But I am not really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, but a woman tossed about, all alone, with aberrant passions, and unaccountable antipathies... Now you mustn't wait longer, or you will lose the coach. Come and see me again. You must come to the house then." "Yes!" said Jude. "When shall it be?" "To-morrow week. Good-bye--good-bye!" She stretched out her hand and stroked his forehead pitifully--just once. Jude said good-bye, and went away into the darkness. Passing along Bimport Street he thought he heard the wheels of the coach departing, and, truly enough, when he reached the Duke's Arms in the Market Place the coach had gone. It was impossible for him to get to the station on foot in time for this train, and he settled himself perforce to wait for the next--the last to Melchester that night. He wandered about awhile, obtained something to eat; and then, having another half-hour on his hands, his feet involuntarily took him through the venerable graveyard of Trinity Church, with its avenues of limes, in the direction of the schools again. They were entirely in darkness. She had said she lived over the way at Old-Grove Place, a house which he soon discovered from her description of its antiquity. A glimmering candlelight shone from a front window, the shutters being yet unclosed. He could see the interior clearly--the floor sinking a couple of steps below the road without, which had become raised during the centuries since the house was built. Sue, evidently just come in, was standing with her hat on in this front parlour or sitting-room, whose walls were lined with wainscoting of panelled oak reaching from floor to ceiling, the latter being crossed by huge moulded beams only a little way above her head. The mantelpiece was of the same heavy description, carved with Jacobean pilasters and scroll-work. The centuries did, indeed, ponderously overhang a young wife who passed her time here. She had opened a rosewood work-box, and was looking at a photograph. Having contemplated it a little while she pressed it against her bosom, and put it again in its place. Then becoming aware that she had not obscured the windows she came forward to do so, candle in hand. It was too dark for her to see Jude without, but he could see her face distinctly, and there was an unmistakable tearfulness about the dark, long-lashed eyes. She closed the shutters, and Jude turned away to pursue his solitary journey home. "Whose photograph was she looking at?" he said. He had once given her his; but she had others, he knew. Yet it was his, surely? He knew he should go to see her again, according to her invitation. Those earnest men he read of, the saints, whom Sue, with gentle irreverence, called his demi-gods, would have shunned such encounters if they doubted their own strength. But he could not. He might fast and pray during the whole interval, but the human was more powerful in him than the Divine. Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Jude besucht Sue in der Schule in Shaston. Er wartet im leeren Klassenzimmer und spielt die Hymne, die ihn so verzaubert hat. Sue tritt still ein. Sie spielt sie auch für ihn und beide sind so bewegt von ihrer Schönheit, dass Jude kommentiert, dass sie sich sehr ähnlich sind. Sie sprechen über verschiedene Themen und Sue erwähnt ihre ehemalige Freundin, die Studentin, bis Jude, von Eifersucht gestochen, sie beschuldigt, "ein Flirt zu sein". Sie ist verärgert und versucht sich und ihr Recht auf Liebe zu verteidigen. Sie spricht von den Konflikten, die sie erlebt, und der Schwierigkeit, in die konventionelle Rolle zu passen, die die Gesellschaft für Frauen vorsieht. Sie verabschieden sich und Sue lädt ihn ein, sie eine Woche später zu besuchen. Jude schlendert durch die Stadt und nähert sich Sues Haus. Durch das Fenster sieht er, wie sie ein Foto aus ihrer Arbeitsbox nimmt, es betrachtet und nahe an ihr Herz hält. Obwohl er sich nicht sicher ist, hofft Jude, dass es sein eigenes ist, und er weiß, dass er sie bald wiedersehen 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: Ich wachte in meinem eigenen Bett auf. Falls es sich nicht um einen Traum handelte, muss mich der Graf hierher getragen haben. Ich versuchte, mich am Thema zu orientieren, konnte jedoch zu keinem unbestreitbaren Ergebnis gelangen. Sicher gab es bestimmte kleine Hinweise, wie zum Beispiel, dass meine Kleidung gefaltet war und auf eine Weise abgelegt worden war, die nicht meiner Gewohnheit entsprach. Meine Uhr war immer noch nicht aufgezogen, und ich bin streng daran gewöhnt, sie als letztes vor dem Zubettgehen aufzuziehen, und viele solcher Details. Aber diese Dinge sind kein Beweis, denn sie könnten ein Hinweis darauf sein, dass mein Verstand nicht wie gewohnt war und dass ich aus irgendeinem Grund sicherlich sehr aufgewühlt war. Ich muss nach Beweisen Ausschau halten. Über eine Sache bin ich froh: Wenn es tatsächlich so war, dass der Graf mich hierher getragen und mich ausgezogen hat, dann muss er in seiner Aufgabe gehetzt gewesen sein, denn meine Taschen sind intakt. Ich bin sicher, dass dieses Tagebuch ein Rätsel für ihn gewesen wäre, das er nicht geduldet hätte. Er hätte es genommen oder zerstört. Als ich mich in diesem Raum umsehe, obwohl er für mich so voller Angst war, ist er jetzt eine Art Zufluchtsort, denn nichts kann schrecklicher sein als diese schrecklichen Frauen, die darauf warten, mein Blut zu saugen. * * * * * _18. Mai._ - Ich bin bei Tageslicht noch einmal in das Zimmer hinuntergegangen, um mich zu vergewissern, ich _muss_ die Wahrheit wissen. Als ich an der Türöffnung oben auf der Treppe ankam, fand ich sie geschlossen. Sie war mit solcher Gewalt gegen den Türpfosten geschlagen worden, dass Teile des Holzes zerbrochen waren. Ich konnte sehen, dass der Riegel des Schlosses nicht eingerastet war, aber die Tür ist von innen verriegelt. Ich fürchte, es war kein Traum und muss auf diese Vermutung handeln. * * * * * _19. Mai._ - Ich bin sicher in den Fängen. Letzte Nacht bat mich der Graf in den schmeichelhaftesten Tönen, drei Briefe zu schreiben, in denen ich erkläre, dass meine Arbeit hier fast beendet ist und dass ich in ein paar Tagen nach Hause fahren werde, die nächste Aussage, dass ich am nächsten Morgen abreise, und die dritte, dass ich das Schloss verlassen und nach Bistritz gekommen bin. Ich hätte mich gerne widersetzt, aber ich fühlte, dass es angesichts der aktuellen Situation Wahnsinn wäre, mich offen mit dem Grafen anzulegen, solange ich so absolut in seiner Gewalt bin. Ihm zu widersprechen würde seinen Verdacht erregen und seinen Zorn erwecken. Er weiß, dass ich zu viel weiß und dass ich nicht leben darf, weil ich ihm gefährlich sein könnte; meine einzige Chance besteht darin, meine Möglichkeiten zu verlängern. Es könnte etwas passieren, das mir eine Chance zur Flucht gibt. Ich sah in seinen Augen etwas von diesem wachsenden Zorn, der zum Ausdruck kam, als er diese schöne Frau von sich stieß. Er erklärte mir, dass Briefe rar und unzuverlässig seien und dass meine jetzige Schreibweise meinen Freunden Seelenruhe garantieren würde; und er versicherte mir so eindringlich, dass er die späteren Briefe abbestellen würde, die in Bistritz aufbewahrt werden, bis es an der Zeit ist, falls es die Umstände zulassen würden, meinen Aufenthalt zu verlängern, dass es ein neuer Verdacht gewesen wäre, sich ihm zu widersetzen. Deshalb gab ich vor, mit seinen Ansichten einverstanden zu sein, und fragte ihn, welche Daten ich auf die Briefe setzen sollte. Er überlegte eine Minute und sagte dann:-- "Der erste sollte der 12. Juni sein, der zweite der 19. Juni und der dritte der 29. Juni." Jetzt weiß ich, wie lange mein Leben noch dauern wird. Gott helfe mir! * * * * * _28. Mai._ - Es besteht eine Chance zur Flucht oder zumindest die Möglichkeit, Nachrichten nach Hause zu schicken. Eine Bande von Szgany ist auf das Schloss gekommen und lagert im Hof. Diese Szgany sind Zigeuner; ich habe Notizen über sie in meinem Buch. Sie sind für diese Region der Welt eigenartig, obwohl sie mit den gewöhnlichen Zigeunern auf der ganzen Welt verwandt sind. Es gibt Tausende von ihnen in Ungarn und Transsilvanien, die fast außerhalb des Gesetzes stehen. Sie schließen sich in der Regel einem Adligen oder Boyar an und nennen sich dann nach ihm. Sie sind furchtlos und ohne Religion, außer Aberglauben, und sie sprechen nur ihre eigenen Variationen der Romani-Sprache. Ich werde einige Briefe nach Hause schreiben und versuchen, sie absenden zu lassen. Ich habe bereits durch mein Fenster mit ihnen gesprochen, um Bekanntschaft zu schließen. Sie zogen ihre Hüte ab, verbeugten sich und machten viele Zeichen, die ich jedoch genauso wenig verstand wie ihre gesprochene Sprache... * * * * * Ich habe die Briefe geschrieben. Minas Brief ist in Stenografie und ich bitte einfach Mr. Hawkins, mit ihr Kontakt aufzunehmen. Ich habe ihr meine Situation erklärt, jedoch ohne die Schrecken, die ich nur vermuten kann. Es würde sie schockieren und zu Tode erschrecken, wenn ich ihr mein Herz offenlegen würde. Sollten die Briefe nicht zugestellt werden, so soll der Graf mein Geheimnis noch nicht kennen oder das Ausmaß meines Wissens... * * * * * Ich habe die Briefe abgegeben; ich warf sie mit einem Goldstück durch die Gitter meines Fensters und machte so viele Zeichen wie möglich, damit sie abgeschickt werden. Der Mann, der sie entgegennahm, drückte sie an sein Herz, verbeugte sich und steckte sie dann in seine Mütze. Ich konnte nicht mehr tun. Ich stahl mich zurück ins Studierzimmer und fing an zu lesen. Da der Graf nicht herein kam, habe ich hier geschrieben... * * * * * Der Graf ist gekommen. Er setzte sich neben mich und sagte in seinem sanftesten Ton, während er zwei Briefe öffnete:-- "Der Szgany hat mir diese gegeben, von denen ich zwar nicht weiß, woher sie kommen, aber ich werde mich natürlich darum kümmern. Sieh!" - er muss es angesehen haben - "einer ist von dir und an meinen Freund Peter Hawkins; der andere" - hier erblickte er die seltsamen Symbole, als er den Umschlag öffnete, und ein finsterer Ausdruck trat in sein Gesicht und seine Augen leuchteten böse - "der andere ist etwas Abscheuliches, ein Angriff auf Freundschaft und Gastfreundschaft! Er ist nicht unterschrieben. Nun! es kann für uns also keine Rolle spielen." Und er hielt ruhig Brief und Umschlag in die Flamme der Lampe, bis sie verbrannt waren. Dann fuhr er fort:-- "Den Brief an Hawkins - den werde ich natürlich weiterleiten, da er von dir ist. Deine Briefe sind mir heilig. Verzeihung, mein Freund, dass ich unwissentlich das Siegel gebrochen habe. Würdest du es nicht wieder versiegeln?" Er reichte mir den Brief und gab mir höflich eine saubere Umhüllung. Ich konnte ihn nur umadressieren und ihn ihm schweigend überreichen. Als er den Raum verließ, konnte ich das leise Drehen des Schlüssels hören. Eine Minute später ging ich hinüber und probierte es und die Tür war verschlossen. Als der Graf eine Stunde oder zwei später leise in das Zimmer kam, weckte mich sein Kommen, denn ich war auf dem Sofa eingeschlafen. Er war sehr höflich und fröhlich und sagte, als er sah, dass ich geschlafen hatte:-- "Also, mein Freund, du bist müde? Gehe schlafen. Das ist die sicherste Ruhe. Ich habe heute Abend vielleicht nicht das Vergnügen zu sprechen, da ich viele Arbeiten habe; aber du wirst schlafen, bitte ich." Ich ging in mein Zimmer und ging schlafen und, seltsam genug, träumte ich nicht. Verzweiflung hat ihre eigenen Ruhephasen. * * * * * _31. Mai._ - Als ich heute Morgen aufwachte, dachte ich, ich würde mir etwas Papier und Umsch _17. Juni._ -- Heute Morgen, als ich am Rand meines Bettes saß und mir den Kopf zerbrach, hörte ich draußen das Knacken von Peitschen und das Stampfen und Schaben von Pferdehufen auf dem steinigen Pfad jenseits des Hofes. Freudestrahlend eilte ich zum Fenster und sah zwei große Leiterwagen in den Hof fahren, jeder von acht kräftigen Pferden gezogen, und an der Spitze jedes Paares ein Slowake mit breitem Hut, großem nagelbesetztem Gürtel, schmutzigem Schaffell und hohen Stiefeln. Sie trugen auch ihre langen Stangen in der Hand. Ich lief zur Tür, um hinunterzugehen und versuchte, mich durch den Hauptflur zu ihnen zu gesellen, da ich dachte, dass sich der Weg für sie öffnen könnte. Wieder ein Schock: meine Tür war von außen verriegelt. Dann lief ich zum Fenster und rief ihnen zu. Sie schauten mich verblüfft an und zeigten auf etwas, aber genau in diesem Moment kam der "Hetman" der Szgany heraus und sah, wie sie auf mein Fenster zeigten. Er sagte etwas, worüber sie lachten. Von da an konnte ich sie mit keiner Anstrengung, keinem kläglichen Schrei oder qualvollem Flehen dazu bringen, mich auch nur anzuschauen. Entschlossen wandten sie sich ab. Die Leiterwagen enthielten große viereckige Kisten mit Griffen aus dickem Seil; diese waren offensichtlich leer, wie sich anhand der Leichtigkeit erkennen ließ, mit der die Slowaken sie bewegten, und an ihrem Klang, als sie grob hin und her bewegt wurden. Als alle entladen und zu einem großen Haufen in einer Ecke des Hofes gestapelt waren, gab der Szgany den Slowaken etwas Geld und spuckte zum Glück darauf. Faul gingen sie dann zu den Köpfen ihrer Pferde. Kurz darauf hörte ich das Knallen ihrer Peitschen in der Ferne verklingen. *** _24. Juni, vor dem Morgengrauen._ -- Letzte Nacht verließ mich der Graf früh und sperrte sich in sein eigenes Zimmer ein. Sobald ich mich traute, stieg ich die Wendeltreppe hinauf und schaute aus dem nach Süden gerichteten Fenster. Ich dachte, ich würde auf den Grafen warten, weil irgendetwas im Gange ist. Die Szgany sind irgendwo im Schloss untergebracht und verrichten eine Art Arbeit. Ich weiß es, denn hin und wieder höre ich entfernt gedämpfte Geräusche, als ob Hacke und Spaten benutzt würden, und was auch immer es ist, es muss das Ende einer rücksichtslosen Schurkerei sein. Ich hatte etwa eine halbe Stunde lang am Fenster gesessen, als ich etwas aus dem Fenster des Grafen kommen sah. Ich zog mich zurück und beobachtete sorgfältig und sah den ganzen Mann auftauchen. Es war ein neuer Schock für mich, zu sehen, dass er den Anzug trug, den ich während meiner Reise hierher getragen hatte, und über seiner Schulter den schrecklichen Beutel, den ich die Frauen wegnehmen gesehen hatte. Es konnte kein Zweifel daran bestehen, wonach er suchte, und in meiner Kleidung auch noch! Das ist also sein neuer teuflischer Plan: dass er anderen erlauben will, mich zu sehen, damit er sowohl Beweise hinterlässt, dass ich in den Städten oder Dörfern meine eigenen Briefe aufgegeben habe, als auch dass alle Schlechtigkeiten, die er tut, den örtlichen Leuten mir zugeschrieben werden. Es macht mich wütend zu denken, dass dies weitergehen kann, und während ich hier eingesperrt bin, ein wahrer Gefangener, aber ohne den Schutz des Gesetzes, der sogar einem Verbrecher zusteht. Ich dachte, ich würde auf die Rückkehr des Grafen warten, und ich saß lange Zeit hartnäckig am Fenster. Dann begann ich zu bemerken, dass es einige seltsame kleine Punkte gab, die in den Strahlen des Mondlichts schwebten. Sie waren wie winzigste Staubkörner und wirbelten herum und sammelten sich in nebliger Weise in Ansammlungen. Ich beobachtete sie mit einem beruhigenden Gefühl, und eine Art Ruhe breitete sich in mir aus. Ich lehnte mich entspannt in die Fensternische, um eine angenehmere Position einzunehmen, um das luftige Gehüpfe besser genießen zu können. Etwas ließ mich aufschrecken, ein leises, jämmerliches Heulen von Hunden irgendwo weit unten im Tal, das meinen Augen verborgen blieb. Lauter schien es in meinen Ohren zu tönen, und die schwebenden Staubkörnchen nahmen neue Formen an, während sie im Mondschein tanzten. Ich spürte, wie ich mich bemühte, auf den Ruf meiner Instinkte zu erwachen; ja, meine Seele kämpfte regelrecht, und meine halb erinnerten Empfindungen sträubten sich gegen den Ruf. Ich wurde hypnotisiert! Schneller und schneller tanzte der Staub; die Mondstrahlen schienen zu zittern, als sie an mir vorbei in die Dunkelheit hineingingen. Immer mehr kamen sie zusammen, bis sie nebulöse, geheimnisvolle Gestalten annahmen. Und dann sprang ich auf, hellwach und in vollem Besitz meiner Sinne, und lief schreiend von dem Ort weg. Die geisterhaften Gestalten, die sich allmählich aus den Mondstrahlen materialisierten, waren die der drei gespenstischen Frauen, denen ich gemeißelt war. Ich floh und fühlte mich in meinem eigenen Raum einigermaßen sicherer, wo kein Mondlicht war und die Lampe hell brannte. Als ein paar Stunden vergangen waren, hörte ich etwas in dem Zimmer des Grafen. Es klang wie ein scharfer Schrei, der schnell erstickt wurde, und dann herrschte Stille, tiefe, schreckliche Stille, die mich fröstelte. Mit klopfendem Herzen versuchte ich die Tür, aber ich war in meinem Gefängnis eingesperrt und konnte nichts tun. Ich setzte mich hin und weinte einfach. Während ich dort saß, hörte ich draußen im Hof ein Geräusch - den gequälten Schrei einer Frau. Ich eilte zum Fenster und öffnete es, um zwischen den Gittern hinauszuschauen. Dort stand tatsächlich eine Frau mit zerzaustem Haar, die ihre Hände über ihr Herz hielt, als wäre sie vom Laufen ermüdet. Sie lehnte sich gegen eine Ecke des Tors. Als sie mein Gesicht am Fenster sah, warf sie sich nach vorne und schrie mit einer von Drohungen erfüllten Stimme: "Ungeheuer, gib mir mein Kind!" Sie warf sich auf die Knie und hob ihre Hände und rief die gleichen Worte mit tönen, die mein Herz zerrissen. Dann riss sie sich die Haare aus und schlug sich die Brust und gab sich all den Gewaltausbrüchen extravagantesten Gefühls hin. Schließlich warf sie sich nach vorne, und obwohl ich sie nicht sehen konnte, konnte ich das Schlagen ihrer nackten Hände gegen die Tür hören. Irgendwo hoch oben, vermutlich auf dem Turm, hörte ich die Stimme des Grafen in seinem harschen, metallischen Flüstern rufen. Sein Ruf schien von weit her von den heulenden Wölfen beantwortet zu werden. Bevor viele Minuten vergangen waren, strömte eine Meute von ihnen, wie ein aufgestauter Damm, der befreit wird, durch den weiten Eingang in den Hof. Es gab keinen Schrei von der Frau, und das Heulen der Wölfe war nur kurz. Bald schon zogen sie einzeln ab und leckten sich die Lippen. Ich konnte sie nicht bemitleiden, denn ich wusste nun, was aus ihrem Kind geworden war, und sie war besser tot. Was soll ich tun? Was kann ich tun? Wie kann ich diesem schrecklichen Ding aus Nacht und Dunkelheit und Angst entkommen? *** _25 Juni, Morgen._ -- Niemand weiß, bis er Am selben Tag, später. - Ich habe mich angestrengt und bin mit Gottes Hilfe sicher in dieses Zimmer zurückgekehrt. Ich muss jedes Detail in der richtigen Reihenfolge aufschreiben. Ich ging, solange mein Mut noch frisch war, direkt zum Fenster auf der Südseite und gelangte sofort auf den schmalen Steinvorsprung, der um das Gebäude herumführt. Die Steine sind groß und grob geschnitten, und der Mörtel ist im Laufe der Zeit zwischen ihnen weggespült worden. Ich zog meine Stiefel aus und wagte mich auf den verzweifelten Weg. Einmal schaute ich hinunter, um sicherzugehen, dass der plötzliche Blick in die schreckliche Tiefe mich nicht überwältigen würde, aber danach hielt ich meine Augen davon fern. Ich kannte ziemlich gut die Richtung und Entfernung des Zimmers des Grafen und machte mich daran, es so gut wie möglich zu erreichen, unter Berücksichtigung der verfügbaren Möglichkeiten. Mir war nicht schwindelig - vermutlich war ich zu aufgeregt - und die Zeit schien lächerlich kurz, bis ich mich auf dem Fenstersims wiederfand und versuchte, den Flügel aufzudrücken. Allerdings war ich voller Unruhe, als ich mich bückte und mit den Füßen voran durch das Fenster rutschte. Dann schaute ich mich nach dem Grafen um, machte jedoch überraschend und froh eine Entdeckung. Das Zimmer war leer! Es war spärlich mit seltsamen Dingen eingerichtet, die offensichtlich nie benutzt worden waren; die Möbel waren in etwa im gleichen Stil wie die in den südlichen Zimmern und mit Staub bedeckt. Ich suchte nach dem Schlüssel, aber er war nicht im Schloss und ich konnte ihn nirgendwo finden. Das Einzige, was ich fand, war ein großer Haufen Gold in einer Ecke - Gold aller Arten, römisches, britisches, österreichisches, ungarisches, griechisches und türkisches Geld, bedeckt von einer Staubschicht, als ob es lange Zeit in der Erde gelegen hätte. Kein Stück, das ich bemerkte, war weniger als dreihundert Jahre alt. Es gab auch Ketten und Schmuck, einige mit Edelsteinen, aber alle alt und befleckt. In einer Ecke des Raumes befand sich eine schwere Tür. Ich versuchte sie zu öffnen, denn da ich weder den Schlüssel für das Zimmer noch den Schlüssel für die Außentür finden konnte, was das Hauptziel meiner Suche war, musste ich weitere Untersuchungen anstellen, sonst wären alle meine Bemühungen umsonst gewesen. Sie war offen und führte durch einen steinernen Gang zu einer steilen Wendeltreppe, die hinabführte. Ich stieg vorsichtig hinunter, achtete genau auf meine Schritte, denn die Treppe war dunkel und nur durch Schießscharten im schweren Mauerwerk beleuchtet. Unten gab es einen dunklen, tunnelartigen Gang, aus dem ein tödlicher, krankhafter Geruch drang, der Geruch von frisch bewegter alter Erde. Während ich durch den Gang ging, wurde der Geruch immer intensiver und schwerer. Schließlich zog ich eine schwere Tür auf, die angelehnt stand, und befand mich in einer alten, verfallenen Kapelle, die offensichtlich als Friedhof genutzt worden war. Das Dach war zerbrochen, und an zwei Stellen führten Stufen zu Gewölben, aber der Boden war kürzlich umgegraben worden und die Erde in großen hölzernen Kisten verstaut worden, offensichtlich diejenigen, die von den Slowaken gebracht worden waren. Niemand war da, und ich suchte nach einem weiteren Ausgang, aber es gab keinen. Dann ging ich jeden Zentimeter des Bodens ab, um keine Chance zu verpassen. Ich ging sogar in die Gewölbe hinab, in denen das gedämpfte Licht kämpfte, obwohl es eine Qual für meine Seele war, dies zu tun. In zwei von ihnen ging ich, sah aber nichts außer Fragmenten alter Särge und Staubhaufen; im dritten machte ich jedoch eine Entdeckung. Dort, in einer der großen Kisten, von denen es insgesamt fünfzig gab, lag der Graf auf einem Haufen frisch umgegrabener Erde! Er war entweder tot oder schlief, ich konnte es nicht sagen, denn die Augen waren geöffnet und träge, aber ohne die Glanzlosigkeit des Todes, und die Wangen hatten trotz aller Blässe noch die Wärme des Lebens; die Lippen waren immer noch so rot wie zuvor. Aber es gab kein Anzeichen von Bewegung, keinen Puls, keinen Atem, kein schlagendes Herz. Ich beugte mich über ihn und versuchte, irgendein Lebenszeichen zu finden, aber vergeblich. Er konnte dort nicht lange gelegen haben, denn der erdige Geruch wäre nach ein paar Stunden verflogen. Neben der Kiste befand sich ihr Deckel, durch den hier und da Löcher gestochen waren. Ich dachte, er hätte die Schlüssel bei sich, aber als ich suchte, sah ich die toten Augen und in ihnen, obwohl sie ungeachtet meiner Anwesenheit nichts von mir wussten, einen so hasserfüllten Blick, dass ich vor dem Ort floh und das Zimmer des Grafen wieder durch das Fenster verließ, erneut die Schlossmauer hinaufkroch. Als ich mein Zimmer wieder erreichte, warf ich mich keuchend auf das Bett und versuchte zu denken.... 29. Juni. - Heute ist das Datum meines letzten Briefes, und der Graf hat Maßnahmen ergriffen, um zu beweisen, dass er echt war, denn wieder sah ich ihn durch dasselbe Fenster das Schloss verlassen, und in meinen Kleidern. Als er wie eine Eidechse die Mauer hinunterging, wünschte ich mir, ich hätte eine Pistole oder eine andere tödliche Waffe, mit der ich ihn vernichten könnte, aber ich fürchte, dass keine Waffe, die von Menschenhand allein hergestellt wurde, eine Wirkung auf ihn gehabt hätte. Ich wagte es nicht, auf seine Rückkehr zu warten, denn ich fürchtete, diese seltsamen Schwestern zu sehen. Ich kehrte in die Bibliothek zurück und las dort, bis ich einschlief. Ich wurde vom Grafen geweckt, der mich so grimmig anschaute, wie es ein Mann nur kann, als er sagte: „Morgen, mein Freund, müssen wir uns trennen. Du kehrst in dein schönes England zurück, ich zu einer Arbeit, die ein solches Ende haben kann, dass wir uns nie wiedersehen. Dein Brief nach Hause wurde abgeschickt; morgen werde ich nicht hier sein, aber alles wird für deine Reise bereit sein. Am Morgen kommen die Szgany, die hier ihre eigenen Aufgaben haben, und auch die Slowaken kommen. Nachdem sie gegangen sind, wird mein Wagen dich abholen und dich zum Borgo-Pass bringen, um den Diligence von Bukowina nach Bistritz zu treffen. Aber ich hoffe, dass ich dich im Schloss Dracula noch mehr sehen werde.“ Ich verdächtigte ihn und beschloss, seine Aufrichtigkeit zu testen. Aufrichtigkeit! Es scheint wie eine Entweihung des Wortes, es in Verbindung mit einem solchen Ungeheuer zu verwenden, also fragte ich ihn unverblümt: „Warum kann ich nicht noch heute Abend gehen?“ „Weil, mein lieber Herr, mein Kutscher und meine Pferde auf einer Mission sind.“ „Aber ich würde gerne zu Fuß gehen. Ich möchte sofort weg.“ Er lächelte, so ein sanftes, glattes, teuflisches Lächeln, dass ich wusste, hinter seiner Glätte steckte ein Trick. Er sagte: „Und dein Gepäck?“ „Das ist mir egal. Ich kann es zu einem anderen Zeitpunkt holen lassen.“ Der Graf stand auf und sagte mit einer liebenswerten Höflichkeit, die mich meine Augen reiben ließ, so echt schien sie: „Ihr Engländer habt ein Sprichwort, das mir nahe am Herzen liegt, denn sein Geist ist es, der unsere _Bojaren_ beherrscht: Wir kehrten schweigend zur Bibliothek zurück, und nach einer Minute oder zwei ging ich in mein eigenes Zimmer. Das Letzte, was ich von Graf Dracula sah, war, wie er mir mit einem triumphierenden roten Leuchten in den Augen zuwinkte und mit einem Lächeln, auf das selbst Judas in der Hölle stolz sein könnte. Als ich in meinem Zimmer war und mich hinlegen wollte, glaubte ich ein Flüstern an meiner Tür zu hören. Ich ging leise hin und lauschte. Wenn mich meine Ohren nicht täuschten, hörte ich die Stimme des Grafen: "Zurück, zurück an deinen eigenen Platz! Deine Zeit ist noch nicht gekommen. Warte! Hab Geduld! Heute Nacht gehört mir. Morgen Nacht gehört dir!" Es folgte ein leises, süßes Kichern, und ich öffnete wütend die Tür und sah draußen die drei schrecklichen Frauen, wie sie sich die Lippen leckten. Als ich erschien, brachen sie in ein schreckliches Lachen aus und rannten davon. Ich kehrte in mein Zimmer zurück und warf mich auf die Knie. Ist es dann schon so nah am Ende? Morgen! Morgen! Herr, hilf mir und denen, die mir lieb sind! _30. Juni, Morgen._ Dies könnten die letzten Worte sein, die ich jemals in dieses Tagebuch schreibe. Ich hatte bis kurz vor der Morgendämmerung geschlafen und als ich aufwachte, warf ich mich auf die Knie, denn ich hatte mich entschlossen, dass, wenn der Tod käme, er mich bereit finden würde. Schließlich spürte ich diese subtile Veränderung in der Luft und wusste, dass der Morgen gekommen war. Dann kam der erlösende Hahnenschrei und ich wusste, dass ich sicher war. Mit einem freudigen Herzen öffnete ich meine Tür und rannte den Flur hinunter in den Saal. Ich hatte gesehen, dass die Tür unverschlossen war und nun lag meine Flucht vor mir. Mit Händen, die vor Ungeduld zitterten, löste ich die Ketten und schob die massiven Bolzen zurück. Aber die Tür wollte sich nicht bewegen. Verzweiflung ergriff mich. Ich zog und zog an der Tür und schüttelte sie so stark, dass sie, so massiv wie sie war, in ihrer Verankerung klapperte. Ich konnte den Riegel sehen. Er war verschlossen worden, nachdem ich den Grafen verlassen hatte. Dann überkam mich ein wildes Verlangen, diesen Schlüssel um jeden Preis zu bekommen, und ich beschloss, an Ort und Stelle wieder die Mauer zu erklimmen und in das Zimmer des Grafen zu gelangen. Er könnte mich töten, aber der Tod schien mir jetzt die glücklichere Wahl des Übels. Ohne zu zögern stürmte ich zum Ostfenster und kletterte wie zuvor die Mauer hinunter in das Zimmer des Grafen. Es war leer, aber das hatte ich erwartet. Ich konnte keinen Schlüssel sehen, aber der Goldhaufen lag noch dort. Ich ging durch die Tür in der Ecke, die gewundene Treppe hinunter und entlang des dunklen Ganges zur alten Kapelle. Ich wusste jetzt genau, wo ich das Monster, nach dem ich suchte, finden würde. Die große Truhe stand am selben Platz, dicht an der Wand, aber der Deckel lag offen darauf, nicht verschlossen, aber mit den Nägeln an ihren Plätzen bereit, eingeschlagen zu werden. Ich wusste, dass ich den Körper erreichen musste, um den Schlüssel zu bekommen, also hob ich den Deckel an und lehnte ihn an die Wand; und dann sah ich etwas, das meine Seele mit Horror erfüllte. Da lag der Graf, aber er sah aus, als ob seine Jugend sich halb erneuert hätte, denn das weiße Haar und der Schnurrbart waren dunkel eisengrau geworden; die Wangen waren runder, und die weiße Haut schien rubinrot darunter; der Mund war noch roter als je zuvor, denn auf den Lippen waren Blutspritzer, die aus den Mundwinkeln tropften und über das Kinn und den Hals liefen. Selbst die tiefen, brennenden Augen schienen von geschwollenem Fleisch umgeben zu sein, denn die Lider und Beutel darunter waren geschwollen. Es schien, als wäre die ganze schreckliche Kreatur einfach mit Blut gesättigt. Er lag wie eine schmutzige Blutegel da, erschöpft von seiner Völlerei. Mir wurde schauderhaft, als ich mich über ihn beugte, und jeder Sinn in mir wehrte sich gegen die Berührung; aber ich musste suchen, oder ich wäre verloren. Die kommende Nacht könnte meinen eigenen Körper auf ähnliche Weise zu einem Festmahl für diese drei abscheulichen Wesen werden lassen. Ich betastete den ganzen Körper, aber keine Spur von dem Schlüssel konnte ich finden. Dann hielt ich inne und betrachtete den Grafen. Auf dem aufgeblähten Gesicht lag ein spöttisches Lächeln, das mich wahnsinnig zu machen schien. Das war das Wesen, dem ich half, nach London zu gelangen, wo er vielleicht für Jahrhunderte unter seinen vielen Millionen Bewohnern seinen Bluthunger stillen und einen neuen, immer größer werdenden Kreis von halbdämonischen Wesen erschaffen könnte, die sich an den Wehrlosen laben. Allein der Gedanke daran trieb mich in den Wahnsinn. Ein schreckliches Verlangen kam in mir auf, die Welt von einem solchen Monster zu befreien. Es gab keine todbringende Waffe zur Hand, aber ich ergriff eine Schaufel, die die Arbeiter benutzt hatten, um die Kisten zu füllen, und hob sie hoch an, um mit der Schneide nach unten auf das verhasste Gesicht zu schlagen. Aber als ich das tat, drehte sich der Kopf, und die Augen fielen voll auf mich, mit all ihrer basiliskenhaften Schreckensglut. Der Anblick schien mich zu lähmen, und die Schaufel drehte sich in meiner Hand und glitt vom Gesicht ab, nur eine tiefe Wunde über der Stirn hinterlassend. Die Schaufel fiel mir aus der Hand über die Kiste, und als ich sie wegzog, fing die Kante der Schaufel den Rand des Deckels ein, der sich wieder schloss und das abscheuliche Ding vor meinem Blick verbarg. Der letzte Blick, den ich erhaschte, war auf das aufgeblasene, blutbefleckte Gesicht, das mit einem teuflischen Grinsen der Bosheit verriegelt gewesen wäre, das selbst in der untersten Hölle seinesgleichen gesucht hätte. Ich dachte und dachte über meinen nächsten Schritt nach, aber mein Gehirn schien in Flammen zu stehen, und ich wartete mit einem wachsenden Gefühl der Verzweiflung. Während ich wartete, hörte ich in der Ferne ein Lied von Zigeunern, gesungen von fröhlichen Stimmen, die näher kamen, und durch ihr Lied das Rollen schwerer Räder und das Knallen von Peitschen; die Szgany und die Slowaken, von denen der Graf gesprochen hatte, kamen. Mit einem letzten Blick auf den Raum und auf die Kiste, die den abscheulichen Körper enthielt, lief ich von dem Ort weg und erreichte das Zimmer des Grafen, fest entschlossen, hinauszustürzen, sobald sich die Tür öffnen würde. Mit gespitzten Ohren lauschte ich, und unten hörte ich das Schleifen des Schlüssels im großen Schloss und das Zurückspringen der schweren Tür. Es musste noch eine andere Möglichkeit des Eintritts geben, oder jemand hatte einen Schlüssel für eine der verschlossenen Türen. Dann hörte ich das Geräusch vieler Tritt in irgendeinem Gang, die einen klirrenden Widerhall erzeugten. Ich drehte mich um, um wieder hinunter zum Gewölbe zu rennen, wo ich den neuen Eingang finden könnte; aber im selben Moment schien es einen heftigen Windstoß zu geben, und die Tür zur Wendeltreppe blies mit einem Schock zu, der den Staub von den Türstürzen aufwirbelte. Als ich eilte, um sie zu öffnen, fand ich, dass sie hoffnungslos blockiert war. Ich war wieder ein Gefangener, und das Netz des Untergangs zog sich enger um mich herum. Während ich schreibe, höre ich im unteren Gang das Geräusch vieler schwerer Stiefeltritte und das Krachen von schweren Gewichten, zweifellos die Kisten mit ihrer Ladung aus Erde. Es gibt Hämmern; es ist die Kiste, die zugen Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Harker wachte in seinem eigenen Bett auf und begann sofort, alles in seinem Tagebuch aufzuschreiben. Der Graf hatte Harker gebeten, drei Briefe nach Hause zu schreiben - einen, der besagt, dass er fast fertig ist, einen, der besagt, dass er kurz davor steht abzureisen, und einen anderen, der besagt, dass er in Bistritz angekommen ist. Dracula erklärte geschickt, dass der Postdienst in Transsilvanien unzuverlässig ist und dass das Voraussenden dieser Briefe die Sorgen seiner Freunde zu Hause verringern wird. Dracula fügte hinzu, dass die drei Briefe am 12., 19. und 29. Juni verschickt werden sollen. Harker erkennt, dass Dracula vorhat, ihn am 29. Juni den Vampirfrauen zum Fraß vorzuwerfen! Harker versucht, einige echte Briefe nach Hause an Peter Hawkins und Mina mit einer Gruppe von Szgany oder "Zigeunern", wie er sie nennt, zu schicken. Er sieht sie von einem Fenster aus und wirft die Briefe zusammen mit einem Goldstück hinunter und versucht ihnen mit Zeichensprache zu vermitteln, dass er möchte, dass sie die Briefe für ihn verschicken. Der Brief an Peter Hawkins besagt nur, dass er Mina kontaktieren soll. Der Brief an Mina ist in Kurzschrift geschrieben und teilt ihr mit, dass er ein Gefangener im Schloss Dracula ist, aber er lässt die grausamen Details weg. Später erscheint Dracula in seinem Zimmer und hält die beiden Briefe in der Hand. Er sagt, dass die Szgany ihm die Briefe gegeben haben und eröffnet sie, ohne zu wissen, was sie sind. Er bietet an, den Brief an Peter Hawkins weiterzuschicken, doch zerstört er den in Kurzschrift, weil er ihn nicht lesen kann - er gibt vor, nicht zu wissen, dass er von Harker stammt. Harker beschließt, es noch einmal mit dem Schreiben von Briefen zu versuchen und sie in seiner Tasche aufzubewahren, falls sich die Gelegenheit zum Versenden ergibt. Aber all sein Papier und die Umschläge sind verschwunden. Er schaut sich um und bemerkt, dass auch seine Reisekleidung weg ist. Eine Gruppe von Bauern mit einigen Wagen taucht vor dem Schloss auf, und Harker versucht, ihre Aufmerksamkeit zu erregen, aber sie ignorieren ihn völlig. Er beobachtet, wie sie einige große Holzkisten ausladen, die anscheinend leer sind, und dann wieder wegfahren. Harker sieht, wie der Graf das Fenster verlässt, gekleidet in Harkers eigener Reisekleidung! Er erkennt, dass der Graf Zeugen sammeln will, die glauben sollen, dass Harker das Schloss pünktlich verlassen hat, damit niemand ihn vermisst. Harker fängt an, einzuschlafen, während er auf die Rückkehr des Grafen wartet, und er bemerkt einige Staubkörnchen, die im Mondschein tanzen. Die Staubkörnchen hypnotisieren ihn fast, und er zwingt sich schließlich, wach zu bleiben - die Staubkörnchen hatten sich zu den Gestalten der drei Vampirfrauen geformt, und er schüttelt sich rechtzeitig aus seiner Benommenheit. Es ist Morgen, und Harker entscheidet, dass es Zeit für Aktion ist. Er vermutet, dass der Graf irgendwann schlafen muss und vermutet, dass es tagsüber geschieht. Also beschließt er, sich aus seinem eigenen Fenster zu schleichen und sich den Weg hinunter zum Zimmer des Grafen zu bahnen. Es gelingt ihm! Aber er findet das Zimmer des Grafen leer vor - alle Möbel sind verstaubt und es liegt ein Haufen alter Goldmünzen in einer Ecke. Es gibt einige Treppen, die nach unten führen, also geht Harker hinunter, trotz des furchtbaren Geruchs, der aus der Dunkelheit kommt. Es ist eine alte Kapelle, voller alter Särge und Kisten mit Erde gefüllt - die gleichen Kisten, die er von den Bauern hat ausladen sehen. Harker schaut sich noch etwas genauer um und findet dann den Grafen in einer der Kisten auf einem Haufen frisch ausgehobener Erde liegen. Seine Augen sind offen, aber glasig: Es ist nicht klar, ob er schläft oder tot ist. Harker rennt, klettert zurück durch das Fenster und schafft es zurück an der Außenseite der Schlossmauer zu seinem eigenen Zimmer, wo er alles in seinem Tagebuch aufschreibt. Es ist der Tag des letzten Briefes, den Dracula von Harker verschickt - also der Tag, an dem Harker erwartet zu sterben. Dracula trifft ihn am frühen Morgen und sagt, dass sie sich am nächsten Tag verabschieden müssen. Harker bittet darum, sofort zu gehen: Warum einen Tag warten? Dracula lächelt und sagt Harker, er solle gehen. Als Harker die Haustür öffnet, versammeln sich Wölfe im Innenhof vor dem Schloss. Harker sagt Dracula, er solle die Tür schließen und dass er bis zum nächsten Morgen warten wird, um zu gehen. Er kehrt alleine in sein Zimmer zurück und schreibt alles in seinem Tagebuch auf. Harker weiß, dass er den Schlüssel zur Haustür um jeden Preis bekommen muss, also riskiert er es erneut, in das Zimmer des Grafen zu klettern. Er findet den Grafen wieder in der Kiste, aber diesmal sieht der Graf jünger aus: sein Haar ist braun, anstatt weiß, und seine Wangen sind voller und haben mehr Farbe. Und es ist Blut auf seinen Lippen und am Kinn. Die Idee, diesem Monster zu helfen, nach London zu emigrieren, wo es sein "Blutlust" noch jahrelang stillen könnte, treibt Harker in den Wahnsinn. Er greift eine Schaufel auf und schwingt sie auf das Gesicht des Dracula hinunter, kann aber nur einen Schnitt auf der Stirn verursachen. Obwohl Dracula bewusstlos ist, bewegt er seinen Kopf leicht, um dem vollen Schlag der Schaufelklinge auszuweichen, und dann schwingt sich der Deckel des Sarges wieder zu. Harker klettert zurück in sein eigenes Zimmer und hört von dort aus, wie die Kisten und Särge in den Wagen im Innenhof vor dem Schloss geladen werden. Ihm wird bewusst, dass Draculas eigener Sarg mit dem Rest geladen sein muss - also ist Harker allein im Schloss mit Draculas Bräuten. Er beschließt, aus dem Schlossfenster zu klettern und einen Weg hinunter zum Boden zu finden und zu entkommen. Er schreibt einen Abschiedsbrief an Mina in sein Tagebuch, steckt ihn in die Tasche und klettert dann hinaus.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: 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.' Und da waren sie wieder schnell. Ich hörte meinen Meister die Treppe hinaufsteigen - der kalte Schweiß lief mir von der Stirn: Ich war entsetzt. "Wirst du ihr wirres Geschwätz wirklich anhören?" sagte ich leidenschaftlich. "Sie weiß nicht, was sie sagt. Willst du sie ruinieren, weil sie nicht klug genug ist, sich selbst zu helfen? Steh auf! Du könntest sofort frei sein. Das ist die teuflischste Tat, die du je begangen hast. Wir sind alle erledigt - Meister, Herrin und Diener." Ich rang die Hände und schrie auf, und Mr. Linton beschleunigte seinen Schritt bei dem Lärm. Inmitten meiner Aufregung war ich aufrichtig froh zu bemerken, dass Catherines Arme erschlafft waren und ihr Kopf gesenkt war. "Sie ist ohnmächtig geworden oder tot", dachte ich. "Umso besser. Viel besser, wenn sie tot wäre, als eine Last und eine Quelle des Elends für alle um sie herum." Edgar sprang auf seinen ungebetenen Gast zu, bleich vor Erstaunen und Wut. Was er vorhatte, kann ich nicht sagen; jedoch stoppte der andere alle Demonstrationen auf einmal, indem er die regungslos aussehende Gestalt in seine Arme legte. "Sieh hin!" sagte er. "Wenn du kein Teufel bist, hilf ihr zuerst - dann kannst du mit mir sprechen!" Er ging in das Wohnzimmer und setzte sich. Mr. Linton rief mich herbei, und mit großer Mühe und nachdem wir viele Mittel angewandt hatten, schafften wir es, sie zu Bewusstsein zu bringen; aber sie war völlig verwirrt; sie seufzte und stöhnte und erkannte niemanden. Edgar vergaß in seiner Sorge um sie ihren verhassten Freund. Ich nicht. Ich ging beim frühesten Anlass und bat ihn, zu gehen; ich versicherte ihm, dass es Catherine besser ginge und er am nächsten Morgen von mir hören sollte, wie sie die Nacht verbracht hatte. "Ich werde nicht ablehnen, das Haus zu verlassen", antwortete er, "aber ich werde im Garten bleiben. Und, Nelly, denk daran, dein Wort morgen zu halten. Ich werde unter diesen Lärchen sein. Merk's dir! Oder ich zahle einen weiteren Besuch, ob Linton da ist oder nicht." Er warf einen schnellen Blick durch die halb offene Tür des Zimmers und stellte fest, dass das, was ich sagte, anscheinend wahr war, und verließ das Haus mit seinem unglücklichen Auftritt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Vier Tage später übergibt Nelly den Brief, während der Rest des Haushalts in der Kirche ist. Catherine ist dem Tod nahe und kann ihn nicht einmal halten. Nelly sagt ihr, dass der Brief von Heathcliff ist, aber bevor Nelly ihn ins Zimmer holen kann, stürmt Heathcliff herein. Als Catherine ihn sieht, behauptet sie, dass sowohl Edgar als auch er ihr das Herz gebrochen haben. Sie beklagt ihren bevorstehenden Tod, während er noch lebt, und sehnt sich danach, dass sie niemals getrennt werden. Eine emotionale Wiederbegegnung findet statt und sie umarmen sich. Nach der Umarmung spricht Heathcliff grob zu Catherine und sagt: "Du hast das verdient. Du hast dich selbst getötet." Verzweifelt schluchzt Catherine: "Ich vergebe dir. Vergib mir!" Heathcliff hält sie für schuldig, dass sie beide Herzen gebrochen hat, und nennt sie die Mörderin von ihnen beiden und sagt ihr: "Ich verzeihe dir, was du mir angetan hast. Ich liebe meinen Mörder - aber deinen! Wie kann ich das?" Edgar kehrt zu dieser Zeit von den Kirchendiensten zurück, aber als Heathcliff sich darauf vorbereitet zu gehen, bittet Catherine ihn, zu bleiben. Er willigt ein. Nelly ruft aus; Edgar beschleunigt seine Schritte; Catherine bricht zusammen. Als Edgar ins Zimmer stürmt, legt Heathcliff Catherines Leiche in Edgars Arme und bittet ihn, sich um sie zu kümmern, bevor er Heathcliff angreift. Nelly bringt Heathcliff dazu zu gehen und verspricht, ihm am Morgen über ihren Zustand Bescheid zu geben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Ere the half-hour ended, five o'clock struck; school was dismissed, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it was deep dusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The spell by which I had been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction took place, and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept: Helen Burns was not here; nothing sustained me; left to myself I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and to do so much at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respect and win affection. Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I had reached the head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss Temple had smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months longer: and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils; treated as an equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any; now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise more? "Never," I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out this wish in broken accents, some one approached: I started up--again Helen Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed her coming up the long, vacant room; she brought my coffee and bread. "Come, eat something," she said; but I put both away from me, feeling as if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen regarded me, probably with surprise: I could not now abate my agitation, though I tried hard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her head upon them; in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I was the first who spoke-- "Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a liar?" "Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions." "But what have I to do with millions? The eighty, I know, despise me." "Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises or dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much." "How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?" "Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man: he is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had he treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies, declared or covert, all around you; as it is, the greater number would offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly on you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their hearts; and if you persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere long appear so much the more evidently for their temporary suppression. Besides, Jane"--she paused. "Well, Helen?" said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers gently to warm them, and went on-- "If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends." "No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if others don't love me I would rather die than live--I cannot bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest--" "Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame, and put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard us; and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence (if innocent we be: as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness--to glory?" I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it came; and when, having done speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her. Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she drew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus, when another person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon bare; and her light, streaming in through a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple. "I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre," said she; "I want you in my room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too." We went; following the superintendent's guidance, we had to thread some intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her apartment; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair on one side of the hearth, and herself taking another, she called me to her side. "Is it all over?" she asked, looking down at my face. "Have you cried your grief away?" "I am afraid I never shall do that." "Why?" "Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma'am, and everybody else, will now think me wicked." "We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us." "Shall I, Miss Temple?" "You will," said she, passing her arm round me. "And now tell me who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?" "Mrs. Reed, my uncle's wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care." "Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?" "No, ma'am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have often heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died that she would always keep me." "Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence. You have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as you can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true; but add nothing and exaggerate nothing." I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate--most correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen's warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible: I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me. In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of the red-room: in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some degree, to break bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber. I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she then said-- "I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply agrees with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation; to me, Jane, you are clear now." She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her white forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns. "How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?" "Not quite so much, I think, ma'am." "And the pain in your chest?" "It is a little better." Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she returned to her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully-- "But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such." She rang her bell. "Barbara," she said to the servant who answered it, "I have not yet had tea; bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies." And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups and bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire! How fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast! of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry) discerned only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too. "Barbara," said she, "can you not bring a little more bread and butter? There is not enough for three." Barbara went out: she returned soon-- "Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity." Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr. Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron. "Oh, very well!" returned Miss Temple; "we must make it do, Barbara, I suppose." And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling, "Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this once." Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake. "I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you," said she, "but as there is so little toast, you must have it now," and she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand. We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare she liberally supplied. Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we sat one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between her and Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted to hear. Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in her mien, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded deviation into the ardent, the excited, the eager: something which chastened the pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to her, by a controlling sense of awe; and such was my feeling now: but as to Helen Burns, I was struck with wonder. The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of her beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something in her own unique mind, had roused her powers within her. They woke, they kindled: first, they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of Miss Temple's--a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen's discourse on that, to me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence. They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times past; of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at: they spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar with French names and French authors: but my amazement reached its climax when Miss Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment to recall the Latin her father had taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade her read and construe a page of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organ of veneration expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished ere the bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple embraced us both, saying, as she drew us to her heart-- "God bless you, my children!" Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more reluctantly; it was Helen her eye followed to the door; it was for her she a second time breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from her cheek. On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she was examining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns's, and when we entered Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles pinned to her shoulder. "My things were indeed in shameful disorder," murmured Helen to me, in a low voice: "I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot." Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece of pasteboard the word "Slattern," and bound it like a phylactery round Helen's large, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore it till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved punishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school, I ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of which she was incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and tears, hot and large, had continually been scalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her sad resignation gave me an intolerable pain at the heart. About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple, who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that what he said went to corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole school, announced that inquiry had been made into the charges alleged against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to be able to pronounce her completely cleared from every imputation. The teachers then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a murmur of pleasure ran through the ranks of my companions. Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work afresh, resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard, and my success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory, not naturally tenacious, improved with practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few weeks I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two months I was allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses of the verb _Etre_, and sketched my first cottage (whose walls, by-the- bye, outrivalled in slope those of the leaning tower of Pisa), on the same day. That night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white bread and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the dark; all the work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees, picturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe cherries, of wren's nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the possibility of my ever being able to translate currently a certain little French story which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; nor was that problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep. Well has Solomon said--"Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." Ich würde jetzt nicht Lowood mit all seinen Entbehrungen gegen Gateshead und seine täglichen Luxusgüter eintauschen wollen. 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.

Um fünf Uhr wird der Unterricht für den Tee beendet. Der Zauber, unter dem sie gestanden hat, löst sich auf und Jane bricht vor Trauer auf dem Boden zusammen. Sie spürt, dass all ihre Erfolge in Lowood nun durch Brocklehursts ungerechte Anschuldigungen zerstört wurden. Jane fragt sich, wie Helen mit einem Mädchen befreundet sein kann, das die Welt als Lügnerin gebrandmarkt hat. Helen sagt Jane, dass sie übertreibt: Nur achtzig Menschen von den Millionen auf der Welt haben Brocklehurst gehört, und die meisten von ihnen bemitleiden Jane wahrscheinlich nur, anstatt sie zu mögen. Auch Miss Temple wird mit Jane befreundet und erlaubt ihr, ihre Seite der Geschichte darzulegen. Miss Temple verspricht, Mr. Lloyd um Bestätigung von Janes Aussagen zu bitten; wenn seine Antwort mit Janes übereinstimmt, wird sie öffentlich entlastet. Für Miss Temple ist Jane jedoch bereits klar. Jane und Helen teilen sich einen üppigen Tee mit ihrer Lehrerin; tatsächlich bezeichnet Jane den von Miss Temple angebotenen Samenkuchen als "Ambrosia". Miss Temple richtet dann ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf Helen, und die beiden beginnen ein Gespräch über französische und lateinische Autoren. Jane ist erstaunt über das Ausmaß von Helens Wissen. Mr. Lloyd antwortet auf Miss Temples Brief und bestätigt Janes Aussagen, so dass Miss Temple die gesamte Schule versammelt und Jane von allen Anschuldigungen befreit, die Brocklehurst gegen sie erhoben hatte. Mit dieser Last von ihrer Seele kehrt Jane fleißig zur Arbeit zurück, steigt schnell in eine höhere Klasse auf. Bald lernt sie Französisch und zeichnet und ist glücklicher in Lowood als sie je in Gateshead war.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Marilla, die an einem späten Aprilabend von einem Helfertreffen nach Hause ging, erkannte, dass der Winter vorbei war und mit einer begeisterten Freude, die der Frühling bei Jung und Alt hervorruft, Vergangenheit war. Marilla war nicht geneigt, ihre Gedanken und Gefühle subjektiv zu analysieren. Sie dachte wahrscheinlich über die Hilfe und deren Missionskiste und den neuen Teppich für den Sakristeiraum nach, aber unter diesen Gedanken war ein harmonisches Bewusstsein für rote Felder, die sich in blass purpurne Nebel im sinkenden Sonnenlicht hüllten, von langen, spitzen Schatten der Tannen, die über die Wiese jenseits des Baches fielen, von stillen, blutroten Ahornbäumen um einen spiegelglatten Waldteich, von einer Erwachung in der Welt und einem Aufbruch verborgener Energien unter der grauen Erde. Der Frühling war im Lande und Marillas ernster, mittleren Schritt war wegen seines tiefen, ursprünglichen Glücks leichter und schneller. Ihre Augen verweilten liebevoll auf Green Gables und spähten durch ihr Netzwerk von Bäumen, das Sonnenlicht in mehreren kleinen Glanzpunkten von Ruhm reflektierte. Während Marilla ihren Weg entlang der feuchten Landstraße nahm, dachte sie, dass es wirklich eine Zufriedenheit war zu wissen, dass sie nach Hause zu einem fröhlich knisternden Kaminfeuer und einem schön gedeckten Tisch für Tee zurückkehrte anstatt zum kalten Trost alter Hilfsversammlungen, bevor Anne nach Green Gables gekommen war. Folglich fühlte sich Marilla, als sie ihre Küche betrat und das erloschene Feuer ohne Anzeichen von Anne sah, zu Recht enttäuscht und verärgert. Sie hatte Anne gesagt, dass sie sicherstellen solle, dass Tee um fünf Uhr fertig sei, aber jetzt musste sie sich beeilen, um ihr zweitbestes Kleid auszuziehen und das Essen selbst gegen Matthews Rückkehr vom Pflügen vorzubereiten. "Ich werde Miss Anne zurechtweisen, wenn sie nach Hause kommt", sagte Marilla grimmig, während sie Späne schnitt, mit mehr Schwung als nötig. Matthew war hereingekommen und wartete geduldig auf seinen Tee in seiner Ecke. "Sie treibt sich irgendwo mit Diana herum, schreibt Geschichten oder übt Dialoge oder so einen Unsinn und denkt nicht einmal an die Zeit oder ihre Pflichten. Sie muss in dieser Angelegenheit zur Räson gebracht werden. Es ist mir egal, was Mrs. Allan sagt, dass sie das klügste und liebste Kind sei, das sie je kannte. Sie mag intelligent und liebenswert genug sein, aber ihr Kopf ist voller Unsinn und man kann nie wissen, in welcher Form er sich als nächstes zeigt. Sobald sie eine Marotte loswird, nimmt sie sich eine neue vor. Aber egal! Hier bin ich und sage genau das, wofür ich heute so wütend auf Rachel Lynde beim Hilfsverein war. Ich war wirklich froh, als Mrs. Allan sich für Anne aussprach, denn wenn sie das nicht getan hätte, hätte ich vor allen jemandem etwas zu scharf gesagt. Anne hat genug Fehler, das weiß ich. Von mir aus kann ich es nicht leugnen. Aber ich ziehe sie groß und nicht Rachel Lynde, die selbst Engel Gabriel Mängel vorwerfen würde, wenn er in Avonlea leben würde. Gleichwohl hat Anne kein Recht, das Haus so zu verlassen, wenn ich ihr gesagt habe, dass sie heute Nachmittag zu Hause bleiben und auf die Dinge aufpassen soll. Ich muss sagen, trotz all ihrer Fehler habe ich sie nie ungehorsam oder unzuverlässig gefunden und ich bin wirklich traurig, sie jetzt so anzutreffen." "Nun ja, wer weiß", sagte Matthew, der geduldig und weise und vor allem hungrig war und es daher für das Beste hielt, Marilla ihren Zorn in Ruhe aussprechen zu lassen, nachdem er durch Erfahrung gelernt hatte, dass sie ihre Arbeit viel schneller erledigte, wenn sie nicht durch unnötige Streitigkeiten aufgehalten wurde. "Vielleicht bist du etwas voreilig, Marilla. Nenne sie nicht unzuverlässig, bevor du sicher bist, dass sie dir ungehorsam war. Vielleicht kann alles erklärt werden – Anne ist darin großartig." "Sie ist nicht da, obwohl ich ihr gesagt habe, zu bleiben", erwiderte Marilla. "Ich denke, es wird für sie schwierig sein, das zu meiner Zufriedenheit zu erklären. Natürlich wusste ich, dass du auf ihrer Seite stehst, Matthew. Aber ich ziehe sie groß, nicht du." Es war dunkel, als das Abendessen fertig war, und immer noch keine Spur von Anne, die hektisch über die Holzbrücke oder den Lover's Lane gekommen wäre, außer Atem und reumütig, weil sie ihre Pflichten vernachlässigt hatte. Marilla spülte das Geschirr grimmig ab und räumte es weg. Dann, weil sie eine Kerze brauchte, um ihren Weg hinunter in den Keller zu beleuchten, ging sie zum Ostgiebel, um die Kerze zu holen, die normalerweise auf Annes Tisch stand. Sie drehte sich um und sah Anne selbst auf dem Bett liegen, mit dem Gesicht unter den Kissen. "Du meine Güte", sagte die erstaunte Marilla, "warst du eingeschlafen, Anne?" "Nein", war die gedämpfte Antwort. "Bist du krank?" fragte Marilla besorgt und ging zum Bett. Anne drückte sich tiefer in die Kissen, als wolle sie sich für immer vor den Augen der Sterblichen verbergen. "Nein. Aber bitte, Marilla, geh weg und sieh mich nicht an. Ich bin in tiefster Verzweiflung und es ist mir egal, wer Klassenbester ist oder die beste Abhandlung schreibt oder im Sonntagsschulchor singt. Kleine Dinge wie diese sind jetzt unwichtig, weil ich vermutlich niemals mehr irgendwohin gehen kann. Meine Karriere ist vorbei. Bitte, Marilla, geh weg und sieh mich nicht an." "Hat man je solch etwas gehört?" wollte die verwirrte Marilla wissen. "Anne Shirley, was stimmt mit dir nicht? Was hast du getan? Steh jetzt sofort auf und erzähl es mir. Sofort, sage ich. So, was ist es?" Anne rutschte gehorsam verzweifelt auf den Boden. "Sieh dir meine Haare an, Marilla", flüsterte sie. Dementsprechend hob Marilla ihre Kerze an und betrachtete Anne's Haare kritisch, die in schweren Massen über ihren Rücken hingen. Sie hatten tatsächlich ein sehr eigenartiges Aussehen. "Anne Shirley, was hast du mit deinen Haaren gemacht? Oh, sie sind _grün!_" Grün könnte man es nennen, wenn es überhaupt eine irdische Farbe hatte – ein seltsames, dumpfes, bronzegrünes, mit hier und da einigen Strähnen des ursprünglichen Roten, um die gespenstische Wirkung zu verstärken. Nie zuvor in ihrem ganzen Leben hatte Marilla etwas so groteskes wie Annes Haare in diesem Moment gesehen. "Ja, sie sind grün", stöhnte Anne. "Ich dachte, nichts könnte schlimmer sein als rote Haare. Aber jetzt weiß ich, dass es zehnmal schlimmer ist, grüne Haare zu haben. Oh, Marilla, du hast keine Ahnung, wie elend ich bin." "Ich habe keine Ahnung, wie du in diese Misere geraten bist, aber ich werde es herausfinden", sagte Marilla. "Komm runter in die Küche – es ist zu kalt hier oben – und erzähl mir genau, was du getan hast. Ich habe schon seit einiger Zeit etwas Seltsames erwartet. Du hast seit über zwei Monaten keinen Ärger gemacht und ich war sicher, dass einer fällig sein würde. Nun, was hast du mit deinen Haaren gemacht?" "Ich habe sie gefärbt." "Gefärbt! Du hast deine Haare gefärbt! Anne Shirley, wusstest du nicht, dass es eine böse Sache ist?" "Ja, ich wusste, dass es ein bisschen böse ist", gab Anne zu. "Aber ich dachte, es lohnt sich, ein bisschen böse zu sein, um rote Haare loszuwerden. Ich habe den Preis abgewogen, Marilla "Oh, ich habe ihn nicht ins Haus gelassen. Ich erinnerte mich an das, was du mir gesagt hast, und ging raus, schloss sorgfältig die Tür und betrachtete seine Sachen auf der Treppe. Außerdem war er kein Italiener - er war ein deutscher Jude. Er hatte eine große Kiste voll sehr interessanter Dinge und er sagte mir, dass er hart arbeitet, um genug Geld zu verdienen, um seine Frau und Kinder aus Deutschland zu holen. Er sprach so einfühlsam über sie, dass es mein Herz rührte. Ich wollte ihm etwas abkaufen, um ihm bei einem so wertvollen Vorhaben zu helfen. Dann sah ich plötzlich die Flasche mit Haarfarbe. Der Hausierer sagte, sie würde jedes Haar wunderschön rabenschwarz färben und nicht auswaschen. Im Handumdrehen sah ich mich selber mit wunderschön rabenschwarzem Haar und die Versuchung war unwiderstehlich. Aber der Preis der Flasche betrug 75 Cent und ich hatte nur noch 50 Cent von meinem Hühnergeld übrig. Ich glaube, der Hausierer hatte ein sehr gutes Herz, denn er sagte, wenn er es gewusst hätte, wer ich bin, hätte er es für 50 Cent verkauft und das wäre fast umsonst gewesen. Also kaufte ich es und sobald er gegangen war, kam ich hier hoch und trug es mit einer alten Haarbürste auf, wie es in der Anleitung stand. Ich habe die ganze Flasche aufgebraucht und oh, Marilla, als ich die schreckliche Farbe sah, die meine Haare bekommen haben, bereute ich meine Bosheit, das kann ich dir sagen. Und seitdem bereue ich es immer noch." "Nun, ich hoffe, dass du aufrichtig bereust", sagte Marilla streng, "und dass du erkannt hast, wohin dich deine Eitelkeit geführt hat, Anne. Wer weiß, was wir tun sollen. Ich denke, das Erste ist, dein Haar gründlich zu waschen und zu sehen, ob das irgendetwas bringt." Dementsprechend wusch Anne ihr Haar und schrubbte es kräftig mit Seife und Wasser. Aber so sehr sie sich auch anstrengte, es machte keinen Unterschied. Der Hausierer hatte sicherlich die Wahrheit gesprochen, als er behauptete, dass die Haarfarbe nicht abwaschbar war, auch wenn seine Aufrichtigkeit in anderen Belangen in Frage gestellt werden konnte. "Oh, Marilla, was soll ich tun?", fragte Anne weinend. "Ich kann das niemals wiedergutmachen. Die Leute haben meine anderen Fehler - den Linimentkuchen und als ich Diana betrunken gemacht habe und als ich mit Mrs. Lynde in Wut geraten bin - ziemlich gut vergessen. Aber das hier werden sie niemals vergessen. Sie werden denken, dass ich nicht anständig bin. Oh, Marilla, 'was für ein verworrenes Netz wir weben, wenn wir lernen, zu betrügen'. Das ist Poesie, aber es stimmt. Und oh, wie Josie Pye lachen wird! Marilla, ich kann Josie Pye nicht ins Gesicht sehen. Ich bin das unglücklichste Mädchen auf Prince Edward Island." Anne's Unglück dauerte eine Woche lang an. In dieser Zeit ging sie nirgendwohin und wusch jeden Tag ihr Haar. Nur Diana wusste als Außenstehende das verhängnisvolle Geheimnis, aber sie versprach feierlich, es niemals zu verraten, und es sei an dieser Stelle gesagt, dass sie ihr Wort gehalten hat. Am Ende der Woche sagte Marilla entschieden: "Es hat keinen Zweck, Anne. Das ist eine dauerhafte Haarfarbe, wenn es je eine gab. Dein Haar muss abgeschnitten werden, es gibt keinen anderen Weg. Du kannst nicht so herumlaufen." Annes Lippen zitterten, aber sie erkannte die bittere Wahrheit in Marillas Worten. Mit einem traurigen Seufzen holte sie die Schere. "Bitte, schneide es sofort ab, Marilla, und sei damit fertig. Oh, ich fühle, dass mein Herz gebrochen ist. Das ist so eine unromantische Plage. Die Mädchen in Büchern verlieren ihr Haar durch Fieber oder verkaufen es, um Geld für eine gute Tat zu bekommen, und ich würde es nicht halb so schlimm finden, mein Haar auf diese Weise zu verlieren. Aber es ist nichts Trost spendendes daran, dass einem das Haar abgeschnitten wird, weil man es in einer schrecklichen Farbe gefärbt hat, oder? Ich werde die ganze Zeit weinen, während du es abschneidest, wenn es nicht stört. Es scheint so ein tragisches Ereignis zu sein." Anne weinte dann, aber später, als sie nach oben ging und in den Spiegel schaute, war sie verzweifelt ruhig. Marilla hatte ihre Arbeit gründlich gemacht und es war notwendig gewesen, das Haar so kurz wie möglich zu scheren. Das Ergebnis war nicht gerade schmeichelhaft, um es milde auszudrücken. Anne drehte den Spiegel prompt zur Wand. "Ich werde mich niemals, niemals wieder anschauen, bis mein Haar nachwächst", rief sie leidenschaftlich aus. Dann richtete sie den Spiegel plötzlich wieder auf. "Ja, werde ich aber doch. Ich werde Buße tun für meine Bosheit auf diese Weise. Jedes Mal wenn ich in mein Zimmer komme, werde ich mich anschauen und sehen, wie hässlich ich bin. Und ich werde nicht versuchen, es mir einzureden. Ich habe nie gedacht, dass ich eitel wegen meines Haares bin, von all den Dingen, aber jetzt weiß ich, dass ich es war, trotz der Tatsache, dass es rot war, weil es so lang und dick und lockig war. Ich erwarte, dass als Nächstes mit meiner Nase etwas passieren wird." Annes abgeschnittener Kopf sorgte in der Schule am folgenden Montag für Aufsehen, aber zu ihrer Erleichterung vermutete niemand den wahren Grund dafür, nicht einmal Josie Pye, die Anne jedoch nicht versäumte, ihr zu sagen, dass sie wie eine Vogelscheuche aussieht. "Ich habe nichts gesagt, als Josie das zu mir gesagt hat", vertraute Anne Marilla an diesem Abend an, als diese auf dem Sofa lag, nach einer ihrer Kopfschmerzen. "Weil ich dachte, dass es Teil meiner Strafe ist und ich es geduldig ertragen sollte. Es ist schwer, zu hören, dass man wie eine Vogelscheuche aussieht, und ich wollte etwas zurück sagen. Aber ich habe es nicht getan. Ich habe ihr nur einen verächtlichen Blick zugeworfen und ihr dann vergeben. Es lässt sich sehr tugendhaft fühlen, wenn man Menschen vergibt, nicht wahr? Ich nehme mir vor, nach diesem Vorfall all meine Energien darauf zu konzentrieren, gut zu sein, und ich werde nie wieder versuchen, schön zu sein. Natürlich ist es besser, gut zu sein. Ich weiß das, aber manchmal ist es so schwer, einer Sache zu glauben, selbst wenn man es weiß. Ich möchte wirklich gut sein, Marilla, wie du und Mrs. Allan und Miss Stacy, und aufwachsen, um euch Ehre zu machen. Diana sagt, wenn mein Haar zu wachsen beginnt, soll ich ein schwarzes Samtband um meinen Kopf binden, mit einer Schleife an der Seite. Sie glaubt, dass es sehr gut aussehen wird. Ich werde es einen Haarreif nennen - das klingt so romantisch. Aber rede ich zu viel, Marilla? Tut dir der Kopf weh?" "Mein Kopf ist jetzt besser. Er war heute Nachmittag fürchterlich schlimm. Diese Kopfschmerzen von mir werden immer schlimmer. Ich muss einen Arzt deswegen aufsuchen. Was dein Geplapper betrifft, stört es mich nicht - ich habe mich daran gewöhnt." Das bedeutete in Marillas Art zu sagen, dass sie es mochte, es zu hören. Können Sie 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.

Eitelkeit und Verärgerung des Geistes Eines Abends gegen Ende April geht Marilla nach Hause und fühlt sich ermutigt und unbeschwert, obwohl sie nicht erkennt, dass die Anblicke des Frühlings der Grund für ihre Freude sind. Sie freut sich glücklich auf das warme Feuer und den Tee, den Anne für sie zu Hause hätte vorbereiten sollen. Als sie Green Gables erreicht, stellt Marilla fest, dass der Tisch leer ist und Anne nicht aufzufinden ist. Sie beschwert sich bei Matthew, dass Anne ihren Befehl, zu Hause zu bleiben und das Essen zuzubereiten, missachtet hat. Ihre Wut wandelt sich in Sorge, als es Zeit zum Abendessen ist und immer noch keine Spur von Anne zu sehen ist. Marilla geht nach oben, um eine Kerze im Zimmer von Anne zu holen, und findet sie auf dem Bauch liegend auf ihrem Bett, stöhnend, dass sie zu hässlich sei, um gesehen zu werden. Es stellt sich heraus, dass Anne ihre Haare mit katastrophalen Ergebnissen gefärbt hat. Sie kaufte Haarfärbemittel von einem wandernden Hausierer, der behauptete, das Färbemittel würde ihre Haare rabenschwarz machen. Das Färbemittel ließ ihre Haare grün werden, und die einzige Lösung besteht darin, dass Marilla sie auf eine unmodisch kurze Länge abschneidet. Zuerst weint Anne bei dem Anblick von sich selbst im Spiegel, aber dann entscheidet sie sich, auf ihr unattraktives Spiegelbild zu schauen, um sich an die Torheit der Eitelkeit zu erinnern.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: XLI. LEARNING TO FORGET. Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till long afterward; men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded themselves that it is just what they intended to do; then they act upon it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it; if it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragged him back after the scolding he had received; pride forbid, and whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the words that had made the deepest impression, "I despise you;" "Go and do something splendid that will _make_ her love you." Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought himself to confess that he _had_ been selfish and lazy; but then when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were quite dead now; and, though he should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo _wouldn't_ love him, but he might _make_ her respect and admire him by doing something which should prove that a girl's "No" had not spoilt his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy's advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred; that being done, he felt that he was ready to "hide his stricken heart, and still toil on." As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie resolved to embalm his love-sorrow in music, and compose a Requiem which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody, and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself. But, whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the Requiem was beyond him, just at present. It was evident that his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying; for often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being. Then he tried an Opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning; but here, again, unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor; and, as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects,--beating mats with her head tied up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa-pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion _à la_ Gummidge,--and an irresistible laugh spoilt the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the Opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer. When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine, and grew quite fond of her, as well he might; for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman. Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get new ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion, all the while, that it wasn't genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that every one who loved music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat staring up at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again; then suddenly he tore up his music-sheets, one by one, and, as the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself,-- "She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?" That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had to work for his daily bread. Now, if ever, occurred an eligible opportunity for "going to the devil," as he once forcibly expressed it, for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood them pretty well; for, much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him, and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady. Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it; boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not expect miracles." I dare say _you_ don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must; but mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it _is_ a feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would embitter all our hopes of the brave, tender-hearted little lads, who still love their mothers better than themselves, and are not ashamed to own it. Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all his powers for years; but, to his great surprise, he discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with himself, and couldn't understand it; but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie's heart _wouldn't_ ache; the wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and, instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze: there was only a comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end. As the word "brotherly" passed through his mind in one of these reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before him:-- "Well, he was a great man; and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy." Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them; and the next instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,-- "No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if that fails, why, then--" Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't she, and let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never wished to hear the word "love" again. Then she begged him to be happy with somebody else, but always to keep a little corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse; she was coming home in the spring, and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel lonely, homesick, or anxious. "So I will, at once. Poor little girl; it will be a sad going home for her, I'm afraid;" and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks before. But he did not write the letter that day; for, as he rummaged out his best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling about in one part of the desk, among bills, passports, and business documents of various kinds, were several of Jo's letters, and in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her blue ribbons, and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral; and, though not overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies. [Illustration: Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger] The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy _was_ homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and fro, with unfailing regularity, all through the early spring. Laurie sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice, but would not till he was asked; and Amy would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of "our boy." Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once decided to answer "Yes, thank you;" but now she said, "No, thank you," kindly but steadily; for, when the time came, her courage failed her, and she found that something more than money and position was needed to satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly creature; she didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman; she was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully, and was kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular, and were not half so satisfactory as his when they did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being stony-hearted. She ought to have made an effort, and tried to love him; it couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy care for them; but Jo never would act like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind, and treat him like a brother. If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured now; she asked his opinion on all subjects; she was interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in their sisters' pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her,--a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly-haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ball-room on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in art, which was safe, but not altogether satisfactory. Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred; and, finding denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to himself, with a venerable air,-- "I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been through it all, and I can sympathize." With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa, and enjoyed Amy's letter luxuriously. While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home; but the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the next found her, the grass was green above her sister. The sad news met her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for, since it was too late to say good-by to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy; she longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her. He did come very soon; for the same mail brought letters to them both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow-pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense. He knew Vevay well; and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living _en pension_. The _garçon_ was in despair that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the lake; but no, the blond mademoiselle might be in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait even "a flash of time," and, in the middle of the speech, departed to find mademoiselle himself. A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes, thinking of Beth, and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not hear him cross the court-yard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a minute, looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen before,--the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow,--the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face; even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him; for, dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming, in a tone of unmistakable love and longing,-- "O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!" [Illustration: O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come] I think everything was said and settled then; for, as they stood together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who could fill Jo's place, and make him happy. He did not tell her so; but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence. In a minute Amy went back to her place; and, while she dried her tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the recollection of her impulsive greeting. "I couldn't help it; I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak quite naturally. "I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth; but I can only feel, and--" He could not get any further, for he, too, turned bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare; so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than words. "You needn't say anything; this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back; but I dread the going home, much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right back, need you?" "Not if you want me, dear." "I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind; but you seem like one of the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while." Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child, whose heart was full, that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she wanted,--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she needed. "Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half-sick! I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk about with me; the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said, in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the sunny walk, under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon his legs; and Amy found it very pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully for her alone. The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a charm to time and place; and when an unromantic dinner-bell warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden. The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it all,--the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never thought of such a thing!" With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed no sign of enlightenment; but cordially urged Laurie to stay, and begged Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much solitude. Amy was a model of docility; and, as her aunt was a good deal occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with more than her usual success. At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded; at Vevay, Laurie was never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying, in the most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did, and followed his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits. The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills; the fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists; the warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts; the lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them, saying, "Little children, love one another." In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little while to recover from his surprise at the rapid cure of his first, and, as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon it as if through a long vista of years, with a feeling of compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing he resolved should be as calm and simple as possible; there was no need of having a scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her; she knew it without words, and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial; so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance. He had rather imagined that the _dénouement_ would take place in the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous manner; but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was settled on the lake, at noonday, in a few blunt words. They had been floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged gulls. They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his "Héloise." Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love-story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell between them, and, when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars, with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something,-- "You must be tired; rest a little, and let me row; it will do me good; for, since you came, I have been altogether lazy and luxurious." "I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement. Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things; and, though she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through the water. [Illustration: How well we pull together] "How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence just then. "So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?" very tenderly. "Yes, Laurie," very low. Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little _tableau_ of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the lake. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Laurie nimmt die Vorlesung, die Amy ihm gehalten hat, zu Herzen. Er kehrt zu seinem Großvater zurück und denkt darüber nach, wie er etwas Sinnvolles mit seinem Leben anfangen könnte. Laurie beginnt zu realisieren, dass seine Liebe zu Jo abkühlt. Er möchte, dass sie ihn respektiert, aber er ist nicht mehr verzweifelt nach ihrer Liebe. Zuerst versucht Laurie, Musik zu komponieren. Er versucht ein wirklich trauriges und bemitleidenswertes Lied über Jo zu schreiben, aber irgendwie summt er stattdessen immer fröhliche Musik. Als Nächstes versucht Laurie, eine Oper zu schreiben. Er versucht, Jo zur Heldin zu machen, aber irgendwie findet er sich dabei wieder, über eine süßere, zartere, blondere Art von Frau zu schreiben. Eine Frau wie... Amy, vielleicht? Laurie bewegt sich eine Weile in einem Nebel und schreibt über diese blonde Heldin und fragt sich, was da in ihm zu brodeln scheint. Ist es Genie? Nun, vielleicht. Eines Tages kommt Laurie von einer Mozart-Oper nach Hause und realisiert, dass seine eigenen opernhaften Kompositionen im Vergleich dazu nichts sind. Er entscheidet sich, aufzuhören, Musik zu komponieren, und seine Aufmerksamkeit etwas anderem zuzuwenden. Laurie wünscht sich, dass er nicht zu reich ist, um einen Job zu brauchen. Er erkennt, dass er beschäftigt bleiben muss, um nicht untätig oder unmoralisch zu werden. Wir haben kein allzu großes Mitgefühl: Wenn wir doch nur das Problem hätten, zu viel Geld und Freizeit zu haben! Der Erzähler spekuliert über Lauries Verhalten. Die meisten Romanautoren würden ihn wahrscheinlich in eine Zeit der Ausschweifung schicken, in der er zu viel Geld ausgibt, spielt und herumtreibt. Aber der Erzähler erzählt uns, dass seine Versprechen an seinen Großvater und der Einfluss der March-Mädchen ihn davon abhalten, etwas Unmoralisches zu tun. Lauries romantische Liebe zu Jo verschwindet endlich ganz. Anfangs widersetzt er sich dieser Veränderung, aber dann gibt er sich selbst zu, dass er jetzt nur noch eine brüderliche Liebe für sie empfindet. Laurie vergleicht seine wechselnden Gefühle mit dem Leben von Mozart. Mozart verliebte sich in eine Frau, die ihn nicht heiraten wollte, also heiratete er stattdessen ihre Schwester und war damit völlig glücklich. Das gibt Laurie eine Idee. Bevor er aufgibt, schreibt Laurie einen weiteren Brief an Jo und fragt, ob sie nachgeben und ihn heiraten wird. Sie antwortet ihm wieder mit einem "Nein" - und erzählt ihm auch, dass es Beth schlechter geht. Jo bittet Laurie, Amy auf den kommenden Verlust ihrer Schwester vorzubereiten. Laurie schreibt an Amy und sie beginnen regelmäßig zu korrespondieren - aber Laurie wird sie nicht besuchen, bis sie ihn darum bittet. In der Zwischenzeit ist Fred Vaughn zurückgekommen und hat Amy um ihre Hand gebeten - und sie hat abgelehnt. Amy fängt an, Laurie's gute Meinung von ihr sehr zu schätzen. Sie schreibt ihm zweimal pro Woche Briefe und erzählt ihm von allem, was in ihrem Leben passiert. Sie sagt ihm, dass sie ihn wie einen Bruder liebt, aber... du verstehst schon. Amy macht Skizzen von Rittern und jungen Männern. Die Skizzen haben keine Gesichter, da das im Moment en vogue ist - und auch praktisch, um zu verbergen, an wen sie wirklich denkt. In einem ihrer Briefe erzählt Amy Laurie, dass Fred nach Ägypten gefahren ist. Laurie versteht, dass das bedeutet, dass Amy seinen Heiratsantrag abgelehnt hat. Eines Tages erreicht die Nachricht Beths Tod Laurie. Er eilt von Paris nach Vevey, wo die Carrolls leben, um Amy zu trösten. Amy, allein in einem Garten sitzend und um Beth trauernd, ist überglücklich, Laurie zu sehen. Sie fühlt, dass er ihr Verlustgefühl besser nachfühlen kann als ihre Tante, ihr Onkel und ihr Cousin, und sie ist einfach froh, ihn um sich zu haben! Sobald Amy und Laurie sich sehen, wissen sie, dass sie sich lieben. Aber sie müssen immer noch in allem vornehm und anständig sein. Als sie sich auf einer Bank im Garten hinsetzen und anfangen zu reden, sieht Laurie einige von Amys Skizzen und erkennt, wie sie sich fühlt. Laurie kümmert sich um Amy, ist liebenswürdig und auch ein bisschen bestimmend. Er lässt sie im kalten Wind durch den Garten spazieren, um warm zu bleiben, und sie reden über Beth. Als Amy und Laurie zurückkommen, erkennt Tante Carrol, dass Amy sich in Laurie anstatt in Fred verliebt hat. Sie spricht nicht mit Amy darüber - fängt einfach an, mehr Zeit mit ihrer Tochter Flo zu verbringen und Amy und Laurie taktvoll alleine zu lassen. Amy und Laurie sind sehr aktiv, sie gehen spazieren, rudern auf dem Fluss und verbringen viel Zeit miteinander. Das Wetter ist toll, der Ort ist wunderschön, und die ganze Welt gibt ihnen sozusagen einen Stoß mit dem Ellbogen und zwinkert ihnen zu. Laurie beschließt, dass seine zweite Romanze ruhiger und anständiger sein soll als die erste. Er macht keine Szene oder gesteht Amy seine Liebe; er verbringt nur Zeit mit ihr und ist lieb zu ihr. Eines Nachmittags rudern Laurie und Amy zusammen in einem Boot auf dem See. Amy sagt, dass sie gut zusammen rudern und Laurie fragt, ob sie "ihr Leben lang" mit ihm rudern will. Und natürlich sagt sie ja. Falls du dich fragst, ja, das bedeutet, dass sie jetzt verlobt 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: Surely the golden hours are turning gray And dance no more, and vainly strive to run: I see their white locks streaming in the wind-- Each face is haggard as it looks at me, Slow turning in the constant clasping round Storm-driven. Dorothea's distress when she was leaving the church came chiefly from the perception that Mr. Casaubon was determined not to speak to his cousin, and that Will's presence at church had served to mark more strongly the alienation between them. Will's coming seemed to her quite excusable, nay, she thought it an amiable movement in him towards a reconciliation which she herself had been constantly wishing for. He had probably imagined, as she had, that if Mr. Casaubon and he could meet easily, they would shake hands and friendly intercourse might return. But now Dorothea felt quite robbed of that hope. Will was banished further than ever, for Mr. Casaubon must have been newly embittered by this thrusting upon him of a presence which he refused to recognize. He had not been very well that morning, suffering from some difficulty in breathing, and had not preached in consequence; she was not surprised, therefore, that he was nearly silent at luncheon, still less that he made no allusion to Will Ladislaw. For her own part she felt that she could never again introduce that subject. They usually spent apart the hours between luncheon and dinner on a Sunday; Mr. Casaubon in the library dozing chiefly, and Dorothea in her boudoir, where she was wont to occupy herself with some of her favorite books. There was a little heap of them on the table in the bow-window--of various sorts, from Herodotus, which she was learning to read with Mr. Casaubon, to her old companion Pascal, and Keble's "Christian Year." But to-day opened one after another, and could read none of them. Everything seemed dreary: the portents before the birth of Cyrus--Jewish antiquities--oh dear!--devout epigrams--the sacred chime of favorite hymns--all alike were as flat as tunes beaten on wood: even the spring flowers and the grass had a dull shiver in them under the afternoon clouds that hid the sun fitfully; even the sustaining thoughts which had become habits seemed to have in them the weariness of long future days in which she would still live with them for her sole companions. It was another or rather a fuller sort of companionship that poor Dorothea was hungering for, and the hunger had grown from the perpetual effort demanded by her married life. She was always trying to be what her husband wished, and never able to repose on his delight in what she was. The thing that she liked, that she spontaneously cared to have, seemed to be always excluded from her life; for if it was only granted and not shared by her husband it might as well have been denied. About Will Ladislaw there had been a difference between them from the first, and it had ended, since Mr. Casaubon had so severely repulsed Dorothea's strong feeling about his claims on the family property, by her being convinced that she was in the right and her husband in the wrong, but that she was helpless. This afternoon the helplessness was more wretchedly benumbing than ever: she longed for objects who could be dear to her, and to whom she could be dear. She longed for work which would be directly beneficent like the sunshine and the rain, and now it appeared that she was to live more and more in a virtual tomb, where there was the apparatus of a ghastly labor producing what would never see the light. Today she had stood at the door of the tomb and seen Will Ladislaw receding into the distant world of warm activity and fellowship--turning his face towards her as he went. Books were of no use. Thinking was of no use. It was Sunday, and she could not have the carriage to go to Celia, who had lately had a baby. There was no refuge now from spiritual emptiness and discontent, and Dorothea had to bear her bad mood, as she would have borne a headache. After dinner, at the hour when she usually began to read aloud, Mr. Casaubon proposed that they should go into the library, where, he said, he had ordered a fire and lights. He seemed to have revived, and to be thinking intently. In the library Dorothea observed that he had newly arranged a row of his note-books on a table, and now he took up and put into her hand a well-known volume, which was a table of contents to all the others. "You will oblige me, my dear," he said, seating himself, "if instead of other reading this evening, you will go through this aloud, pencil in hand, and at each point where I say 'mark,' will make a cross with your pencil. This is the first step in a sifting process which I have long had in view, and as we go on I shall be able to indicate to you certain principles of selection whereby you will, I trust, have an intelligent participation in my purpose." This proposal was only one more sign added to many since his memorable interview with Lydgate, that Mr. Casaubon's original reluctance to let Dorothea work with him had given place to the contrary disposition, namely, to demand much interest and labor from her. After she had read and marked for two hours, he said, "We will take the volume up-stairs--and the pencil, if you please--and in case of reading in the night, we can pursue this task. It is not wearisome to you, I trust, Dorothea?" "I prefer always reading what you like best to hear," said Dorothea, who told the simple truth; for what she dreaded was to exert herself in reading or anything else which left him as joyless as ever. It was a proof of the force with which certain characteristics in Dorothea impressed those around her, that her husband, with all his jealousy and suspicion, had gathered implicit trust in the integrity of her promises, and her power of devoting herself to her idea of the right and best. Of late he had begun to feel that these qualities were a peculiar possession for himself, and he wanted to engross them. The reading in the night did come. Dorothea in her young weariness had slept soon and fast: she was awakened by a sense of light, which seemed to her at first like a sudden vision of sunset after she had climbed a steep hill: she opened her eyes and saw her husband wrapped in his warm gown seating himself in the arm-chair near the fire-place where the embers were still glowing. He had lit two candles, expecting that Dorothea would awake, but not liking to rouse her by more direct means. "Are you ill, Edward?" she said, rising immediately. "I felt some uneasiness in a reclining posture. I will sit here for a time." She threw wood on the fire, wrapped herself up, and said, "You would like me to read to you?" "You would oblige me greatly by doing so, Dorothea," said Mr. Casaubon, with a shade more meekness than usual in his polite manner. "I am wakeful: my mind is remarkably lucid." "I fear that the excitement may be too great for you," said Dorothea, remembering Lydgate's cautions. "No, I am not conscious of undue excitement. Thought is easy." Dorothea dared not insist, and she read for an hour or more on the same plan as she had done in the evening, but getting over the pages with more quickness. Mr. Casaubon's mind was more alert, and he seemed to anticipate what was coming after a very slight verbal indication, saying, "That will do--mark that"--or "Pass on to the next head--I omit the second excursus on Crete." Dorothea was amazed to think of the bird-like speed with which his mind was surveying the ground where it had been creeping for years. At last he said-- "Close the book now, my dear. We will resume our work to-morrow. I have deferred it too long, and would gladly see it completed. But you observe that the principle on which my selection is made, is to give adequate, and not disproportionate illustration to each of the theses enumerated in my introduction, as at present sketched. You have perceived that distinctly, Dorothea?" "Yes," said Dorothea, rather tremulously. She felt sick at heart. "And now I think that I can take some repose," said Mr. Casaubon. He laid down again and begged her to put out the lights. When she had lain down too, and there was a darkness only broken by a dull glow on the hearth, he said-- "Before I sleep, I have a request to make, Dorothea." "What is it?" said Dorothea, with dread in her mind. "It is that you will let me know, deliberately, whether, in case of my death, you will carry out my wishes: whether you will avoid doing what I should deprecate, and apply yourself to do what I should desire." Dorothea was not taken by surprise: many incidents had been leading her to the conjecture of some intention on her husband's part which might make a new yoke for her. She did not answer immediately. "You refuse?" said Mr. Casaubon, with more edge in his tone. "No, I do not yet refuse," said Dorothea, in a clear voice, the need of freedom asserting itself within her; "but it is too solemn--I think it is not right--to make a promise when I am ignorant what it will bind me to. Whatever affection prompted I would do without promising." "But you would use your own judgment: I ask you to obey mine; you refuse." "No, dear, no!" said Dorothea, beseechingly, crushed by opposing fears. "But may I wait and reflect a little while? I desire with my whole soul to do what will comfort you; but I cannot give any pledge suddenly--still less a pledge to do I know not what." "You cannot then confide in the nature of my wishes?" "Grant me till to-morrow," said Dorothea, beseechingly. "Till to-morrow then," said Mr. Casaubon. Soon she could hear that he was sleeping, but there was no more sleep for her. While she constrained herself to lie still lest she should disturb him, her mind was carrying on a conflict in which imagination ranged its forces first on one side and then on the other. She had no presentiment that the power which her husband wished to establish over her future action had relation to anything else than his work. But it was clear enough to her that he would expect her to devote herself to sifting those mixed heaps of material, which were to be the doubtful illustration of principles still more doubtful. The poor child had become altogether unbelieving as to the trustworthiness of that Key which had made the ambition and the labor of her husband's life. It was not wonderful that, in spite of her small instruction, her judgment in this matter was truer than his: for she looked with unbiassed comparison and healthy sense at probabilities on which he had risked all his egoism. And now she pictured to herself the days, and months, and years which she must spend in sorting what might be called shattered mummies, and fragments of a tradition which was itself a mosaic wrought from crushed ruins--sorting them as food for a theory which was already withered in the birth like an elfin child. Doubtless a vigorous error vigorously pursued has kept the embryos of truth a-breathing: the quest of gold being at the same time a questioning of substances, the body of chemistry is prepared for its soul, and Lavoisier is born. But Mr. Casaubon's theory of the elements which made the seed of all tradition was not likely to bruise itself unawares against discoveries: it floated among flexible conjectures no more solid than those etymologies which seemed strong because of likeness in sound until it was shown that likeness in sound made them impossible: it was a method of interpretation which was not tested by the necessity of forming anything which had sharper collisions than an elaborate notion of Gog and Magog: it was as free from interruption as a plan for threading the stars together. And Dorothea had so often had to check her weariness and impatience over this questionable riddle-guessing, as it revealed itself to her instead of the fellowship in high knowledge which was to make life worthier! She could understand well enough now why her husband had come to cling to her, as possibly the only hope left that his labors would ever take a shape in which they could be given to the world. At first it had seemed that he wished to keep even her aloof from any close knowledge of what he was doing; but gradually the terrible stringency of human need--the prospect of a too speedy death-- And here Dorothea's pity turned from her own future to her husband's past--nay, to his present hard struggle with a lot which had grown out of that past: the lonely labor, the ambition breathing hardly under the pressure of self-distrust; the goal receding, and the heavier limbs; and now at last the sword visibly trembling above him! And had she not wished to marry him that she might help him in his life's labor?--But she had thought the work was to be something greater, which she could serve in devoutly for its own sake. Was it right, even to soothe his grief--would it be possible, even if she promised--to work as in a treadmill fruitlessly? And yet, could she deny him? Could she say, "I refuse to content this pining hunger?" It would be refusing to do for him dead, what she was almost sure to do for him living. If he lived as Lydgate had said he might, for fifteen years or more, her life would certainly be spent in helping him and obeying him. Still, there was a deep difference between that devotion to the living and that indefinite promise of devotion to the dead. While he lived, he could claim nothing that she would not still be free to remonstrate against, and even to refuse. But--the thought passed through her mind more than once, though she could not believe in it--might he not mean to demand something more from her than she had been able to imagine, since he wanted her pledge to carry out his wishes without telling her exactly what they were? No; his heart was bound up in his work only: that was the end for which his failing life was to be eked out by hers. And now, if she were to say, "No! if you die, I will put no finger to your work"--it seemed as if she would be crushing that bruised heart. For four hours Dorothea lay in this conflict, till she felt ill and bewildered, unable to resolve, praying mutely. Helpless as a child which has sobbed and sought too long, she fell into a late morning sleep, and when she waked Mr. Casaubon was already up. Tantripp told her that he had read prayers, breakfasted, and was in the library. "I never saw you look so pale, madam," said Tantripp, a solid-figured woman who had been with the sisters at Lausanne. "Was I ever high-colored, Tantripp?" said Dorothea, smiling faintly. "Well, not to say high-colored, but with a bloom like a Chiny rose. But always smelling those leather books, what can be expected? Do rest a little this morning, madam. Let me say you are ill and not able to go into that close library." "Oh no, no! let me make haste," said Dorothea. "Mr. Casaubon wants me particularly." When she went down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfil his wishes; but that would be later in the day--not yet. As Dorothea entered the library, Mr. Casaubon turned round from the table where he had been placing some books, and said-- "I was waiting for your appearance, my dear. I had hoped to set to work at once this morning, but I find myself under some indisposition, probably from too much excitement yesterday. I am going now to take a turn in the shrubbery, since the air is milder." "I am glad to hear that," said Dorothea. "Your mind, I feared, was too active last night." "I would fain have it set at rest on the point I last spoke of, Dorothea. You can now, I hope, give me an answer." "May I come out to you in the garden presently?" said Dorothea, winning a little breathing space in that way. "I shall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour," said Mr. Casaubon, and then he left her. Dorothea, feeling very weary, rang and asked Tantripp to bring her some wraps. She had been sitting still for a few minutes, but not in any renewal of the former conflict: she simply felt that she was going to say "Yes" to her own doom: she was too weak, too full of dread at the thought of inflicting a keen-edged blow on her husband, to do anything but submit completely. She sat still and let Tantripp put on her bonnet and shawl, a passivity which was unusual with her, for she liked to wait on herself. "God bless you, madam!" said Tantripp, with an irrepressible movement of love towards the beautiful, gentle creature for whom she felt unable to do anything more, now that she had finished tying the bonnet. This was too much for Dorothea's highly-strung feeling, and she burst into tears, sobbing against Tantripp's arm. But soon she checked herself, dried her eyes, and went out at the glass door into the shrubbery. "I wish every book in that library was built into a caticom for your master," said Tantripp to Pratt, the butler, finding him in the breakfast-room. She had been at Rome, and visited the antiquities, as we know; and she always declined to call Mr. Casaubon anything but "your master," when speaking to the other servants. Pratt laughed. He liked his master very well, but he liked Tantripp better. When Dorothea was out on the gravel walks, she lingered among the nearer clumps of trees, hesitating, as she had done once before, though from a different cause. Then she had feared lest her effort at fellowship should be unwelcome; now she dreaded going to the spot where she foresaw that she must bind herself to a fellowship from which she shrank. Neither law nor the world's opinion compelled her to this--only her husband's nature and her own compassion, only the ideal and not the real yoke of marriage. She saw clearly enough the whole situation, yet she was fettered: she could not smite the stricken soul that entreated hers. If that were weakness, Dorothea was weak. But the half-hour was passing, and she must not delay longer. When she entered the Yew-tree Walk she could not see her husband; but the walk had bends, and she went, expecting to catch sight of his figure wrapped in a blue cloak, which, with a warm velvet cap, was his outer garment on chill days for the garden. It occurred to her that he might be resting in the summer-house, towards which the path diverged a little. Turning the angle, she could see him seated on the bench, close to a stone table. His arms were resting on the table, and his brow was bowed down on them, the blue cloak being dragged forward and screening his face on each side. "He exhausted himself last night," Dorothea said to herself, thinking at first that he was asleep, and that the summer-house was too damp a place to rest in. But then she remembered that of late she had seen him take that attitude when she was reading to him, as if he found it easier than any other; and that he would sometimes speak, as well as listen, with his face down in that way. She went into the summerhouse and said, "I am come, Edward; I am ready." He took no notice, and she thought that he must be fast asleep. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and repeated, "I am ready!" Still he was motionless; and with a sudden confused fear, she leaned down to him, took off his velvet cap, and leaned her cheek close to his head, crying in a distressed tone-- "Wake, dear, wake! Listen to me. I am come to answer." But Dorothea never gave her answer. Later in the day, Lydgate was seated by her bedside, and she was talking deliriously, thinking aloud, and recalling what had gone through her mind the night before. She knew him, and called him by his name, but appeared to think it right that she should explain everything to him; and again, and again, begged him to explain everything to her husband. "Tell him I shall go to him soon: I am ready to promise. Only, thinking about it was so dreadful--it has made me ill. Not very ill. I shall soon be better. Go and tell him." But the silence in her husband's ear was never more to be broken. 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.

Distraught von Casaubons völliger Ablehnung von Will ist Dorothea den ganzen Tag unruhig. Sie fühlt sich erschöpft von "der beständigen Anstrengung, die von ihrem Eheleben gefordert wird." Als seine Krankheit schlimmer wird, ist Casaubon immer stärker auf ihre Hilfe angewiesen und sie fühlt sich "in einem virtuellen Grab, wo es den Apparat einer grässlichen Arbeit gibt, die nie das Licht sehen wird." Nach einer kurzen Pause beginnt Casaubon nach dem Abendessen wieder mit seiner Arbeit und bittet um ihre Hilfe, damit sie "einen intelligenten Anteil an meinem Vorhaben haben wird." Selbst in seinem eifersüchtigen, besessenen Zustand glaubt ihr Ehemann an ihre Hingabe und Integrität und daran, dass sie "eine besondere Besitzung für sich selbst" waren und er sie für sich beanspruchen wollte. Nach einem kurzen Nickerchen fühlt er sich unruhig und sie fangen wieder an zu lesen. Nach etwas mehr Arbeit legt er sich hin. Dann bittet er sie, zu versprechen, dass sie, wenn er stirbt, das tun wird, was er wünscht, und das vermeidet, was er nicht mag. Dorothea ist voller Furcht. Sie ist bereits von der Last, bei seiner Arbeit mitzuhelfen, niedergedrückt. Sie glaubt, er werde sie bitten, nach seinem Tod alleine damit weiterzumachen, und ist entsetzt über diese Aufgabe. Sie bittet ihn um Zeit zum Nachdenken bis zum nächsten Tag. Nachdem sie über seine Bitte gequält hat, wacht Dorothea auf und findet Casaubon in der Bibliothek auf sie wartend. Sie gewinnt etwas mehr Zeit. Dann geht er in den Garten, wo sie sich ihm anschließen und seine Frage beantworten soll. Als sie geht, findet sie ihn tot in der Laube sitzend. An diesem Tag ist sie völlig erschöpft und wirr und muss von Lydgate betreut 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: WHILE that parting in the wood was happening, there was a parting in the cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam at the door, straining her aged eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth and Dinah, as they mounted the opposite slope. "Eh, I'm loath to see the last on her," she said to Adam, as they turned into the house again. "I'd ha' been willin' t' ha' her about me till I died and went to lie by my old man. She'd make it easier dyin'--she spakes so gentle an' moves about so still. I could be fast sure that pictur' was drawed for her i' thy new Bible--th' angel a-sittin' on the big stone by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind ha'in a daughter like that; but nobody ne'er marries them as is good for aught." "Well, Mother, I hope thee WILT have her for a daughter; for Seth's got a liking for her, and I hope she'll get a liking for Seth in time." "Where's th' use o' talkin' a-that'n? She caresna for Seth. She's goin' away twenty mile aff. How's she to get a likin' for him, I'd like to know? No more nor the cake 'ull come wi'out the leaven. Thy figurin' books might ha' tould thee better nor that, I should think, else thee mightst as well read the commin print, as Seth allays does." "Nay, Mother," said Adam, laughing, "the figures tell us a fine deal, and we couldn't go far without 'em, but they don't tell us about folks's feelings. It's a nicer job to calculate THEM. But Seth's as good-hearted a lad as ever handled a tool, and plenty o' sense, and good-looking too; and he's got the same way o' thinking as Dinah. He deserves to win her, though there's no denying she's a rare bit o' workmanship. You don't see such women turned off the wheel every day." "Eh, thee't allays stick up for thy brother. Thee'st been just the same, e'er sin' ye war little uns together. Thee wart allays for halving iverything wi' him. But what's Seth got to do with marryin', as is on'y three-an'-twenty? He'd more need to learn an' lay by sixpence. An' as for his desarving her--she's two 'ear older nor Seth: she's pretty near as old as thee. But that's the way; folks mun allays choose by contrairies, as if they must be sorted like the pork--a bit o' good meat wi' a bit o' offal." To the feminine mind in some of its moods, all things that might be receive a temporary charm from comparison with what is; and since Adam did not want to marry Dinah himself, Lisbeth felt rather peevish on that score--as peevish as she would have been if he HAD wanted to marry her, and so shut himself out from Mary Burge and the partnership as effectually as by marrying Hetty. It was more than half-past eight when Adam and his mother were talking in this way, so that when, about ten minutes later, Hetty reached the turning of the lane that led to the farmyard gate, she saw Dinah and Seth approaching it from the opposite direction, and waited for them to come up to her. They, too, like Hetty, had lingered a little in their walk, for Dinah was trying to speak words of comfort and strength to Seth in these parting moments. But when they saw Hetty, they paused and shook hands; Seth turned homewards, and Dinah came on alone. "Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear," she said, as she reached Hetty, "but he's very full of trouble to-night." Hetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not quite know what had been said; and it made a strange contrast to see that sparkling self-engrossed loveliness looked at by Dinah's calm pitying face, with its open glance which told that her heart lived in no cherished secrets of its own, but in feelings which it longed to share with all the world. Hetty liked Dinah as well as she had ever liked any woman; how was it possible to feel otherwise towards one who always put in a kind word for her when her aunt was finding fault, and who was always ready to take Totty off her hands--little tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet of by every one, and that Hetty could see no interest in at all? Dinah had never said anything disapproving or reproachful to Hetty during her whole visit to the Hall Farm; she had talked to her a great deal in a serious way, but Hetty didn't mind that much, for she never listened: whatever Dinah might say, she almost always stroked Hetty's cheek after it, and wanted to do some mending for her. Dinah was a riddle to her; Hetty looked at her much in the same way as one might imagine a little perching bird that could only flutter from bough to bough, to look at the swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark; but she did not care to solve such riddles, any more than she cared to know what was meant by the pictures in the Pilgrim's Progress, or in the old folio Bible that Marty and Tommy always plagued her about on a Sunday. Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm. "You look very happy to-night, dear child," she said. "I shall think of you often when I'm at Snowfield, and see your face before me as it is now. It's a strange thing--sometimes when I'm quite alone, sitting in my room with my eyes closed, or walking over the hills, the people I've seen and known, if it's only been for a few days, are brought before me, and I hear their voices and see them look and move almost plainer than I ever did when they were really with me so as I could touch them. And then my heart is drawn out towards them, and I feel their lot as if it was my own, and I take comfort in spreading it before the Lord and resting in His love, on their behalf as well as my own. And so I feel sure you will come before me." She paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing. "It has been a very precious time to me," Dinah went on, "last night and to-day--seeing two such good sons as Adam and Seth Bede. They are so tender and thoughtful for their aged mother. And she has been telling me what Adam has done, for these many years, to help his father and his brother; it's wonderful what a spirit of wisdom and knowledge he has, and how he's ready to use it all in behalf of them that are feeble. And I'm sure he has a loving spirit too. I've noticed it often among my own people round Snowfield, that the strong, skilful men are often the gentlest to the women and children; and it's pretty to see 'em carrying the little babies as if they were no heavier than little birds. And the babies always seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it would be so with Adam Bede. Don't you think so, Hetty?" "Yes," said Hetty abstractedly, for her mind had been all the while in the wood, and she would have found it difficult to say what she was assenting to. Dinah saw she was not inclined to talk, but there would not have been time to say much more, for they were now at the yard-gate. The still twilight, with its dying western red and its few faint struggling stars, rested on the farm-yard, where there was not a sound to be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in the stable. It was about twenty minutes after sunset. The fowls were all gone to roost, and the bull-dog lay stretched on the straw outside his kennel, with the black-and-tan terrier by his side, when the falling-to of the gate disturbed them and set them barking, like good officials, before they had any distinct knowledge of the reason. The barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and Hetty approached, the doorway was filled by a portly figure, with a ruddy black-eyed face which bore in it the possibility of looking extremely acute, and occasionally contemptuous, on market-days, but had now a predominant after-supper expression of hearty good-nature. It is well known that great scholars who have shown the most pitiless acerbity in their criticism of other men's scholarship have yet been of a relenting and indulgent temper in private life; and I have heard of a learned man meekly rocking the twins in the cradle with his left hand, while with his right he inflicted the most lacerating sarcasms on an opponent who had betrayed a brutal ignorance of Hebrew. Weaknesses and errors must be forgiven--alas! they are not alien to us--but the man who takes the wrong side on the momentous subject of the Hebrew points must be treated as the enemy of his race. There was the same sort of antithetic mixture in Martin Poyser: he was of so excellent a disposition that he had been kinder and more respectful than ever to his old father since he had made a deed of gift of all his property, and no man judged his neighbours more charitably on all personal matters; but for a farmer, like Luke Britton, for example, whose fallows were not well cleaned, who didn't know the rudiments of hedging and ditching, and showed but a small share of judgment in the purchase of winter stock, Martin Poyser was as hard and implacable as the north-east wind. Luke Britton could not make a remark, even on the weather, but Martin Poyser detected in it a taint of that unsoundness and general ignorance which was palpable in all his farming operations. He hated to see the fellow lift the pewter pint to his mouth in the bar of the Royal George on market-day, and the mere sight of him on the other side of the road brought a severe and critical expression into his black eyes, as different as possible from the fatherly glance he bent on his two nieces as they approached the door. Mr. Poyser had smoked his evening pipe, and now held his hands in his pockets, as the only resource of a man who continues to sit up after the day's business is done. "Why, lasses, ye're rather late to-night," he said, when they reached the little gate leading into the causeway. "The mother's begun to fidget about you, an' she's got the little un ill. An' how did you leave the old woman Bede, Dinah? Is she much down about the old man? He'd been but a poor bargain to her this five year." "She's been greatly distressed for the loss of him," said Dinah, "but she's seemed more comforted to-day. Her son Adam's been at home all day, working at his father's coffin, and she loves to have him at home. She's been talking about him to me almost all the day. She has a loving heart, though she's sorely given to fret and be fearful. I wish she had a surer trust to comfort her in her old age." "Adam's sure enough," said Mr. Poyser, misunderstanding Dinah's wish. "There's no fear but he'll yield well i' the threshing. He's not one o' them as is all straw and no grain. I'll be bond for him any day, as he'll be a good son to the last. Did he say he'd be coming to see us soon? But come in, come in," he added, making way for them; "I hadn't need keep y' out any longer." The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of the sky, but the large window let in abundant light to show every corner of the house-place. Mrs. Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been brought out of the "right-hand parlour," was trying to soothe Totty to sleep. But Totty was not disposed to sleep; and when her cousins entered, she raised herself up and showed a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter than ever now they were defined by the edge of her linen night-cap. In the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand chimney-nook sat old Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and bleached image of his portly black-haired son--his head hanging forward a little, and his elbows pushed backwards so as to allow the whole of his forearm to rest on the arm of the chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his knees, as was usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head; and he sat watching what went forward with the quiet OUTWARD glance of healthy old age, which, disengaged from any interest in an inward drama, spies out pins upon the floor, follows one's minutest motions with an unexpectant purposeless tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or the sun-gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on the floor, watches even the hand of the clock, and pleases itself with detecting a rhythm in the tick. "What a time o' night this is to come home, Hetty!" said Mrs. Poyser. "Look at the clock, do; why, it's going on for half-past nine, and I've sent the gells to bed this half-hour, and late enough too; when they've got to get up at half after four, and the mowers' bottles to fill, and the baking; and here's this blessed child wi' the fever for what I know, and as wakeful as if it was dinner-time, and nobody to help me to give her the physic but your uncle, and fine work there's been, and half of it spilt on her night-gown--it's well if she's swallowed more nor 'ull make her worse i'stead o' better. But folks as have no mind to be o' use have allays the luck to be out o' the road when there's anything to be done." "I did set out before eight, aunt," said Hetty, in a pettish tone, with a slight toss of her head. "But this clock's so much before the clock at the Chase, there's no telling what time it'll be when I get here." "What! You'd be wanting the clock set by gentlefolks's time, would you? An' sit up burnin' candle, an' lie a-bed wi' the sun a-bakin' you like a cowcumber i' the frame? The clock hasn't been put forrard for the first time to-day, I reckon." The fact was, Hetty had really forgotten the difference of the clocks when she told Captain Donnithorne that she set out at eight, and this, with her lingering pace, had made her nearly half an hour later than usual. But here her aunt's attention was diverted from this tender subject by Totty, who, perceiving at length that the arrival of her cousins was not likely to bring anything satisfactory to her in particular, began to cry, "Munny, munny," in an explosive manner. "Well, then, my pet, Mother's got her, Mother won't leave her; Totty be a good dilling, and go to sleep now," said Mrs. Poyser, leaning back and rocking the chair, while she tried to make Totty nestle against her. But Totty only cried louder, and said, "Don't yock!" So the mother, with that wondrous patience which love gives to the quickest temperament, sat up again, and pressed her cheek against the linen night-cap and kissed it, and forgot to scold Hetty any longer. "Come, Hetty," said Martin Poyser, in a conciliatory tone, "go and get your supper i' the pantry, as the things are all put away; an' then you can come and take the little un while your aunt undresses herself, for she won't lie down in bed without her mother. An' I reckon YOU could eat a bit, Dinah, for they don't keep much of a house down there." "No, thank you, Uncle," said Dinah; "I ate a good meal before I came away, for Mrs. Bede would make a kettle-cake for me." "I don't want any supper," said Hetty, taking off her hat. "I can hold Totty now, if Aunt wants me." "Why, what nonsense that is to talk!" said Mrs. Poyser. "Do you think you can live wi'out eatin', an' nourish your inside wi' stickin' red ribbons on your head? Go an' get your supper this minute, child; there's a nice bit o' cold pudding i' the safe--just what you're fond of." Hetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and Mrs. Poyser went on speaking to Dinah. "Sit down, my dear, an' look as if you knowed what it was to make yourself a bit comfortable i' the world. I warrant the old woman was glad to see you, since you stayed so long." "She seemed to like having me there at last; but her sons say she doesn't like young women about her commonly; and I thought just at first she was almost angry with me for going." "Eh, it's a poor look-out when th' ould folks doesna like the young uns," said old Martin, bending his head down lower, and seeming to trace the pattern of the quarries with his eye. "Aye, it's ill livin' in a hen-roost for them as doesn't like fleas," said Mrs. Poyser. "We've all had our turn at bein' young, I reckon, be't good luck or ill." "But she must learn to 'commodate herself to young women," said Mr. Poyser, "for it isn't to be counted on as Adam and Seth 'ull keep bachelors for the next ten year to please their mother. That 'ud be unreasonable. It isn't right for old nor young nayther to make a bargain all o' their own side. What's good for one's good all round i' the long run. I'm no friend to young fellows a-marrying afore they know the difference atween a crab an' a apple; but they may wait o'er long." "To be sure," said Mrs. Poyser; "if you go past your dinner-time, there'll be little relish o' your meat. You turn it o'er an' o'er wi' your fork, an' don't eat it after all. You find faut wi' your meat, an' the faut's all i' your own stomach." Hetty now came back from the pantry and said, "I can take Totty now, Aunt, if you like." "Come, Rachel," said Mr. Poyser, as his wife seemed to hesitate, seeing that Totty was at last nestling quietly, "thee'dst better let Hetty carry her upstairs, while thee tak'st thy things off. Thee't tired. It's time thee wast in bed. Thee't bring on the pain in thy side again." "Well, she may hold her if the child 'ull go to her," said Mrs. Poyser. Hetty went close to the rocking-chair, and stood without her usual smile, and without any attempt to entice Totty, simply waiting for her aunt to give the child into her hands. "Wilt go to Cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets ready to go to bed? Then Totty shall go into Mother's bed, and sleep there all night." Before her mother had done speaking, Totty had given her answer in an unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow, setting her tiny teeth against her underlip, and leaning forward to slap Hetty on the arm with her utmost force. Then, without speaking, she nestled to her mother again. "Hey, hey," said Mr. Poyser, while Hetty stood without moving, "not go to Cousin Hetty? That's like a babby. Totty's a little woman, an' not a babby." "It's no use trying to persuade her," said Mrs. Poyser. "She allays takes against Hetty when she isn't well. Happen she'll go to Dinah." Dinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto kept quietly seated in the background, not liking to thrust herself between Hetty and what was considered Hetty's proper work. But now she came forward, and, putting out her arms, said, "Come Totty, come and let Dinah carry her upstairs along with Mother: poor, poor Mother! she's so tired--she wants to go to bed." Totty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her an instant, then lifted herself up, put out her little arms, and let Dinah lift her from her mother's lap. Hetty turned away without any sign of ill humour, and, taking her hat from the table, stood waiting with an air of indifference, to see if she should be told to do anything else. "You may make the door fast now, Poyser; Alick's been come in this long while," said Mrs. Poyser, rising with an appearance of relief from her low chair. "Get me the matches down, Hetty, for I must have the rushlight burning i' my room. Come, Father." The heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, and old Martin prepared to move, by gathering up his blue handkerchief, and reaching his bright knobbed walnut-tree stick from the corner. Mrs. Poyser then led the way out of the kitchen, followed by the grandfather, and Dinah with Totty in her arms--all going to bed by twilight, like the birds. Mrs. Poyser, on her way, peeped into the room where her two boys lay; just to see their ruddy round cheeks on the pillow, and to hear for a moment their light regular breathing. "Come, Hetty, get to bed," said Mr. Poyser, in a soothing tone, as he himself turned to go upstairs. "You didna mean to be late, I'll be bound, but your aunt's been worrited to-day. Good-night, my wench, good-night." 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. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Während Hetty sich von Arthur verabschiedet, nimmt Dinah Abschied von den Bedes. Als sie und Seth weg sind, sprechen Adam und seine Mutter über sie. Lisbeth ist so von Dinah angetan, dass sie andeutet, Adam solle sie heiraten, doch Adam ignoriert sie. Dinah und Seth treffen auf Hetty, die gerade auf dem Rückweg von der Chase ist. Seth dreht um und die beiden Frauen gehen zusammen zum Hall Farm. Dinah versucht, Hetty dazu zu bringen, über Adam zu sprechen, um herauszufinden, ob sie seine Zuneigung erwidert, aber vergeblich. Hetty denkt nur an Arthur. Als sie auf dem Hof ankommen, sitzen Herr und Frau Poyser bei Totty, die krank ist. Es wird über die Bedes geredet; Herr Poyser lobt Adam als zuverlässigen jungen Mann und Frau Poyser teilt einige ihrer gewohnten praktischen Weisheiten mit. Totty wird unruhig und Frau Poyser bittet Hetty, sie nach oben zu bringen. Das Kind weigert sich jedoch, mit Hetty zu gehen, und Frau Poyser schlägt vor, dass Dinah sie mitnimmt. Totty geht sehr gerne mit Dinah mit und alle ziehen sich für die Nacht zurück. Zuerst folgen wir Hetty in ihr Schlafzimmer. Das Mädchen, das romantische Vorstellungen von Arthur hat, widmet sich ihrer Lieblingsbeschäftigung. Sie zieht die Ohrringe und andere Schmuckstücke an, die sie versteckt aufbewahrt, und bewundert sich im Spiegel. Sie stellt sich vor, mit Arthur verheiratet zu sein, und schreitet wie ihre Vorstellung von einer großen Dame durch das Zimmer. Der Autor bricht dann seine Erzählung ab, um eine lange Analyse der Beziehung zwischen Gutheit und Schönheit anzustellen. Sie sagt, dass Männer oft von einem hübschen Gesicht getäuscht werden und denken, dass der Besitzer gut ist. In Bezug auf dieses Thema besteht sie darauf, dass alles, was glänzt, definitiv nicht Gold ist. Die Szene wechselt dann in Dinahs Schlafzimmer. Während Hetty sich herausputzt, sitzt Dinah in der Dämmerung und denkt an Gott, an die armen Leute in Snowfield, zu denen sie am nächsten Morgen zurückkehren wird, und an ihre Freunde in Hayslope. Sie hört Geräusche aus Hettys Zimmer und das bringt sie dazu, über das Mädchen nachzudenken. Sie weiß, dass Hetty kalt und egoistisch ist und sie wird dazu bewegt, ihr zu helfen. Dinah geht zu Hettys Zimmer und versichert ihr, dass sie sich jederzeit an sie wenden kann, wenn sie in Schwierigkeiten ist. Anstatt dankbar für diese Aufmerksamkeit zu sein, hat Hetty Angst schon bei der bloßen Erwähnung von zukünftigem Schmerz und sagt Dinah, sie solle gehen. Dinah tut dies betrübt und betet für Hetty; Hetty schläft ein und träumt von Arthur.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture. A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered. "Well," said he, "Mag's dead." "What?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread. "Mag's dead," repeated the man. "Deh hell she is," said the woman. She continued her meal. When she finished her coffee she began to weep. "I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she weared worsted boots," moaned she. "Well, whata dat?" said the man. "I kin remember when she weared worsted boots," she cried. The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. A dozen women entered and lamented with her. Under their busy hands the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted. Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with outstretched arms. "Ah, poor Mary," she cried, and tenderly embraced the moaning one. "Ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis," continued she. Her vocabulary was derived from mission churches. "Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs! Ah, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chil'." Her good, motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe. "I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no bigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith," she cried, raising her streaming eyes. "Ah, me poor Mary," sobbed the woman in black. With low, coddling cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair, and put her arms about her. The other women began to groan in different keys. "Yer poor misguided chil' is gone now, Mary, an' let us hope it's fer deh bes'. Yeh'll fergive her now, Mary, won't yehs, dear, all her disobed'ence? All her t'ankless behavior to her mudder an' all her badness? She's gone where her ter'ble sins will be judged." The woman in black raised her face and paused. The inevitable sunlight came streaming in at the windows and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon the faded hues of the room. Two or three of the spectators were sniffling, and one was loudly weeping. The mourner arose and staggered into the other room. In a moment she emerged with a pair of faded baby shoes held in the hollow of her hand. "I kin remember when she used to wear dem," cried she. The women burst anew into cries as if they had all been stabbed. The mourner turned to the soiled and unshaven man. "Jimmie, boy, go git yer sister! Go git yer sister an' we'll put deh boots on her feets!" "Dey won't fit her now, yeh damn fool," said the man. "Go git yer sister, Jimmie," shrieked the woman, confronting him fiercely. The man swore sullenly. He went over to a corner and slowly began to put on his coat. He took his hat and went out, with a dragging, reluctant step. The woman in black came forward and again besought the mourner. "Yeh'll fergive her, Mary! Yeh'll fergive yer bad, bad, chil'! Her life was a curse an' her days were black an' yeh'll fergive yer bad girl? She's gone where her sins will be judged." "She's gone where her sins will be judged," cried the other women, like a choir at a funeral. "Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," said the woman in black, raising her eyes to the sunbeams. "Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," responded the others. "Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!" pleaded the woman in black. The mourner essayed to speak but her voice gave way. She shook her great shoulders frantically, in an agony of grief. Hot tears seemed to scald her quivering face. Finally her voice came and arose like a scream of pain. "Oh, yes, I'll fergive her! I'll fergive her!" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Eine Frau sitzt an einem Tisch und "isst wie ein fetter Mönch auf einem Bild". Ein schmutziger Mann öffnet die Tür und sagt zu ihr: "Na, Mags ist tot". Der Mund der Frau ist voll. Sie antwortet, dass sie ihm nicht glaubt und weiterisst. Dann fängt sie an zu weinen. Sie erinnert sich daran, als Maggies Füße nicht größer waren als der Daumen eines Erwachsenen und sie Worsted-Boots trug. Die Nachbarn versammeln sich im Flur und beobachten, wie Frau Johnson weint, als würden sie "die Verrenkungen eines sterbenden Hundes betrachten". Sie räumen die Zimmer auf. Eine andere Frau betritt den Raum und ruft über die arme Frau Johnson aus. Sie sagt ihr, es sei eine "schreckliche Plage". Sie hat ihre Worte aus Missionskirchen. Sie weint gemeinsam mit Frau Johnson. Frau Johnson wiederholt immer wieder, dass sie sich daran erinnern kann, als Maggie noch Worsted-Boots trug. Die Frau sagt Frau Johnson, dass ihr "irrgeleitetes Kind" jetzt weg ist und es Zeit ist, ihr zu vergeben. Frau Johnson sagt Jimmie, er solle Maggie holen und sie werden ihr die Stiefel wieder anziehen. Jimmie flucht und sagt, dass die Babystiefel jetzt nicht mehr auf Maggies Füße passen werden. Sie schreit ihn an, seine Schwester zu holen. Die anderen Frauen im Raum sagen "Sie ist dorthin gegangen, wo ihre Sünden beurteilt werden." Sie wiederholen Floskeln und Mary Johnson schreit: "Oh ja, ich werde ihr vergeben! Ich werde ihr vergeben!"

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The Same Subject Continued (Concerning the Power of Congress to Regulate the Election of Members) From The Independent Journal. Saturday, February 23, 1788. HAMILTON To the People of the State of New York: WE HAVE seen, that an uncontrollable power over the elections to the federal government could not, without hazard, be committed to the State legislatures. Let us now see, what would be the danger on the other side; that is, from confiding the ultimate right of regulating its own elections to the Union itself. It is not pretended, that this right would ever be used for the exclusion of any State from its share in the representation. The interest of all would, in this respect at least, be the security of all. But it is alleged, that it might be employed in such a manner as to promote the election of some favorite class of men in exclusion of others, by confining the places of election to particular districts, and rendering it impracticable to the citizens at large to partake in the choice. Of all chimerical suppositions, this seems to be the most chimerical. On the one hand, no rational calculation of probabilities would lead us to imagine that the disposition which a conduct so violent and extraordinary would imply, could ever find its way into the national councils; and on the other, it may be concluded with certainty, that if so improper a spirit should ever gain admittance into them, it would display itself in a form altogether different and far more decisive. The improbability of the attempt may be satisfactorily inferred from this single reflection, that it could never be made without causing an immediate revolt of the great body of the people, headed and directed by the State governments. It is not difficult to conceive that this characteristic right of freedom may, in certain turbulent and factious seasons, be violated, in respect to a particular class of citizens, by a victorious and overbearing majority; but that so fundamental a privilege, in a country so situated and enlightened, should be invaded to the prejudice of the great mass of the people, by the deliberate policy of the government, without occasioning a popular revolution, is altogether inconceivable and incredible. In addition to this general reflection, there are considerations of a more precise nature, which forbid all apprehension on the subject. The dissimilarity in the ingredients which will compose the national government, and still more in the manner in which they will be brought into action in its various branches, must form a powerful obstacle to a concert of views in any partial scheme of elections. There is sufficient diversity in the state of property, in the genius, manners, and habits of the people of the different parts of the Union, to occasion a material diversity of disposition in their representatives towards the different ranks and conditions in society. And though an intimate intercourse under the same government will promote a gradual assimilation in some of these respects, yet there are causes, as well physical as moral, which may, in a greater or less degree, permanently nourish different propensities and inclinations in this respect. But the circumstance which will be likely to have the greatest influence in the matter, will be the dissimilar modes of constituting the several component parts of the government. The House of Representatives being to be elected immediately by the people, the Senate by the State legislatures, the President by electors chosen for that purpose by the people, there would be little probability of a common interest to cement these different branches in a predilection for any particular class of electors. As to the Senate, it is impossible that any regulation of "time and manner," which is all that is proposed to be submitted to the national government in respect to that body, can affect the spirit which will direct the choice of its members. The collective sense of the State legislatures can never be influenced by extraneous circumstances of that sort; a consideration which alone ought to satisfy us that the discrimination apprehended would never be attempted. For what inducement could the Senate have to concur in a preference in which itself would not be included? Or to what purpose would it be established, in reference to one branch of the legislature, if it could not be extended to the other? The composition of the one would in this case counteract that of the other. And we can never suppose that it would embrace the appointments to the Senate, unless we can at the same time suppose the voluntary co-operation of the State legislatures. If we make the latter supposition, it then becomes immaterial where the power in question is placed--whether in their hands or in those of the Union. But what is to be the object of this capricious partiality in the national councils? Is it to be exercised in a discrimination between the different departments of industry, or between the different kinds of property, or between the different degrees of property? Will it lean in favor of the landed interest, or the moneyed interest, or the mercantile interest, or the manufacturing interest? Or, to speak in the fashionable language of the adversaries to the Constitution, will it court the elevation of "the wealthy and the well-born," to the exclusion and debasement of all the rest of the society? If this partiality is to be exerted in favor of those who are concerned in any particular description of industry or property, I presume it will readily be admitted, that the competition for it will lie between landed men and merchants. And I scruple not to affirm, that it is infinitely less likely that either of them should gain an ascendant in the national councils, than that the one or the other of them should predominate in all the local councils. The inference will be, that a conduct tending to give an undue preference to either is much less to be dreaded from the former than from the latter. The several States are in various degrees addicted to agriculture and commerce. In most, if not all of them, agriculture is predominant. In a few of them, however, commerce nearly divides its empire, and in most of them has a considerable share of influence. In proportion as either prevails, it will be conveyed into the national representation; and for the very reason, that this will be an emanation from a greater variety of interests, and in much more various proportions, than are to be found in any single State, it will be much less apt to espouse either of them with a decided partiality, than the representation of any single State. In a country consisting chiefly of the cultivators of land, where the rules of an equal representation obtain, the landed interest must, upon the whole, preponderate in the government. As long as this interest prevails in most of the State legislatures, so long it must maintain a correspondent superiority in the national Senate, which will generally be a faithful copy of the majorities of those assemblies. It cannot therefore be presumed, that a sacrifice of the landed to the mercantile class will ever be a favorite object of this branch of the federal legislature. In applying thus particularly to the Senate a general observation suggested by the situation of the country, I am governed by the consideration, that the credulous votaries of State power cannot, upon their own principles, suspect, that the State legislatures would be warped from their duty by any external influence. But in reality the same situation must have the same effect, in the primitive composition at least of the federal House of Representatives: an improper bias towards the mercantile class is as little to be expected from this quarter as from the other. In order, perhaps, to give countenance to the objection at any rate, it may be asked, is there not danger of an opposite bias in the national government, which may dispose it to endeavor to secure a monopoly of the federal administration to the landed class? As there is little likelihood that the supposition of such a bias will have any terrors for those who would be immediately injured by it, a labored answer to this question will be dispensed with. It will be sufficient to remark, first, that for the reasons elsewhere assigned, it is less likely that any decided partiality should prevail in the councils of the Union than in those of any of its members. Secondly, that there would be no temptation to violate the Constitution in favor of the landed class, because that class would, in the natural course of things, enjoy as great a preponderancy as itself could desire. And thirdly, that men accustomed to investigate the sources of public prosperity upon a large scale, must be too well convinced of the utility of commerce, to be inclined to inflict upon it so deep a wound as would result from the entire exclusion of those who would best understand its interest from a share in the management of them. The importance of commerce, in the view of revenue alone, must effectually guard it against the enmity of a body which would be continually importuned in its favor, by the urgent calls of public necessity. I the rather consult brevity in discussing the probability of a preference founded upon a discrimination between the different kinds of industry and property, because, as far as I understand the meaning of the objectors, they contemplate a discrimination of another kind. They appear to have in view, as the objects of the preference with which they endeavor to alarm us, those whom they designate by the description of "the wealthy and the well-born." These, it seems, are to be exalted to an odious pre-eminence over the rest of their fellow-citizens. At one time, however, their elevation is to be a necessary consequence of the smallness of the representative body; at another time it is to be effected by depriving the people at large of the opportunity of exercising their right of suffrage in the choice of that body. But upon what principle is the discrimination of the places of election to be made, in order to answer the purpose of the meditated preference? Are "the wealthy and the well-born," as they are called, confined to particular spots in the several States? Have they, by some miraculous instinct or foresight, set apart in each of them a common place of residence? Are they only to be met with in the towns or cities? Or are they, on the contrary, scattered over the face of the country as avarice or chance may have happened to cast their own lot or that of their predecessors? If the latter is the case, (as every intelligent man knows it to be,(1)) is it not evident that the policy of confining the places of election to particular districts would be as subversive of its own aim as it would be exceptionable on every other account? The truth is, that there is no method of securing to the rich the preference apprehended, but by prescribing qualifications of property either for those who may elect or be elected. But this forms no part of the power to be conferred upon the national government. Its authority would be expressly restricted to the regulation of the TIMES, the PLACES, the MANNER of elections. The qualifications of the persons who may choose or be chosen, as has been remarked upon other occasions, are defined and fixed in the Constitution, and are unalterable by the legislature. Let it, however, be admitted, for argument sake, that the expedient suggested might be successful; and let it at the same time be equally taken for granted that all the scruples which a sense of duty or an apprehension of the danger of the experiment might inspire, were overcome in the breasts of the national rulers, still I imagine it will hardly be pretended that they could ever hope to carry such an enterprise into execution without the aid of a military force sufficient to subdue the resistance of the great body of the people. The improbability of the existence of a force equal to that object has been discussed and demonstrated in different parts of these papers; but that the futility of the objection under consideration may appear in the strongest light, it shall be conceded for a moment that such a force might exist, and the national government shall be supposed to be in the actual possession of it. What will be the conclusion? With a disposition to invade the essential rights of the community, and with the means of gratifying that disposition, is it presumable that the persons who were actuated by it would amuse themselves in the ridiculous task of fabricating election laws for securing a preference to a favorite class of men? Would they not be likely to prefer a conduct better adapted to their own immediate aggrandizement? Would they not rather boldly resolve to perpetuate themselves in office by one decisive act of usurpation, than to trust to precarious expedients which, in spite of all the precautions that might accompany them, might terminate in the dismission, disgrace, and ruin of their authors? Would they not fear that citizens, not less tenacious than conscious of their rights, would flock from the remote extremes of their respective States to the places of election, to overthrow their tyrants, and to substitute men who would be disposed to avenge the violated majesty of the people? PUBLIUS 1. Particularly in the Southern States and in this State. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Hamilton reagiert auf Bedenken, dass die Macht der nationalen Regierung, die Zeit, den Ort und die Art und Weise der Wahl der Abgeordneten des Repräsentantenhauses festzulegen, zu einer Bevorzugung der Wohlhabenden gegenüber der Masse der Bürger führen könnte. Die Angst scheint gewesen zu sein, dass die nationale Regierung möglicherweise Wahlen nur in Teilen der von Wohlhabenden bevölkerten Bundesstaaten abhalten könnte. Dies würde angeblich verhindern, dass Bürger mit niedrigem Einkommen wählen können. Hamilton weist diese Furcht aus mehreren Gründen zurück, darunter die Tatsache, dass solche Orte nicht existieren - das heißt, die Reichen sind über die Staaten verstreut. Hamilton argumentiert auch, dass das amerikanische Volk ein solches Verhalten der nationalen Regierung niemals tolerieren würde. Er betont zudem, dass die Gewaltenteilung zwischen dem Repräsentantenhaus, dem Senat und dem Präsidenten es der nationalen Regierung viel schwieriger machen würde, sich gegen die Bundesstaaten zu verschwören. Jeder Zweig der Bundesregierung wird von unterschiedlichen Bevölkerungsgruppen gewählt - das Repräsentantenhaus vom Volk, der Senat von den Landesparlamenten und der Präsident von Wahlmännern, die vom Volk gewählt werden. Angesichts der Tatsache, dass jeder Zweig so unterschiedliche Machtmittel hat, wäre es äußerst unwahrscheinlich, dass sie alle eine bestimmte Klasse von Menschen oder eine bestimmte Interessengruppe repräsentieren würden.

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

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Nachdem David sich gewaschen und umgezogen hat, erzählt ihm Mr. Rankeillor die Geschichte seines Vaters, Alexander Balfour, und seines Onkels Ebenezer. Als beide Männer jung waren, verliebten sie sich in dieselbe Frau, die Davids Mutter werden sollte. Ebenezer war sicher, dass sie ihn wählen würde, und als sie Davids Vater wählte, reagierte Ebenezer mit Hysterie und Trinkgelagen. Alexander fühlte sich schuldig und gab die Frau schließlich an Ebenezer ab, doch sie lehnte beide ab. Alexander und Ebenezer einigten sich schließlich darauf, dass der Erste die Frau haben sollte, während der Zweite das Anwesen bekam. Alexander und seine Frau lebten seitdem in Armut, und die Pächter des Shaw-Anwesens litten unter Ebenezers Herrschaft. Ebenezer wurde immer egoistischer und geiziger. Mr. Rankeillor erklärt, dass die Vereinbarung zwischen Davids Vater und Ebenezer keine rechtliche Gültigkeit hat und das Shaw-Anwesen David gehört. Allerdings wird Ebenezer wahrscheinlich seinen Anspruch mit einer Klage anfechten. Mr. Rankeillor befürchtet, dass ein Gerichtsverfahren die Existenz von "Mr. Thomson" thematisieren wird, was für David gefährlich wäre. Eine Entführung könnte den Fall für David gewinnen, aber es wäre schwierig, irgendetwas zu beweisen. Er empfiehlt David, Ebenezer weiterhin auf Shaws leben zu lassen und sich mit einer Zulage zufrieden zu geben, bis der alte Mann stirbt. David schmiedet einen Plan, bei dem Mr. Rankeillor Alan trifft. Zuerst ist Mr. Rankeillor nicht bereit, da er als Anwalt Alan vor Gericht bringen müsste, wenn er etwas gegen ihn wüsste. Aber schließlich findet Mr. Rankeillor einen Weg, wie er Alan treffen kann, ohne ihn in Gefahr zu bringen. Er erzählt David eine Geschichte davon, wie er einmal seine Brille vergessen hat und seinen eigenen Angestellten nicht erkannte. Als David Mr. Rankeillor trifft, um Alan zu begleiten, lacht Mr. Rankeillor und sagt ihm, dass er seine Brille vergessen hat. David erkennt, dass dies Mr. Rankeillors Art ist sicherzustellen, dass er Alan nicht richtig sehen kann und dass er daher vor Gericht wahrheitsgemäß aussagen kann, dass er ihn nie gesehen hat. Mr. Rankeillor spricht vertraulich mit Alan und sie gehen alle zum Haus von Shaws. Alan klopft an die Tür.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Miller's doorbell rang loudly, insistently, as though demanding a response. Absorbed in his own grief, into which he had relapsed upon Carteret's departure, the sound was an unwelcome intrusion. Surely the man could not be coming back! If it were some one else--What else might happen to the doomed town concerned him not. His child was dead,--his distracted wife could not be left alone. The doorbell rang--clamorously--appealingly. Through the long hall and the closed door of the room where he sat, he could hear some one knocking, and a faint voice calling. "Open, for God's sake, open!" It was a woman's voice,--the voice of a woman in distress. Slowly Miller rose and went to the door, which he opened mechanically. A lady stood there, so near the image of his own wife, whom he had just left, that for a moment he was well-nigh startled. A little older, perhaps, a little fairer of complexion, but with the same form, the same features, marked by the same wild grief. She wore a loose wrapper, which clothed her like the drapery of a statue. Her long dark hair, the counterpart of his wife's, had fallen down, and hung disheveled about her shoulders. There was blood upon her knuckles, where she had beaten with them upon the door. "Dr. Miller," she panted, breathless from her flight and laying her hand upon his arm appealingly,--when he shrank from the contact she still held it there,--"Dr. Miller, you will come and save my child? You know what it is to lose a child! I am so sorry about your little boy! You will come to mine!" "Your sorrow comes too late, madam," he said harshly. "My child is dead. I charged your husband with his murder, and he could not deny it. Why should I save your husband's child?" "Ah, Dr. Miller!" she cried, with his wife's voice,--she never knew how much, in that dark hour, she owed to that resemblance--"it is _my_ child, and I have never injured you. It is my child, Dr. Miller, my only child. I brought it into the world at the risk of my own life! I have nursed it, I have watched over it, I have prayed for it,--and it now lies dying! Oh, Dr. Miller, dear Dr. Miller, if you have a heart, come and save my child!" "Madam," he answered more gently, moved in spite of himself, "my heart is broken. My people lie dead upon the streets, at the hands of yours. The work of my life is in ashes,--and, yonder, stretched out in death, lies my own child! God! woman, you ask too much of human nature! Love, duty, sorrow, _justice_, call me here. I cannot go!" She rose to her full height. "Then you are a murderer," she cried wildly. "His blood be on your head, and a mother's curse beside!" The next moment, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she had thrown herself at his feet,--at the feet of a negro, this proud white woman,--and was clasping his knees wildly. "O God!" she prayed, in tones which quivered with anguish, "pardon my husband's sins, and my own, and move this man's hard heart, by the blood of thy Son, who died to save us all!" It was the last appeal of poor humanity. When the pride of intellect and caste is broken; when we grovel in the dust of humiliation; when sickness and sorrow come, and the shadow of death falls upon us, and there is no hope elsewhere,--we turn to God, who sometimes swallows the insult, and answers the appeal. Miller raised the lady to her feet. He had been deeply moved,--but he had been more deeply injured. This was his wife's sister,--ah, yes! but a sister who had scorned and slighted and ignored the existence of his wife for all her life. Only Miller, of all the world, could have guessed what this had meant to Janet, and he had merely divined it through the clairvoyant sympathy of love. This woman could have no claim upon him because of this unacknowledged relationship. Yet, after all, she was his wife's sister, his child's kinswoman. She was a fellow creature, too, and in distress. "Rise, madam," he said, with a sudden inspiration, lifting her gently. "I will listen to you on one condition. My child lies dead in the adjoining room, his mother by his side. Go in there, and make your request of her. I will abide by her decision." The two women stood confronting each other across the body of the dead child, mute witness of this first meeting between two children of the same father. Standing thus face to face, each under the stress of the deepest emotions, the resemblance between them was even more striking than it had seemed to Miller when he had admitted Mrs. Carteret to the house. But Death, the great leveler, striking upon the one hand and threatening upon the other, had wrought a marvelous transformation in the bearing of the two women. The sad-eyed Janet towered erect, with menacing aspect, like an avenging goddess. The other, whose pride had been her life, stood in the attitude of a trembling suppliant. "_You_ have come here," cried Janet, pointing with a tragic gesture to the dead child,--"_you_, to gloat over your husband's work. All my life you have hated and scorned and despised me. Your presence here insults me and my dead. What are you doing here?" "Mrs. Miller," returned Mrs. Carteret tremulously, dazed for a moment by this outburst, and clasping her hands with an imploring gesture, "my child, my only child, is dying, and your husband alone can save his life. Ah, let me have my child," she moaned, heart-rendingly. "It is my only one--my sweet child--my ewe lamb!" "This was _my_ only child!" replied the other mother; "and yours is no better to die than mine!" "You are young," said Mrs. Carteret, "and may yet have many children,--this is my only hope! If you have a human heart, tell your husband to come with me. He leaves it to you; he will do as you command." "Ah," cried Janet, "I have a human heart, and therefore I will not let him go. _My_ child is dead--O God, my child, my child!" She threw herself down by the bedside, sobbing hysterically. The other woman knelt beside her, and put her arm about her neck. For a moment Janet, absorbed in her grief, did not repulse her. "Listen," pleaded Mrs. Carteret. "You will not let my baby die? You are my sister;--the child is your own near kin!" "My child was nearer," returned Janet, rising again to her feet and shaking off the other woman's arm. "He was my son, and I have seen him die. I have been your sister for twenty-five years, and you have only now, for the first time, called me so!" "Listen--sister," returned Mrs. Carteret. Was there no way to move this woman? Her child lay dying, if he were not dead already. She would tell everything, and leave the rest to God. If it would save her child, she would shrink at no sacrifice. Whether the truth would still further incense Janet, or move her to mercy, she could not tell; she would leave the issue to God. "Listen, sister!" she said. "I have a confession to make. You are my lawful sister. My father was married to your mother. You are entitled to his name, and to half his estate." Janet's eyes flashed with bitter scorn. "And you have robbed me all these years, and now tell me that as a reason why I should forgive the murder of my child?" "No, no!" cried the other wildly, fearing the worst. "I have known of it only a few weeks,--since my Aunt Polly's death. I had not meant to rob you,--I had meant to make restitution. Sister! for our father's sake, who did you no wrong, give me my child's life!" Janet's eyes slowly filled with tears--bitter tears--burning tears. For a moment even her grief at her child's loss dropped to second place in her thoughts. This, then, was the recognition for which, all her life, she had longed in secret. It had come, after many days, and in larger measure than she had dreamed; but it had come, not with frank kindliness and sisterly love, but in a storm of blood and tears; not freely given, from an open heart, but extorted from a reluctant conscience by the agony of a mother's fears. Janet had obtained her heart's desire, and now that it was at her lips, found it but apples of Sodom, filled with dust and ashes! "Listen!" she cried, dashing her tears aside. "I have but one word for you,--one last word,--and then I hope never to see your face again! My mother died of want, and I was brought up by the hand of charity. Now, when I have married a man who can supply my needs, you offer me back the money which you and your friends have robbed me of! You imagined that the shame of being a negro swallowed up every other ignominy,--and in your eyes I am a negro, though I am your sister, and you are white, and people have taken me for you on the streets,--and you, therefore, left me nameless all my life! Now, when an honest man has given me a name of which I can be proud, you offer me the one of which you robbed me, and of which I can make no use. For twenty-five years I, poor, despicable fool, would have kissed your feet for a word, a nod, a smile. Now, when this tardy recognition comes, for which I have waited so long, it is tainted with fraud and crime and blood, and I must pay for it with my child's life!" "And I must forfeit that of mine, it seems, for withholding it so long," sobbed the other, as, tottering, she turned to go. "It is but just." "Stay--do not go yet!" commanded Janet imperiously, her pride still keeping back her tears. "I have not done. I throw you back your father's name, your father's wealth, your sisterly recognition. I want none of them,--they are bought too dear! ah, God, they are bought too dear! But that you may know that a woman may be foully wronged, and yet may have a heart to feel, even for one who has injured her, you may have your child's life, if my husband can save it! Will," she said, throwing open the door into the next room, "go with her!" "God will bless you for a noble woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret. "You do not mean all the cruel things you have said,--ah, no! I will see you again, and make you take them back; I cannot thank you now! Oh, doctor, let us go! I pray God we may not be too late!" Together they went out into the night. Mrs. Carteret tottered under the stress of her emotions, and would have fallen, had not Miller caught and sustained her with his arm until they reached the house, where he turned over her fainting form to Carteret at the door. "Is the child still alive?" asked Miller. "Yes, thank God," answered the father, "but nearly gone." "Come on up, Dr. Miller," called Evans from the head of the stairs. "There's time enough, but none to spare." 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.

Die Türklingel im Haus der Millers klingelt wütend. Miller ist von Trauer verwirrt, steht aber auf, um sie zu beantworten. Er findet Mrs. Carteret, die ihn flehentlich bittet, ihr Kind zu retten. Miller sagt ihr, dass er es nicht tun wird - "Liebe, Pflicht, Trauer, Gerechtigkeit rufen mich hierher. Ich kann nicht gehen." Olivia fällt auf die Knie, fleht Miller an und betet zu Gott, dass er kommen und ihr Kind retten möge. Miller ist von ihren Gebeten bewegt und erinnert sich daran, dass sie, obwohl nicht erkannt, die Schwester seiner Frau ist. Er sagt ihr, sie solle aufstehen und zu Janet gehen. Wenn sie es erlaubt, wird er gehen und ihr Kind retten. Olivia und Janet konfrontieren sich miteinander. Olivia bittet sie, ihrem Mann zu erlauben, zu kommen und ihr Kind zu retten. Janet lehnt den Wunsch ab. Olivia nennt sie "Schwester", aber Janet weist diesen Namen zurück und sagt: "Ich bin seit fünfundzwanzig Jahren deine Schwester und du hast mich jetzt zum ersten Mal so genannt." Olivia gesteht, dass Janet ihre rechtmäßige Schwester ist und dass sie Wiedergutmachung dafür leisten will, dass sie ihr den Besitz ihres Vaters genommen hat. Dies ist eine bittere Zulassung für Janet. Sie "hatte sich ihr sehnlichstes Verlangen erfüllt, und jetzt, wo es an ihren Lippen liegt, findet sie es nur Äpfel von Sodom, gefüllt mit Staub und Asche". Janet hält eine Rede, in der sie Olivia sagt, dass ihre Mutter an Armut gestorben sei, dass sie in Armut aufgewachsen sei und dass nun ihr Kind wegen Olivia und ihrer Familie von ihr genommen worden sei. Olivia ruft aus, dass sie ihr eigenes Leben und ihren Lebensunterhalt aufgeben werde. Janet sagt ihr, dass sie nicht den Reichtum und den Namen von Olivias Vater annehmen werde, aber "damit du weißt, dass einer Frau schlimmes Unrecht getan werden kann und sie dennoch ein Herz haben kann, selbst für jemanden, der ihr Unrecht getan hat, kannst du das Leben deines Kindes haben. Sie schickt ihren Mann, um sich um das Kind der Carterets zu kümmern. Als Dr. Miller ins Haus kommt, fragt er, ob das Kind noch am Leben ist. Dr. Evans sagt ihm, dass es lebt und sagt: "Es ist noch genug Zeit, aber keine Zeit zu verlieren."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: On the 5th of October, at eight p.m., a dense crowd pressed toward the saloons of the Gun Club at No. 21 Union Square. All the members of the association resident in Baltimore attended the invitation of their president. As regards the corresponding members, notices were delivered by hundreds throughout the streets of the city, and, large as was the great hall, it was quite inadequate to accommodate the crowd of _savants_. They overflowed into the adjoining rooms, down the narrow passages, into the outer courtyards. There they ran against the vulgar herd who pressed up to the doors, each struggling to reach the front ranks, all eager to learn the nature of the important communication of President Barbicane; all pushing, squeezing, crushing with that perfect freedom of action which is so peculiar to the masses when educated in ideas of "self-government." On that evening a stranger who might have chanced to be in Baltimore could not have gained admission for love or money into the great hall. That was reserved exclusively for resident or corresponding members; no one else could possibly have obtained a place; and the city magnates, municipal councilors, and "select men" were compelled to mingle with the mere townspeople in order to catch stray bits of news from the interior. Nevertheless the vast hall presented a curious spectacle. Its immense area was singularly adapted to the purpose. Lofty pillars formed of cannon, superposed upon huge mortars as a base, supported the fine ironwork of the arches, a perfect piece of cast-iron lacework. Trophies of blunderbuses, matchlocks, arquebuses, carbines, all kinds of firearms, ancient and modern, were picturesquely interlaced against the walls. The gas lit up in full glare myriads of revolvers grouped in the form of lustres, while groups of pistols, and candelabra formed of muskets bound together, completed this magnificent display of brilliance. Models of cannon, bronze castings, sights covered with dents, plates battered by the shots of the Gun Club, assortments of rammers and sponges, chaplets of shells, wreaths of projectiles, garlands of howitzers-- in short, all the apparatus of the artillerist, enchanted the eye by this wonderful arrangement and induced a kind of belief that their real purpose was ornamental rather than deadly. At the further end of the saloon the president, assisted by four secretaries, occupied a large platform. His chair, supported by a carved gun-carriage, was modeled upon the ponderous proportions of a 32-inch mortar. It was pointed at an angle of ninety degrees, and suspended upon truncheons, so that the president could balance himself upon it as upon a rocking-chair, a very agreeable fact in the very hot weather. Upon the table (a huge iron plate supported upon six carronades) stood an inkstand of exquisite elegance, made of a beautifully chased Spanish piece, and a sonnette, which, when required, could give forth a report equal to that of a revolver. During violent debates this novel kind of bell scarcely sufficed to drown the clamor of these excitable artillerists. In front of the table benches arranged in zigzag form, like the circumvallations of a retrenchment, formed a succession of bastions and curtains set apart for the use of the members of the club; and on this especial evening one might say, "All the world was on the ramparts." The president was sufficiently well known, however, for all to be assured that he would not put his colleagues to discomfort without some very strong motive. Impey Barbicane was a man of forty years of age, calm, cold, austere; of a singularly serious and self-contained demeanor, punctual as a chronometer, of imperturbable temper and immovable character; by no means chivalrous, yet adventurous withal, and always bringing practical ideas to bear upon the very rashest enterprises; an essentially New Englander, a Northern colonist, a descendant of the old anti-Stuart Roundheads, and the implacable enemy of the gentlemen of the South, those ancient cavaliers of the mother country. In a word, he was a Yankee to the backbone. Barbicane had made a large fortune as a timber merchant. Being nominated director of artillery during the war, he proved himself fertile in invention. Bold in his conceptions, he contributed powerfully to the progress of that arm and gave an immense impetus to experimental researches. He was personage of the middle height, having, by a rare exception in the Gun Club, all his limbs complete. His strongly marked features seemed drawn by square and rule; and if it be true that, in order to judge a man's character one must look at his profile, Barbicane, so examined, exhibited the most certain indications of energy, audacity, and _sang-froid_. At this moment he was sitting in his armchair, silent, absorbed, lost in reflection, sheltered under his high-crowned hat-- a kind of black cylinder which always seems firmly screwed upon the head of an American. Just when the deep-toned clock in the great hall struck eight, Barbicane, as if he had been set in motion by a spring, raised himself up. A profound silence ensued, and the speaker, in a somewhat emphatic tone of voice, commenced as follows: "My brave, colleagues, too long already a paralyzing peace has plunged the members of the Gun Club in deplorable inactivity. After a period of years full of incidents we have been compelled to abandon our labors, and to stop short on the road of progress. I do not hesitate to state, baldly, that any war which would recall us to arms would be welcome!" (Tremendous applause!) "But war, gentlemen, is impossible under existing circumstances; and, however we may desire it, many years may elapse before our cannon shall again thunder in the field of battle. We must make up our minds, then, to seek in another train of ideas some field for the activity which we all pine for." The meeting felt that the president was now approaching the critical point, and redoubled their attention accordingly. "For some months past, my brave colleagues," continued Barbicane, "I have been asking myself whether, while confining ourselves to our own particular objects, we could not enter upon some grand experiment worthy of the nineteenth century; and whether the progress of artillery science would not enable us to carry it out to a successful issue. I have been considering, working, calculating; and the result of my studies is the conviction that we are safe to succeed in an enterprise which to any other country would appear wholly impracticable. This project, the result of long elaboration, is the object of my present communication. It is worthy of yourselves, worthy of the antecedents of the Gun Club; and it cannot fail to make some noise in the world." A thrill of excitement ran through the meeting. Barbicane, having by a rapid movement firmly fixed his hat upon his head, calmly continued his harangue: "There is no one among you, my brave colleagues, who has not seen the Moon, or, at least, heard speak of it. Don't be surprised if I am about to discourse to you regarding the Queen of the Night. It is perhaps reserved for us to become the Columbuses of this unknown world. Only enter into my plans, and second me with all your power, and I will lead you to its conquest, and its name shall be added to those of the thirty-six states which compose this Great Union." "Three cheers for the Moon!" roared the Gun Club, with one voice. "The moon, gentlemen, has been carefully studied," continued Barbicane; "her mass, density, and weight; her constitution, motions, distance, as well as her place in the solar system, have all been exactly determined. Selenographic charts have been constructed with a perfection which equals, if it does not even surpass, that of our terrestrial maps. Photography has given us proofs of the incomparable beauty of our satellite; all is known regarding the moon which mathematical science, astronomy, geology, and optics can learn about her. But up to the present moment no direct communication has been established with her." A violent movement of interest and surprise here greeted this remark of the speaker. "Permit me," he continued, "to recount to you briefly how certain ardent spirits, starting on imaginary journeys, have penetrated the secrets of our satellite. In the seventeenth century a certain David Fabricius boasted of having seen with his own eyes the inhabitants of the moon. In 1649 a Frenchman, one Jean Baudoin, published a `Journey performed from the Earth to the Moon by Domingo Gonzalez,' a Spanish adventurer. At the same period Cyrano de Bergerac published that celebrated `Journeys in the Moon' which met with such success in France. Somewhat later another Frenchman, named Fontenelle, wrote `The Plurality of Worlds,' a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of its time. About 1835 a small treatise, translated from the New York _American_, related how Sir John Herschel, having been despatched to the Cape of Good Hope for the purpose of making there some astronomical calculations, had, by means of a telescope brought to perfection by means of internal lighting, reduced the apparent distance of the moon to eighty yards! He then distinctly perceived caverns frequented by hippopotami, green mountains bordered by golden lace-work, sheep with horns of ivory, a white species of deer and inhabitants with membranous wings, like bats. This _brochure_, the work of an American named Locke, had a great sale. But, to bring this rapid sketch to a close, I will only add that a certain Hans Pfaal, of Rotterdam, launching himself in a balloon filled with a gas extracted from nitrogen, thirty-seven times lighter than hydrogen, reached the moon after a passage of nineteen hours. This journey, like all previous ones, was purely imaginary; still, it was the work of a popular American author-- I mean Edgar Poe!" "Cheers for Edgar Poe!" roared the assemblage, electrified by their president's words. "I have now enumerated," said Barbicane, "the experiments which I call purely paper ones, and wholly insufficient to establish serious relations with the Queen of the Night. Nevertheless, I am bound to add that some practical geniuses have attempted to establish actual communication with her. Thus, a few days ago, a German geometrician proposed to send a scientific expedition to the steppes of Siberia. There, on those vast plains, they were to describe enormous geometric figures, drawn in characters of reflecting luminosity, among which was the proposition regarding the `square of the hypothenuse,' commonly called the `Ass's Bridge' by the French. `Every intelligent being,' said the geometrician, `must understand the scientific meaning of that figure. The Selenites, do they exist, will respond by a similar figure; and, a communication being thus once established, it will be easy to form an alphabet which shall enable us to converse with the inhabitants of the moon.' So spoke the German geometrician; but his project was never put into practice, and up to the present day there is no bond in existence between the Earth and her satellite. It is reserved for the practical genius of Americans to establish a communication with the sidereal world. The means of arriving thither are simple, easy, certain, infallible-- and that is the purpose of my present proposal." A storm of acclamations greeted these words. There was not a single person in the whole audience who was not overcome, carried away, lifted out of himself by the speaker's words! Long-continued applause resounded from all sides. As soon as the excitement had partially subsided, Barbicane resumed his speech in a somewhat graver voice. "You know," said he, "what progress artillery science has made during the last few years, and what a degree of perfection firearms of every kind have reached. Moreover, you are well aware that, in general terms, the resisting power of cannon and the expansive force of gunpowder are practically unlimited. Well! starting from this principle, I ask myself whether, supposing sufficient apparatus could be obtained constructed upon the conditions of ascertained resistance, it might not be possible to project a shot up to the moon?" At these words a murmur of amazement escaped from a thousand panting chests; then succeeded a moment of perfect silence, resembling that profound stillness which precedes the bursting of a thunderstorm. In point of fact, a thunderstorm did peal forth, but it was the thunder of applause, or cries, and of uproar which made the very hall tremble. The president attempted to speak, but could not. It was fully ten minutes before he could make himself heard. "Suffer me to finish," he calmly continued. "I have looked at the question in all its bearings, I have resolutely attacked it, and by incontrovertible calculations I find that a projectile endowed with an initial velocity of 12,000 yards per second, and aimed at the moon, must necessarily reach it. I have the honor, my brave colleagues, to propose a trial of this little experiment." 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.

Die Öffentlichkeit wird von der Aufregung über die Nachricht dieser Ankündigung erfasst. Tatsächlich ist das Hauptquartier des Waffenclubs bis zum Rand mit Zuschauern gefüllt. Barbicane sitzt am Kopf des Saals. Er ist ein solider Kerl - ruhig, fleißig und abenteuerlustig - und nachdem es ruhig im Raum geworden ist, beginnt er seine Rede. Er beginnt damit, seinen Landsleuten zuzustimmen, dass es schade ist, dass der Krieg vorbei ist. Ja, was für ein Mist... Anstatt zu jammern, schlägt er jedoch vor, ein "kleines Experiment" durchzuführen - er möchte eine Kanone entwerfen, die den Mond erreichen kann. Dadurch flippt die Menge so sehr aus, dass man denken könnte, One Direction wäre gerade von der Decke geflogen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 place fitted up that day as a court of justice was a grand old hall, now destroyed by fire. The midday light that fell on the close pavement of human heads was shed through a line of high pointed windows, variegated with the mellow tints of old painted glass. Grim dusty armour hung in high relief in front of the dark oaken gallery at the farther end, and under the broad arch of the great mullioned window opposite was spread a curtain of old tapestry, covered with dim melancholy figures, like a dozing indistinct dream of the past. It was a place that through the rest of the year was haunted with the shadowy memories of old kings and queens, unhappy, discrowned, imprisoned; but to-day all those shadows had fled, and not a soul in the vast hall felt the presence of any but a living sorrow, which was quivering in warm hearts. But that sorrow seemed to have made it itself feebly felt hitherto, now when Adam Bede's tall figure was suddenly seen being ushered to the side of the prisoner's dock. In the broad sunlight of the great hall, among the sleek shaven faces of other men, the marks of suffering in his face were startling even to Mr. Irwine, who had last seen him in the dim light of his small room; and the neighbours from Hayslope who were present, and who told Hetty Sorrel's story by their firesides in their old age, never forgot to say how it moved them when Adam Bede, poor fellow, taller by the head than most of the people round him, came into court and took his place by her side. But Hetty did not see him. She was standing in the same position Bartle Massey had described, her hands crossed over each other and her eyes fixed on them. Adam had not dared to look at her in the first moments, but at last, when the attention of the court was withdrawn by the proceedings he turned his face towards her with a resolution not to shrink. Why did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we love, it is the likeness we see--it is the likeness, which makes itself felt the more keenly because something else was and is not. There they were--the sweet face and neck, with the dark tendrils of hair, the long dark lashes, the rounded cheek and the pouting lips--pale and thin, yes, but like Hetty, and only Hetty. Others thought she looked as if some demon had cast a blighting glance upon her, withered up the woman's soul in her, and left only a hard despairing obstinacy. But the mother's yearning, that completest type of the life in another life which is the essence of real human love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in the debased, degraded man; and to Adam, this pale, hard-looking culprit was the Hetty who had smiled at him in the garden under the apple-tree boughs--she was that Hetty's corpse, which he had trembled to look at the first time, and then was unwilling to turn away his eyes from. But presently he heard something that compelled him to listen, and made the sense of sight less absorbing. A woman was in the witness-box, a middle-aged woman, who spoke in a firm distinct voice. She said, "My name is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep a small shop licensed to sell tobacco, snuff, and tea in Church Lane, Stoniton. The prisoner at the bar is the same young woman who came, looking ill and tired, with a basket on her arm, and asked for a lodging at my house on Saturday evening, the 27th of February. She had taken the house for a public, because there was a figure against the door. And when I said I didn't take in lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too tired to go anywhere else, and she only wanted a bed for one night. And her prettiness, and her condition, and something respectable about her clothes and looks, and the trouble she seemed to be in made me as I couldn't find in my heart to send her away at once. I asked her to sit down, and gave her some tea, and asked her where she was going, and where her friends were. She said she was going home to her friends: they were farming folks a good way off, and she'd had a long journey that had cost her more money than she expected, so as she'd hardly any money left in her pocket, and was afraid of going where it would cost her much. She had been obliged to sell most of the things out of her basket, but she'd thankfully give a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I shouldn't take the young woman in for the night. I had only one room, but there were two beds in it, and I told her she might stay with me. I thought she'd been led wrong, and got into trouble, but if she was going to her friends, it would be a good work to keep her out of further harm." The witness then stated that in the night a child was born, and she identified the baby-clothes then shown to her as those in which she had herself dressed the child. "Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had kept them by me ever since my last child was born. I took a deal of trouble both for the child and the mother. I couldn't help taking to the little thing and being anxious about it. I didn't send for a doctor, for there seemed no need. I told the mother in the day-time she must tell me the name of her friends, and where they lived, and let me write to them. She said, by and by she would write herself, but not to-day. She would have no nay, but she would get up and be dressed, in spite of everything I could say. She said she felt quite strong enough; and it was wonderful what spirit she showed. But I wasn't quite easy what I should do about her, and towards evening I made up my mind I'd go, after Meeting was over, and speak to our minister about it. I left the house about half-past eight o'clock. I didn't go out at the shop door, but at the back door, which opens into a narrow alley. I've only got the ground-floor of the house, and the kitchen and bedroom both look into the alley. I left the prisoner sitting up by the fire in the kitchen with the baby on her lap. She hadn't cried or seemed low at all, as she did the night before. I thought she had a strange look with her eyes, and she got a bit flushed towards evening. I was afraid of the fever, and I thought I'd call and ask an acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, to come back with me when I went out. It was a very dark night. I didn't fasten the door behind me; there was no lock; it was a latch with a bolt inside, and when there was nobody in the house I always went out at the shop door. But I thought there was no danger in leaving it unfastened that little while. I was longer than I meant to be, for I had to wait for the woman that came back with me. It was an hour and a half before we got back, and when we went in, the candle was standing burning just as I left it, but the prisoner and the baby were both gone. She'd taken her cloak and bonnet, but she'd left the basket and the things in it....I was dreadful frightened, and angry with her for going. I didn't go to give information, because I'd no thought she meant to do any harm, and I knew she had money in her pocket to buy her food and lodging. I didn't like to set the constable after her, for she'd a right to go from me if she liked." The effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical; it gave him new force. Hetty could not be guilty of the crime--her heart must have clung to her baby--else why should she have taken it with her? She might have left it behind. The little creature had died naturally, and then she had hidden it. Babies were so liable to death--and there might be the strongest suspicions without any proof of guilt. His mind was so occupied with imaginary arguments against such suspicions, that he could not listen to the cross-examination by Hetty's counsel, who tried, without result, to elicit evidence that the prisoner had shown some movements of maternal affection towards the child. The whole time this witness was being examined, Hetty had stood as motionless as before: no word seemed to arrest her ear. But the sound of the next witness's voice touched a chord that was still sensitive, she gave a start and a frightened look towards him, but immediately turned away her head and looked down at her hands as before. This witness was a man, a rough peasant. He said: "My name is John Olding. I am a labourer, and live at Tedd's Hole, two miles out of Stoniton. A week last Monday, towards one o'clock in the afternoon, I was going towards Hetton Coppice, and about a quarter of a mile from the coppice I saw the prisoner, in a red cloak, sitting under a bit of a haystack not far off the stile. She got up when she saw me, and seemed as if she'd be walking on the other way. It was a regular road through the fields, and nothing very uncommon to see a young woman there, but I took notice of her because she looked white and scared. I should have thought she was a beggar-woman, only for her good clothes. I thought she looked a bit crazy, but it was no business of mine. I stood and looked back after her, but she went right on while she was in sight. I had to go to the other side of the coppice to look after some stakes. There's a road right through it, and bits of openings here and there, where the trees have been cut down, and some of 'em not carried away. I didn't go straight along the road, but turned off towards the middle, and took a shorter way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I hadn't got far out of the road into one of the open places before I heard a strange cry. I thought it didn't come from any animal I knew, but I wasn't for stopping to look about just then. But it went on, and seemed so strange to me in that place, I couldn't help stopping to look. I began to think I might make some money of it, if it was a new thing. But I had hard work to tell which way it came from, and for a good while I kept looking up at the boughs. And then I thought it came from the ground; and there was a lot of timber-choppings lying about, and loose pieces of turf, and a trunk or two. And I looked about among them, but could find nothing, and at last the cry stopped. So I was for giving it up, and I went on about my business. But when I came back the same way pretty nigh an hour after, I couldn't help laying down my stakes to have another look. And just as I was stooping and laying down the stakes, I saw something odd and round and whitish lying on the ground under a nut-bush by the side of me. And I stooped down on hands and knees to pick it up. And I saw it was a little baby's hand." At these words a thrill ran through the court. Hetty was visibly trembling; now, for the first time, she seemed to be listening to what a witness said. "There was a lot of timber-choppings put together just where the ground went hollow, like, under the bush, and the hand came out from among them. But there was a hole left in one place and I could see down it and see the child's head; and I made haste and did away the turf and the choppings, and took out the child. It had got comfortable clothes on, but its body was cold, and I thought it must be dead. I made haste back with it out of the wood, and took it home to my wife. She said it was dead, and I'd better take it to the parish and tell the constable. And I said, 'I'll lay my life it's that young woman's child as I met going to the coppice.' But she seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And I took the child on to Hetton parish and told the constable, and we went on to Justice Hardy. And then we went looking after the young woman till dark at night, and we went and gave information at Stoniton, as they might stop her. And the next morning, another constable came to me, to go with him to the spot where I found the child. And when we got there, there was the prisoner a-sitting against the bush where I found the child; and she cried out when she saw us, but she never offered to move. She'd got a big piece of bread on her lap." Adam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness was speaking. He had hidden his face on his arm, which rested on the boarding in front of him. It was the supreme moment of his suffering: Hetty was guilty; and he was silently calling to God for help. He heard no more of the evidence, and was unconscious when the case for the prosecution had closed--unconscious that Mr. Irwine was in the witness-box, telling of Hetty's unblemished character in her own parish and of the virtuous habits in which she had been brought up. This testimony could have no influence on the verdict, but it was given as part of that plea for mercy which her own counsel would have made if he had been allowed to speak for her--a favour not granted to criminals in those stern times. At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general movement round him. The judge had addressed the jury, and they were retiring. The decisive moment was not far off. Adam felt a shuddering horror that would not let him look at Hetty, but she had long relapsed into her blank hard indifference. All eyes were strained to look at her, but she stood like a statue of dull despair. There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing throughout the court during this interval. The desire to listen was suspended, and every one had some feeling or opinion to express in undertones. Adam sat looking blankly before him, but he did not see the objects that were right in front of his eyes--the counsel and attorneys talking with an air of cool business, and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversation with the judge--did not see Mr. Irwine sit down again in agitation and shake his head mournfully when somebody whispered to him. The inward action was too intense for Adam to take in outward objects until some strong sensation roused him. It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour, before the knock which told that the jury had come to their decision fell as a signal for silence on every ear. It is sublime--that sudden pause of a great multitude which tells that one soul moves in them all. Deeper and deeper the silence seemed to become, like the deepening night, while the jurymen's names were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold up her hand, and the jury were asked for their verdict. "Guilty." It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh of disappointment from some hearts that it was followed by no recommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court was not with the prisoner. The unnaturalness of her crime stood out the more harshly by the side of her hard immovability and obstinate silence. Even the verdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to move her, but those who were near saw her trembling. The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black cap, and the chaplain in his canonicals was observed behind him. Then it deepened again, before the crier had had time to command silence. If any sound were heard, it must have been the sound of beating hearts. The judge spoke, "Hester Sorrel...." The blood rushed to Hetty's face, and then fled back again as she looked up at the judge and kept her wide-open eyes fixed on him, as if fascinated by fear. Adam had not yet turned towards her, there was a deep horror, like a great gulf, between them. But at the words "and then to be hanged by the neck till you be dead," a piercing shriek rang through the hall. It was Hetty's shriek. Adam started to his feet and stretched out his arms towards her. But the arms could not reach her: she had fallen down in a fainting-fit, and was carried out of court. 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.

Als Adam den Gerichtssaal betritt, fällt jedem sofort auf, wie verstört er aussieht. Er nimmt einen Platz nahe bei Hetty ein und schaut sie an, doch sie bemerkt ihn nicht. Sarah Stone, eine methodistische Witwe aus Stoniton, berichtet, dass Hetty zu ihr kam, um eine Unterkunft zu suchen, und sie sich bereit erklärte, sie aufzunehmen, weil Hetty so verzweifelt aussah, aber offensichtlich aus gutem Hause kam. In der Nacht brachte Hetty ein Kind zur Welt, und Frau Stone zog dem Kind eigene Kinderkleidung an. Am nächsten Abend ging Frau Stone Hilfe für Hetty holen und als sie zurückkam, war Hetty verschwunden. Dann sagt ein Mann namens John Olding aus, der ein landwirtschaftlicher Arbeiter aus der Nähe von Stoniton ist, dass er Hetty eines Morgens in den Feldern sah, als er zur Arbeit ging. Sie ging die Straße entlang, weg von ihm, und als er zu den Feldern kam, meinte er ein Baby weinen zu hören, konnte aber das Kind nicht finden. Auf dem Rückweg stieß er dann auf die leblose Kinderleiche und suchte Hilfe beim Polizisten. Als er mit dem Polizisten am nächsten Tag zu dem Ort zurückkam, an dem er den Körper gefunden hatte, saß Hetty dort. Sie rührte sich nicht, als sie sich näherten. Die Jury verurteilt Hetty und der Richter verhängt die Todesstrafe durch Erhängen. Hetty schreit auf und fällt in Ohnmacht, als der Richter das Urteil verkündet.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: "Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The luggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris finery, trying to find some things I want," said Laurie, coming in the next day to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made 'the baby' again. "Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but this," and Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if asking pardon for her maternal covetousness. "I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it, but I can't get on without my little woman any more than a..." "Weathercock can without the wind," suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came home. "Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't had an easterly spell since I was married. Don't know anything about the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?" "Lovely weather so far. I don't know how long it will last, but I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come home, dear, and I'll find your bootjack. I suppose that's what you are rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother," said Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband. "What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?" asked Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores. "We have our plans. We don't mean to say much about them yet, because we are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle. I'm going into business with a devotion that shall delight Grandfather, and prove to him that I'm not spoiled. I need something of the sort to keep me steady. I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man." "And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at Laurie's decision and the energy with which he spoke. "After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall exert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it, Madame Recamier?" asked Laurie with a quizzical look at Amy. "Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my family by calling me names before their faces," answered Amy, resolving that there should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salon as a queen of society. "How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March, finding it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple had gone. "Yes, and I think it will last," added Mrs. March, with the restful expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port. "I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push. Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, "Mrs. Laurence." "My Lord!" "That man intends to marry our Jo!" "I hope so, don't you, dear?" "Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal richer." "Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love one another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor. Women never should marry for money..." Amy caught herself up short as the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with malicious gravity... "Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your duty to make a rich match. That accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a good-for-nothing like me." "Oh, my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich when I said 'Yes'. I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I sometimes wish you were poor that I might show how much I love you." And Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private, gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words. "You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your living by rowing on the lake." "Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to think it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday, and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral remarks, Mrs. Laurence," and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his face. "Yes, I am, and admiring the mole in your chin at the same time. I don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is such a comfort to me," and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature with artistic satisfaction. Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that suited him better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly, "May I ask you a question, dear?" "Of course, you may." "Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?" "Oh, that's the trouble is it? I thought there was something in the dimple that didn't quite suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?" Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied. Her little jealous fear vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and confidence. "I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie, when they began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden. "Jo would find us out, and spoil it all. She is very proud of him, just as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful thing." "Bless her dear heart! She won't think so when she has a literary husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her in that way." "How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely, and thanks to you, the dream has come true." "Ah, we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of poverty that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care of, but poor gentle folks fare badly, because they won't ask, and people don't dare to offer charity. Yet there are a thousand ways of helping them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a blarnerying beggar. I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it is harder." "Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of the domestic admiration society. "Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I was going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good many talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid fellows, some of them, working like heros, poor and friendless, but so full of courage, patience, and ambition that I was ashamed of myself, and longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it's a satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of fuel to keep the pot boiling. If they haven't, it's a pleasure to comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it out." "Yes, indeed, and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer in silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you made a princess of me, as the king does the beggarmaid in the old story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help at the right minute. People have been very kind to me, and whenever I see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand and help them, as I was helped." "And so you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie, resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution for the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. "Rich people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their money accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and enjoy making one's fellow creatures happy with it. We'll have a good time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving other people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?" "With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping as you ride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the beggar." "It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!" So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again, feeling that their pleasant home was more homelike because they hoped to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest than they. 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.

Wir bekommen einen kurzen Einblick in Amy und Laurie in ihrem Haus im Laurence-Anwesen. Sie diskutieren die Möglichkeit, dass Mr. Bhaer Jo heiratet. Laurie ist nicht eifersüchtig auf den Professor, aber beide sind besorgt über seine finanzielle Situation. Sie wünschen sich eine Möglichkeit, ihren eigenen Reichtum zu teilen, wissen aber, dass sowohl der Professor als auch Jo zu stolz sind, offensichtliche Wohltätigkeit anzunehmen. Sie beschließen, nach einer Gelegenheit Ausschau zu halten und einen Weg zu finden, Jo ohne ihr Wissen zu helfen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: LATER in the forenoon came the despatch from the West Virginians in New York, saying their brother assented to their agreement; and it now remained for Lapham to fulfil his part of it. He was ludicrously far from able to do this; and unless he could get some extension of time from them, he must lose this chance, his only chance, to retrieve himself. He spent the time in a desperate endeavour to raise the money, but he had not raised the half of it when the banks closed. With shame in his heart he went to Bellingham, from whom he had parted so haughtily, and laid his plan before him. He could not bring himself to ask Bellingham's help, but he told him what he proposed to do. Bellingham pointed out that the whole thing was an experiment, and that the price asked was enormous, unless a great success were morally certain. He advised delay, he advised prudence; he insisted that Lapham ought at least to go out to Kanawha Falls, and see the mines and works before he put any such sum into the development of the enterprise. "That's all well enough," cried Lapham; "but if I don't clinch this offer within twenty-four hours, they'll withdraw it, and go into the market; and then where am I?" "Go on and see them again," said Bellingham. "They can't be so peremptory as that with you. They must give you time to look at what they want to sell. If it turns out what you hope, then--I'll see what can be done. But look into it thoroughly." "Well!" cried Lapham, helplessly submitting. He took out his watch, and saw that he had forty minutes to catch the four o'clock train. He hurried back to his office, and put together some papers preparatory to going, and despatched a note by his boy to Mrs. Lapham saying that he was starting for New York, and did not know just when he should get back. The early spring day was raw and cold. As he went out through the office he saw the clerks at work with their street-coats and hats on; Miss Dewey had her jacket dragged up on her shoulders, and looked particularly comfortless as she operated her machine with her red fingers. "What's up?" asked Lapham, stopping a moment. "Seems to be something the matter with the steam," she answered, with the air of unmerited wrong habitual with so many pretty women who have to work for a living. "Well, take your writer into my room. There's a fire in the stove there," said Lapham, passing out. Half an hour later his wife came into the outer office. She had passed the day in a passion of self-reproach, gradually mounting from the mental numbness in which he had left her, and now she could wait no longer to tell him that she saw how she had forsaken him in his hour of trial and left him to bear it alone. She wondered at herself in shame and dismay; she wondered that she could have been so confused as to the real point by that old wretch of a Rogers, that she could have let him hoodwink her so, even for a moment. It astounded her that such a thing should have happened, for if there was any virtue upon which this good woman prided herself, in which she thought herself superior to her husband, it was her instant and steadfast perception of right and wrong, and the ability to choose the right to her own hurt. But she had now to confess, as each of us has had likewise to confess in his own case, that the very virtue on which she had prided herself was the thing that had played her false; that she had kept her mind so long upon that old wrong which she believed her husband had done this man that she could not detach it, but clung to the thought of reparation for it when she ought to have seen that he was proposing a piece of roguery as the means. The suffering which Lapham must inflict on him if he decided against him had been more to her apprehension than the harm he might do if he decided for him. But now she owned her limitations to herself, and above everything in the world she wished the man whom her conscience had roused and driven on whither her intelligence had not followed, to do right, to do what he felt to be right, and nothing else. She admired and revered him for going beyond her, and she wished to tell him that she did not know what he had determined to do about Rogers, but that she knew it was right, and would gladly abide the consequences with him, whatever they were. She had not been near his place of business for nearly a year, and her heart smote her tenderly as she looked about her there, and thought of the early days when she knew as much about the paint as he did; she wished that those days were back again. She saw Corey at his desk, and she could not bear to speak to him; she dropped her veil that she need not recognise him, and pushed on to Lapham's room, and opening the door without knocking, shut it behind her. Then she became aware with intolerable disappointment that her husband was not there. Instead, a very pretty girl sat at his desk, operating a typewriter. She seemed quite at home, and she paid Mrs. Lapham the scant attention which such young women often bestow upon people not personally interesting to them. It vexed the wife that any one else should seem to be helping her husband about business that she had once been so intimate with; and she did not at all like the girl's indifference to her presence. Her hat and sack hung on a nail in one corner, and Lapham's office coat, looking intensely like him to his wife's familiar eye, hung on a nail in the other corner; and Mrs. Lapham liked even less than the girl's good looks this domestication of her garments in her husband's office. She began to ask herself excitedly why he should be away from his office when she happened to come; and she had not the strength at the moment to reason herself out of her unreasonableness. "When will Colonel Lapham be in, do you suppose?" she sharply asked of the girl. "I couldn't say exactly," replied the girl, without looking round. "Has he been out long?" "I don't know as I noticed," said the girl, looking up at the clock, without looking at Mrs. Lapham. She went on working her machine. "Well, I can't wait any longer," said the wife abruptly. "When Colonel Lapham comes in, you please tell him Mrs. Lapham wants to see him." The girl started to her feet and turned toward Mrs. Lapham with a red and startled face, which she did not lift to confront her. "Yes--yes--I will," she faltered. The wife went home with a sense of defeat mixed with an irritation about this girl which she could not quell or account for. She found her husband's message, and it seemed intolerable that he should have gone to New York without seeing her; she asked herself in vain what the mysterious business could be that took him away so suddenly. She said to herself that he was neglecting her; he was leaving her out a little too much; and in demanding of herself why he had never mentioned that girl there in his office, she forgot how much she had left herself out of his business life. That was another curse of their prosperity. Well, she was glad the prosperity was going; it had never been happiness. After this she was going to know everything as she used. She tried to dismiss the whole matter till Lapham returned; and if there had been anything for her to do in that miserable house, as she called it in her thought, she might have succeeded. But again the curse was on her; there was nothing to do; and the looks of that girl kept coming back to her vacancy, her disoccupation. She tried to make herself something to do, but that beauty, which she had not liked, followed her amid the work of overhauling the summer clothing, which Irene had seen to putting away in the fall. Who was the thing, anyway? It was very strange, her being there; why did she jump up in that frightened way when Mrs. Lapham had named herself? After dark, that evening, when the question had worn away its poignancy from mere iteration, a note for Mrs. Lapham was left at the door by a messenger who said there was no answer. "A note for me?" she said, staring at the unknown, and somehow artificial-looking, handwriting of the superscription. Then she opened it and read: "Ask your husband about his lady copying-clerk. A Friend and Well-wisher," who signed the note, gave no other name. Mrs. Lapham sat helpless with it in her hand. Her brain reeled; she tried to fight the madness off; but before Lapham came back the second morning, it had become, with lessening intervals of sanity and release, a demoniacal possession. She passed the night without sleep, without rest, in the frenzy of the cruellest of the passions, which covers with shame the unhappy soul it possesses, and murderously lusts for the misery of its object. If she had known where to find her husband in New York, she would have followed him; she waited his return in an ecstasy of impatience. In the morning he came back, looking spent and haggard. She saw him drive up to the door, and she ran to let him in herself. "Who is that girl you've got in your office, Silas Lapham?" she demanded, when her husband entered. "Girl in my office?" "Yes! Who is she? What is she doing there?" "Why, what have you heard about her?" "Never you mind what I've heard. Who is she? IS IT MRS. M. THAT YOU GAVE THAT MONEY TO? I want to know who she is! I want to know what a respectable man, with grown-up girls of his own, is doing with such a looking thing as that in his office? I want to know how long she's been there? I want to know what she's there at all for?" He had mechanically pushed her before him into the long, darkened parlour, and he shut himself in there with her now, to keep the household from hearing her lifted voice. For a while he stood bewildered, and could not have answered if he would, and then he would not. He merely asked, "Have I ever accused you of anything wrong, Persis?" "You no need to!" she answered furiously, placing herself against the closed door. "Did you ever know me to do anything out of the way?" "That isn't what I asked you." "Well, I guess you may find out about that girl yourself. Get away from the door." "I won't get away from the door." She felt herself set lightly aside, and her husband opened the door and went out. "I WILL find out about her," she screamed after him. "I'll find out, and I'll disgrace you. I'll teach you how to treat me----" The air blackened round her: she reeled to the sofa and then she found herself waking from a faint. She did not know how long she had lain there, she did not care. In a moment her madness came whirling back upon her. She rushed up to his room; it was empty; the closet-doors stood ajar and the drawers were open; he must have packed a bag hastily and fled. She went out and wandered crazily up and down till she found a hack. She gave the driver her husband's business address, and told him to drive there as fast as he could; and three times she lowered the window to put her head out and ask him if he could not hurry. A thousand things thronged into her mind to support her in her evil will. She remembered how glad and proud that man had been to marry her, and how everybody said she was marrying beneath her when she took him. She remembered how good she had always been to him, how perfectly devoted, slaving early and late to advance him, and looking out for his interests in all things, and sparing herself in nothing. If it had not been for her, he might have been driving stage yet; and since their troubles had begun, the troubles which his own folly and imprudence had brought on them, her conduct had been that of a true and faithful wife. Was HE the sort of man to be allowed to play her false with impunity? She set her teeth and drew her breath sharply through them when she thought how willingly she had let him befool her, and delude her about that memorandum of payments to Mrs. M., because she loved him so much, and pitied him for his cares and anxieties. She recalled his confusion, his guilty looks. She plunged out of the carriage so hastily when she reached the office that she did not think of paying the driver; and he had to call after her when she had got half-way up the stairs. Then she went straight to Lapham's room, with outrage in her heart. There was again no one there but that type-writer girl; she jumped to her feet in a fright, as Mrs. Lapham dashed the door to behind her and flung up her veil. The two women confronted each other. "Why, the good land!" cried Mrs. Lapham, "ain't you Zerrilla Millon?" "I--I'm married," faltered the girl "My name's Dewey, now." "You're Jim Millon's daughter, anyway. How long have you been here?" "I haven't been here regularly; I've been here off and on ever since last May." "Where's your mother?" "She's here--in Boston." Mrs. Lapham kept her eyes on the girl, but she dropped, trembling, into her husband's chair, and a sort of amaze and curiosity were in her voice instead of the fury she had meant to put there. "The Colonel," continued Zerrilla, "he's been helping us, and he's got me a type-writer, so that I can help myself a little. Mother's doing pretty well now; and when Hen isn't around we can get along." "That your husband?" "I never wanted to marry him; but he promised to try to get something to do on shore; and mother was all for it, because he had a little property then, and I thought may be I'd better. But it's turned out just as I said and if he don't stay away long enough this time to let me get the divorce,--he's agreed to it, time and again,--I don't know what we're going to do." Zerrilla's voice fell, and the trouble which she could keep out of her face usually, when she was comfortably warmed and fed and prettily dressed, clouded it in the presence of a sympathetic listener. "I saw it was you, when you came in the other day," she went on; "but you didn't seem to know me. I suppose the Colonel's told you that there's a gentleman going to marry me--Mr. Wemmel's his name--as soon as I get the divorce; but sometimes I'm completely discouraged; it don't seem as if I ever could get it." Mrs. Lapham would not let her know that she was ignorant of the fact attributed to her knowledge. She remained listening to Zerrilla, and piecing out the whole history of her presence there from the facts of the past, and the traits of her husband's character. One of the things she had always had to fight him about was that idea of his that he was bound to take care of Jim Millon's worthless wife and her child because Millon had got the bullet that was meant for him. It was a perfect superstition of his; she could not beat it out of him; but she had made him promise the last time he had done anything for that woman that it should BE the last time. He had then got her a little house in one of the fishing ports, where she could take the sailors to board and wash for, and earn an honest living if she would keep straight. That was five or six years ago, and Mrs. Lapham had heard nothing of Mrs. Millon since; she had heard quite enough of her before; and had known her idle and baddish ever since she was the worst little girl at school in Lumberville, and all through her shameful girlhood, and the married days which she had made so miserable to the poor fellow who had given her his decent name and a chance to behave herself. Mrs. Lapham had no mercy on Moll Millon, and she had quarrelled often enough with her husband for befriending her. As for the child, if the mother would put Zerrilla out with some respectable family, that would be ONE thing; but as long as she kept Zerrilla with her, she was against letting her husband do anything for either of them. He had done ten times as much for them now as he had any need to, and she had made him give her his solemn word that he would do no more. She saw now that she was wrong to make him give it, and that he must have broken it again and again for the reason that he had given when she once scolded him for throwing away his money on that hussy-- "When I think of Jim Millon, I've got to; that's all." She recalled now that whenever she had brought up the subject of Mrs. Millon and her daughter, he had seemed shy of it, and had dropped it with some guess that they were getting along now. She wondered that she had not thought at once of Mrs. Millon when she saw that memorandum about Mrs. M.; but the woman had passed so entirely out of her life, that she had never dreamt of her in connection with it. Her husband had deceived her, yet her heart was no longer hot against him, but rather tenderly grateful that his deceit was in this sort, and not in that other. All cruel and shameful doubt of him went out of it. She looked at this beautiful girl, who had blossomed out of her knowledge since she saw her last, and she knew that she was only a blossomed weed, of the same worthless root as her mother, and saved, if saved, from the same evil destiny, by the good of her father in her; but so far as the girl and her mother were concerned, Mrs. Lapham knew that her husband was to blame for nothing but his wilful, wrong-headed, kind-heartedness, which her own exactions had turned into deceit. She remained a while, questioning the girl quietly about herself and her mother, and then, with a better mind towards Zerrilla, at least, than she had ever had before, she rose up and went out. There must have been some outer hint of the exhaustion in which the subsidence of her excitement had left her within, for before she had reached the head of the stairs, Corey came towards her. "Can I be of any use to you, Mrs. Lapham? The Colonel was here just before you came in, on his way to the train." "Yes,--yes. I didn't know--I thought perhaps I could catch him here. But it don't matter. I wish you would let some one go with me to get a carriage," she begged feebly. "I'll go with you myself," said the young fellow, ignoring the strangeness in her manner. He offered her his arm in the twilight of the staircase, and she was glad to put her trembling hand through it, and keep it there till he helped her into a hack which he found for her. He gave the driver her direction, and stood looking a little anxiously at her. "I thank you; I am all right now," she said, and he bade the man drive on. When she reached home she went to bed, spent with the tumult of her emotions and sick with shame and self-reproach. She understood now, as clearly as if he had told her in as many words, that if he had befriended those worthless jades--the Millons characterised themselves so, even to Mrs. Lapham's remorse--secretly and in defiance of her, it was because he dreaded her blame, which was so sharp and bitter, for what he could not help doing. It consoled her that he had defied her, deceived her; when he came back she should tell him that; and then it flashed upon her that she did not know where he was gone, or whether he would ever come again. If he never came, it would be no more than she deserved; but she sent for Penelope, and tried to give herself hopes of escape from this just penalty. Lapham had not told his daughter where he was going; she had heard him packing his bag, and had offered to help him; but he had said he could do it best, and had gone off, as he usually did, without taking leave of any one. "What were you talking about so loud, down in the parlour," she asked her mother, "just before he came up. Is there any new trouble?" "No; it was nothing." "I couldn't tell. Once I thought you were laughing." She went about, closing the curtains on account of her mother's headache, and doing awkwardly and imperfectly the things that Irene would have done so skilfully for her comfort. The day wore away to nightfall, and then Mrs. Lapham said she MUST know. Penelope said there was no one to ask; the clerks would all be gone home, and her mother said yes, there was Mr. Corey; they could send and ask him; he would know. The girl hesitated. "Very well," she said, then, scarcely above a whisper, and she presently laughed huskily. "Mr. Corey seems fated to come in, somewhere. I guess it's a Providence, mother." She sent off a note, inquiring whether he could tell her just where her father had expected to be that night; and the answer came quickly back that Corey did not know, but would look up the book-keeper and inquire. This office brought him in person, an hour later, to tell Penelope that the Colonel was to be at Lapham that night and next day. "He came in from New York, in a great hurry, and rushed off as soon as he could pack his bag," Penelope explained, "and we hadn't a chance to ask him where he was to be to-night. And mother wasn't very well, and----" "I thought she wasn't looking well when she was at the office to-day. And so I thought I would come rather than send," Corey explained in his turn. "Oh, thank you!" "If there is anything I can do--telegraph Colonel Lapham, or anything?" "Oh no, thank you; mother's better now. She merely wanted to be sure where he was." He did not offer to go, upon this conclusion of his business, but hoped he was not keeping her from her mother. She thanked him once again, and said no, that her mother was much better since she had had a cup of tea; and then they looked at each other, and without any apparent exchange of intelligence he remained, and at eleven o'clock he was still there. He was honest in saying he did not know it was so late; but he made no pretence of being sorry, and she took the blame to herself. "I oughtn't to have let you stay," she said. "But with father gone, and all that trouble hanging over us----" She was allowing him to hold her hand a moment at the door, to which she had followed him. "I'm so glad you could let me!" he said, "and I want to ask you now when I may come again. But if you need me, you'll----" A sharp pull at the door-bell outside made them start asunder, and at a sign from Penelope, who knew that the maids were abed by this time, he opened it. "Why, Irene!" shrieked the girl. Irene entered with the hackman, who had driven her unheard to the door, following with her small bags, and kissed her sister with resolute composure. "That's all," she said to the hackman. "I gave my checks to the expressman," she explained to Penelope. Corey stood helpless. Irene turned upon him, and gave him her hand. "How do you do, Mr. Corey?" she said, with a courage that sent a thrill of admiring gratitude through him. "Where's mamma, Pen? Papa gone to bed?" Penelope faltered out some reply embodying the facts, and Irene ran up the stairs to her mother's room. Mrs. Lapham started up in bed at her apparition. "Irene Lapham." "Uncle William thought he ought to tell me the trouble papa was in; and did you think I was going to stay off there junketing, while you were going through all this at home, and Pen acting so silly, too? You ought to have been ashamed to let me stay so long! I started just as soon as I could pack. Did you get my despatch? I telegraphed from Springfield. But it don't matter, now. Here I am. And I don't think I need have hurried on Pen's account," she added, with an accent prophetic of the sort of old maid she would become, if she happened not to marry. "Did you see him?" asked her mother. "It's the first time he's been here since she told him he mustn't come." "I guess it isn't the last time, by the looks," said Irene, and before she took off her bonnet she began to undo some of Penelope's mistaken arrangements of the room. At breakfast, where Corey and his mother met the next morning before his father and sisters came down, he told her, with embarrassment which told much more, that he wished now that she would go and call upon the Laphams. Mrs. Corey turned a little pale, but shut her lips tight and mourned in silence whatever hopes she had lately permitted herself. She answered with Roman fortitude: "Of course, if there's anything between you and Miss Lapham, your family ought to recognise it." "Yes," said Corey. "You were reluctant to have me call at first, but now if the affair is going on----" "It is! I hope--yes, it is!" "Then I ought to go and see her, with your sisters; and she ought to come here and--we ought all to see her and make the matter public. We can't do so too soon. It will seem as if we were ashamed if we don't." "Yes, you are quite right, mother," said the young man gratefully, "and I feel how kind and good you are. I have tried to consider you in this matter, though I don't seem to have done so; I know what your rights are, and I wish with all my heart that I were meeting even your tastes perfectly. But I know you will like her when you come to know her. It's been very hard for her every way--about her sister,--and she's made a great sacrifice for me. She's acted nobly." Mrs. Corey, whose thoughts cannot always be reported, said she was sure of it, and that all she desired was her son's happiness. "She's been very unwilling to consider it an engagement on that account, and on account of Colonel Lapham's difficulties. I should like to have you go, now, for that very reason. I don't know just how serious the trouble is; but it isn't a time when we can seem indifferent." The logic of this was not perhaps so apparent to the glasses of fifty as to the eyes of twenty-six; but Mrs. Corey, however she viewed it, could not allow herself to blench before the son whom she had taught that to want magnanimity was to be less than gentlemanly. She answered, with what composure she could, "I will take your sisters," and then she made some natural inquiries about Lapham's affairs. "Oh, I hope it will come out all right," Corey said, with a lover's vague smile, and left her. When his father came down, rubbing his long hands together, and looking aloof from all the cares of the practical world, in an artistic withdrawal, from which his eye ranged over the breakfast-table before he sat down, Mrs. Corey told him what she and their son had been saying. He laughed, with a delicate impersonal appreciation of the predicament. "Well, Anna, you can't say but if you ever were guilty of supposing yourself porcelain, this is a just punishment of your arrogance. Here you are bound by the very quality on which you've prided yourself to behave well to a bit of earthenware who is apparently in danger of losing the gilding that rendered her tolerable." "We never cared for the money," said Mrs. Corey. "You know that." "No; and now we can't seem to care for the loss of it. That would be still worse. Either horn of the dilemma gores us. Well, we still have the comfort we had in the beginning; we can't help ourselves; and we should only make bad worse by trying. Unless we can look to Tom's inamorata herself for help." Mrs. Corey shook her head so gloomily that her husband broke off with another laugh. But at the continued trouble of her face, he said, sympathetically: "My dear, I know it's a very disagreeable affair; and I don't think either of us has failed to see that it was so from the beginning. I have had my way of expressing my sense of it, and you yours, but we have always been of the same mind about it. We would both have preferred to have Tom marry in his own set; the Laphams are about the last set we could have wished him to marry into. They ARE uncultivated people, and so far as I have seen them, I'm not able to believe that poverty will improve them. Still, it may. Let us hope for the best, and let us behave as well as we know how. I'm sure YOU will behave well, and I shall try. I'm going with you to call on Miss Lapham. This is a thing that can't be done by halves!" He cut his orange in the Neapolitan manner, and ate it in quarters. 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.

Lapham geht auf Bellinghams Rat hin nach New York, um die West Virgians um mehr Zeit zu bitten, um das Geld aufzutreiben. Frau Lapham, die Reue empfindet, dass sie ihrem Mann nicht helfen kann, seine Entscheidung in der englischen Angelegenheit zu treffen, versucht ihn zum ersten Mal seit einem Jahr in seinem Büro zu besuchen. Sie stellt fest, dass er weg ist und seine Sekretärin in seinem Büro ist. Als sie nach Hause zurückkehrt, erhält sie einen anonymen Hinweis, der besagt, dass sie ihren Mann fragen soll, wer seine Sekretärin ist. Dies lässt sie denken, dass Silas eine Geliebte hat; sie hat aus den Fakten geschlossen, dass es sich bei dem Mädchen um "Mrs. M." handeln könnte - den Namen auf dem Stück Papier, das sie gefunden hat, nachdem Silas den Zahlungsbeleg "Wm. M." zerrissen hatte. In einem Anfall von Wut konfrontiert sie ihn mit dieser Frage, als er zurückkehrt. Er antwortet nicht auf ihre Frage und verlässt Lapham, ohne dass sie es bemerkt. Persis geht zu seinem Büro, nur um herauszufinden, dass die Sekretärin Zerrilla Millon Dewey ist, die Tochter des Mannes, der das Leben ihres Mannes gerettet hat. Das Missverständnis wird geklärt und sie kehrt nach Hause zurück, um den Tag mit Selbstvorwürfen zu verbringen und sich zu fragen, ob Silas jemals zurückkehren wird. Schließlich schickt sie Tom Corey einen Brief, um herauszufinden, wo Silas ist. Irene kehrt zurück und ist wütend, dass sie nicht früher von den Problemen informiert wurden; sie beginnt zu helfen, indem sie die Angelegenheiten im Haushalt in Ordnung bringt. Am nächsten Morgen sagt Tom seiner Mutter, dass sie die Laphams besuchen soll, was bedeutet, dass er immer noch vorhat, Penelope zu heiraten. Die Coreys sind in einer Falle gefangen. Sie haben immer gesagt, dass sie sich nicht um Geld kümmern. "Und jetzt scheinen wir uns nicht um den Verlust davon zu kümmern", sagt Bromfield. "Das wäre noch schlimmer."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Es ist eine allgemein anerkannte Wahrheit, dass ein alleinstehender Mann mit großem Vermögen eine Ehefrau sucht. Wie unbekannt auch immer die Gefühle oder Ansichten eines solchen Mannes sein mögen, wenn er zum ersten Mal in eine Nachbarschaft kommt, ist diese Wahrheit in den Köpfen der umliegenden Familien so fest verankert, dass er als rechtmäßiges Eigentum einer ihrer Töchter angesehen wird. "Lieber Herr Bennet", sagte seine Frau an einem Tag zu ihm, "hast du gehört, dass Netherfield Park endlich vermietet ist?" Herr Bennet antwortete, dass er es nicht gehört habe. "Aber das ist es", antwortete sie; "denn Frau Long war gerade hier und sie hat mir alles darüber erzählt." Herr Bennet gab keine Antwort. "Willst du nicht wissen, wer es genommen hat?", rief seine Frau ungeduldig. "Du möchtest es mir sagen und ich habe nichts dagegen, es zu hören." Das war genug Einladung. "Nun, mein Lieber, du musst wissen, Frau Long sagt, dass Netherfield von einem jungen Mann aus dem Norden Englands mit großem Vermögen genommen wurde; dass er am Montag in einer Kutsche mit vier Pferden heruntergekommen ist, um den Ort zu besichtigen, und dass er so begeistert davon war, dass er sofort mit Mr. Morris übereingekommen ist; dass er noch vor Michaelmas Besitz ergreifen soll und einige seiner Bediensteten bis Ende nächster Woche im Haus sein werden." "Wie lautet sein Name?" "Bingley." "Ist er verheiratet oder ledig?" "Oh! Ledig, mein Lieber, natürlich! Ein lediger Mann mit großem Vermögen; vier oder fünftausend Pfund im Jahr. Was für ein Glück für unsere Mädchen!" "Wie? Wie könnte das sie betreffen?" "Lieber Herr Bennet," antwortete seine Frau, "wie kannst du so langweilig sein! Du musst wissen, dass ich darüber nachdenke, dass er eine von ihnen heiratet." "Ist das sein Vorhaben, sich hier niederzulassen?" "Vorhaben! Unsinn, wie kannst du so reden! Aber es ist sehr wahrscheinlich, dass er sich in eine von ihnen verlieben _könnte_, und deshalb musst du ihn besuchen, sobald er kommt." "Ich sehe keinen Anlass dazu. Du und die Mädchen können gehen, oder ihr könnt sie selbst schicken, was vielleicht noch besser wäre, denn du bist genauso schön wie eine von ihnen, und Mr. Bingley würde dich vielleicht am besten finden." "Lieber, du schmeichelst mir. Ich hatte sicherlich meinen Anteil an Schönheit, aber ich behaupte nicht mehr außergewöhnlich zu sein. Wenn eine Frau fünf erwachsene Töchter hat, sollte sie aufhören, an ihre eigene Schönheit zu denken." "In solchen Fällen hat eine Frau oft nicht viel Schönheit, über die sie nachdenken kann." "Aber, mein Lieber, du musst tatsächlich zu Mr. Bingley gehen und ihn sehen, wenn er in die Nachbarschaft kommt." "Das verspreche ich nicht, das kann ich dir versichern." "Aber bedenke deine Töchter. Denk nur, was für eine Stellung das für eine von ihnen wäre. Sir William und Lady Lucas haben beschlossen zu gehen, allein deswegen, denn normalerweise besuchen sie keine Neuankömmlinge. Tatsächlich musst du gehen, denn es wird unmöglich sein, _ihn_ zu besuchen, wenn du es nicht tust." "Du bist zu gewissenhaft, ganz sicher. Ich bin überzeugt, dass es Mr. Bingley sehr freuen wird, dich zu sehen; und ich werde ein paar Zeilen mit dir schicken, um ihm meine herzliche Zustimmung zu seiner Heirat mit einer von den Mädchen zu versichern, wen auch immer er wählt; obwohl ich ein gutes Wort für mein kleines Lizzy einlegen muss." "Ich möchte, dass du so etwas nicht tust. Lizzy ist nicht besser als die anderen; und ich bin sicher, sie ist nicht halb so schön wie Jane, und auch nicht so gutmütig wie Lydia. Aber du bevorzugst immer _sie_." "Keine von ihnen hat viel, um sie zu empfehlen", antwortete er; "sie sind alle albern und unwissend wie andere Mädchen auch; aber Lizzy hat etwas mehr Einfallsreichtum als ihre Schwestern." "Herr Bennet, wie kannst du deine eigenen Kinder auf so eine Weise beleidigen? Du hast Freude daran, mich zu ärgern. Du hast kein Mitgefühl mit meinen armen Nerven." "Du verstehst mich falsch, mein Lieber. Ich habe großen Respekt vor deinen Nerven. Sie sind meine alten Freunde. Ich habe dich seit mindestens zwanzig Jahren darüber nachdenken hören." "Ah! Du weißt nicht, was ich durchmache." "Aber ich hoffe, du wirst darüber hinwegkommen und viele junge Männer mit viertausend Pfund im Jahr in die Nachbarschaft kommen sehen." "Das wird uns nichts nützen, wenn zwanzig solche kommen sollten, da du sie nicht besuchen wirst." "Verlass dich darauf, mein Lieber, dass ich, wenn es zwanzig sind, alle besuchen werde." Herr Bennet war eine so eigenartige Mischung aus schnellem Verstand, sarkastischem Humor, Zurückhaltung und Launenhaftigkeit, dass die Erfahrung von dreiundzwanzig Jahren nicht ausreichte, um seine Frau sein Charakter zu verstehen. _Ihr_ Geist war weniger schwierig zu entfalten. Sie war eine Frau von geringem Verständnis, wenig Informationen und unbeständiger Stimmung. Wenn sie unzufrieden war, hielt sie sich für nervös. Das Geschäft ihres Lebens war es, ihre Töchter zu verheiraten; ihr Trost war Besuche und Neuigkeiten. 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 Roman beginnt mit einer ironischen Aussage über die Ehe, die die Achse ist, um die sich die Welt von Longbourn dreht: "Es ist eine allgemein anerkannte Wahrheit, dass ein unverheirateter Mann im Besitz eines guten Vermögens einer Frau bedarf". Gegenwärtig ist jeder in Longbourn, Hertfordshire, aufgeregt über die Tatsache, dass sich Herr Bingley, ein lediger, reicher junger Mann, auf Netherfield Park niederlassen wird, einem schönen Anwesen in der Nähe. Die Aufregung von Mrs. Bennet ist außergewöhnlich, denn sie hat fünf Töchter, die sie verheiratet haben möchte, insbesondere die älteren. Ihr Geist ist von ehelichen Spekulationen entflammt, und sie versucht, ihren Ehemann zu überreden, Mr. Bingley so schnell wie möglich zu besuchen. Mr. Bennet nimmt seine Frau aufs Korn und scherzt, dass er dem Neuling eine Carte Blanche geben wird, damit er eine ihrer Töchter, einschließlich der kleinen Lizzy, heiraten kann. Mrs. Bennet ist verärgert und wirft ihrem Ehemann vor, kein Mitgefühl für ihre armen Nerven zu haben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT III. SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter the JUDGES, TRIBUNES, and SENATORS, with TITUS' two sons MARTIUS and QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to the place of execution, and TITUS going before, pleading TITUS. Hear me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay! For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept; For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed, For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd, And for these bitter tears, which now you see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks, Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought. For two and twenty sons I never wept, Because they died in honour's lofty bed. [ANDRONICUS lieth down, and the judges pass by him with the prisoners, and exeunt] For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears. Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite; My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush. O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain That shall distil from these two ancient urns, Than youthful April shall with all his show'rs. In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still; In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood. Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn O reverend Tribunes! O gentle aged men! Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death, And let me say, that never wept before, My tears are now prevailing orators. LUCIUS. O noble father, you lament in vain; The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by, And you recount your sorrows to a stone. TITUS. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead! Grave Tribunes, once more I entreat of you. LUCIUS. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. TITUS. Why, 'tis no matter, man: if they did hear, They would not mark me; if they did mark, They would not pity me; yet plead I must, And bootless unto them. Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the Tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale. When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me; And were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribunes like to these. A stone is soft as wax: tribunes more hard than stones. A stone is silent and offendeth not, And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. [Rises] But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn? LUCIUS. To rescue my two brothers from their death; For which attempt the judges have pronounc'd My everlasting doom of banishment. TITUS. O happy man! they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine; how happy art thou then From these devourers to be banished! But who comes with our brother Marcus here? Enter MARCUS with LAVINIA MARCUS. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep, Or if not so, thy noble heart to break. I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. TITUS. Will it consume me? Let me see it then. MARCUS. This was thy daughter. TITUS. Why, Marcus, so she is. LUCIUS. Ay me! this object kills me. TITUS. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight? What fool hath added water to the sea, Or brought a fagot to bright-burning Troy? My grief was at the height before thou cam'st, And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds. Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too, For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain; And they have nurs'd this woe in feeding life; In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have serv'd me to effectless use. Now all the service I require of them Is that the one will help to cut the other. 'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands; For hands to do Rome service is but vain. LUCIUS. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee? MARCUS. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where like a sweet melodious bird it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear! LUCIUS. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed? MARCUS. O, thus I found her straying in the park, Seeking to hide herself as doth the deer That hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound. TITUS. It was my dear, and he that wounded her Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead; For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environ'd with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sons are gone; Here stands my other son, a banish'd man, And here my brother, weeping at my woes. But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight, It would have madded me; what shall I do Now I behold thy lively body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee; Thy husband he is dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this. Look, Marcus! Ah, son Lucius, look on her! When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey dew Upon a gath'red lily almost withered. MARCUS. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband; Perchance because she knows them innocent. TITUS. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them. No, no, they would not do so foul a deed; Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, Or make some sign how I may do thee ease. Shall thy good uncle and thy brother Lucius And thou and I sit round about some fountain, Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks How they are stain'd, like meadows yet not dry With miry slime left on them by a flood? And in the fountain shall we gaze so long, Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears? Or shall we cut away our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows Pass the remainder of our hateful days? What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues Plot some device of further misery To make us wonder'd at in time to come. LUCIUS. Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. MARCUS. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes. TITUS. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! Brother, well I wot Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine, For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own. LUCIUS. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. TITUS. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs. Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say That to her brother which I said to thee: His napkin, with his true tears all bewet, Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. O, what a sympathy of woe is this As far from help as Limbo is from bliss! Enter AARON the Moor AARON. Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand And send it to the King: he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault. TITUS. O gracious Emperor! O gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise? With all my heart I'll send the Emperor my hand. Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off? LUCIUS. Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn, My youth can better spare my blood than you, And therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives. MARCUS. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction on the enemy's castle? O, none of both but are of high desert! My hand hath been but idle; let it serve To ransom my two nephews from their death; Then have I kept it to a worthy end. AARON. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come. MARCUS. My hand shall go. LUCIUS. By heaven, it shall not go! TITUS. Sirs, strive no more; such with'red herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. LUCIUS. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death. MARCUS. And for our father's sake and mother's care, Now let me show a brother's love to thee. TITUS. Agree between you; I will spare my hand. LUCIUS. Then I'll go fetch an axe. MARCUS. But I will use the axe. Exeunt LUCIUS and MARCUS TITUS. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both; Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. AARON. [Aside] If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest, And never whilst I live deceive men so; But I'll deceive you in another sort, And that you'll say ere half an hour pass. [He cuts off TITUS' hand] Re-enter LUCIUS and MARCUS TITUS. Now stay your strife. What shall be is dispatch'd. Good Aaron, give his Majesty my hand; Tell him it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers; bid him bury it. More hath it merited- that let it have. As for my sons, say I account of them As jewels purchas'd at an easy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. AARON. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. [Aside] Their heads I mean. O, how this villainy Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace: Aaron will have his soul black like his face. Exit TITUS. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth; If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call! [To LAVINIA] What, would'st thou kneel with me? Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers, Or with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. MARCUS. O brother, speak with possibility, And do not break into these deep extremes. TITUS. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my passions bottomless with them. MARCUS. But yet let reason govern thy lament. TITUS. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes. When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threat'ning the welkin with his big-swol'n face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? I am the sea; hark how her sighs do blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth; Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd; For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave; for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues. Enter a MESSENGER, with two heads and a hand MESSENGER. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent'st the Emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons; And here's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back- Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mock'd, That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father's death. Exit MARCUS. Now let hot Aetna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death. LUCIUS. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe! [LAVINIA kisses TITUS] MARCUS. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake. TITUS. When will this fearful slumber have an end? MARCUS. Now farewell, flatt'ry; die, Andronicus. Thou dost not slumber: see thy two sons' heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banish'd son with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs. Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes. Now is a time to storm; why art thou still? TITUS. Ha, ha, ha! MARCUS. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour. TITUS. Why, I have not another tear to shed; Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my wat'ry eyes And make them blind with tributary tears. Then which way shall I find Revenge's cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be return'd again Even in their throats that have committed them. Come, let me see what task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to each one of you And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head, And in this hand the other will I bear. And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in this; Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight; Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay. Hie to the Goths and raise an army there; And if ye love me, as I think you do, Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do. Exeunt all but Lucius LUCIUS. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, The woefull'st man that ever liv'd in Rome. Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again, He leaves his pledges dearer than his life. Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been! But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives But in oblivion and hateful griefs. If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs And make proud Saturnine and his empress Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen. Now will I to the Goths, and raise a pow'r To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine. Exit Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Als Martius und Quintus zu ihrer Hinrichtung geführt werden, bittet Titus die hohen Beamten Roms, sie zu verschonen. Lucius versucht, sie mit Gewalt zu retten und wird aus Rom verbannt. Marcus bringt die verstümmelte Lavinia zu ihrem Vater und Bruder. Lucius ist schockiert, ihren Zustand zu sehen, aber Titus drückt seine Gefühle nicht aus. Als ihr von dem bevorstehenden Tod ihrer Brüder erzählt wird, weint sie erneut. Aaron kommt mit einer Botschaft des Kaisers und verspricht, dass Marcus, Titus oder Lucius in Austausch für ihr Leben die beiden Jungen retten können. Titus schneidet seine Hand ab und Aaron nimmt sie mit und verspricht ihm, dass er bald seine Söhne sehen wird. Ein Bote kommt mit den Köpfen seines Sohnes und seiner Hand und informiert ihn, dass der Kaiser seinen Kummer und Verlust verspottet. Titus lacht einfach über die gesamte Situation und schwört vor jedem Anwesenden, dass er alle begangenen Unrechts begleichen werde. Er bittet Lucius, zu den Goten zu gehen und dort gegen den römischen Kaiser eine Armee aufzustellen. Dann verlassen sie alle den Ort, Titus trägt einen Kopf, Marcus einen anderen und Lavinia hält Titus' Hand in ihren Zähnen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 werde einen leichteren Weg suchen." Die von Hawkeye gewählte Route führte über sandige Ebenen, die von gelegentlichen Tälern und Anhöhen durchbrochen wurden, die ihre Gruppe am Morgen desselben Tages mit dem vereitelten Magua als Führer überquert hatte. Die Sonne war nun tief hinter den entfernten Bergen gesunken, und da ihre Reise durch den endlosen Wald führte, war die Hitze nicht mehr drückend. Ihr Fortschritt war dementsprechend. Schon lange bevor die Dämmerung um sie herum einsetzte, hatten sie viele anstrengende Meilen auf ihrem Rückweg zurückgelegt. Der Jäger schien wie der Wilde, dessen Platz er einnahm, mit einer Art Instinkt aus den blinden Zeichen ihrer wilden Route auszuwählen. Er verringerte selten seine Geschwindigkeit und zögerte niemals, um zu überlegen. Ein schneller und schräger Blick auf das Moos an den Bäumen, ab und zu ein aufwärts gerichteter Blick auf die untergehende Sonne oder ein fester, aber vorübergehender Blick auf die Richtung der zahlreichen Wasserläufe, durch die er watete, reichten aus, um seinen Weg zu bestimmen und seine größten Schwierigkeiten zu überwinden. Inzwischen begann der Wald seine Farben zu ändern und verlor dieses lebhafte Grün, das seine Bögen geschmückt hatte, im ernsteren Licht, das üblicherweise dem Tagesende vorausgeht. Während die Schwestern versuchten, durch die Bäume hindurch einen Blick auf die goldene Glorie zu erhaschen, die einen glitzernden Heiligenschein um die Sonne bildete und hier und da mit rubinroten Streifen oder schmalen Rändern leuchtend gelb den Wolkenmassen, die sich nicht weit über den westlichen Hügeln türmten, einen Charakter verlieh, drehte Hawkeye plötzlich um und zeigte mit dem Finger nach oben in den prächtigen Himmel: "Dort ist das Signal für einen Menschen, Nahrung und natürlichen Ruheplatz zu suchen", sagte er. "Besser und klüger wäre es, wenn er die Zeichen der Natur verstehen und von den Vögeln der Luft und den Tieren des Feldes eine Lektion lernen könnte! Unsere Nacht wird jedoch bald vorbei sein; denn mit dem Mond müssen wir wieder aufstehen und uns bewegen. Ich erinnere mich, dass ich hier nach der ersten Schlacht, in der ich Blut von einem Menschen vergossen habe, gegen die Maquas gekämpft habe. Wir haben hier einen Palisadenwall errichtet, um die gierigen reißenden Bestien davon abzuhalten, unsere Skalps zu bekommen. Wenn mich meine Spuren nicht täuschen, werden wir den Platz noch ein paar Stockwerke weiter links finden." Ohne auf Zustimmung oder überhaupt auf eine Antwort zu warten, bewegte sich der robuste Jäger kühn durch ein dichtes Dickicht junger Kastanien, schob die Zweige der üppigen Triebe beiseite, die den Boden fast bedeckten, wie ein Mann, der bei jedem Schritt erwartete, ein ihm bekanntes Objekt zu entdecken. Die Erinnerung des Spähers täuschte ihn nicht. Nachdem er sich durch das Gestrüpp gekämpft hatte, das von Dornen verfilzt war, betrat er einen offenen Raum, der von einem niedrigen grünen Hügel umgeben war, auf dem das verfallene Blockhaus thronte. Dieses rauhe und vernachlässigte Gebäude war eine jener verlassenen Schutzwälle, die aus der Not heraus errichtet worden waren, mit dem Verschwinden der Gefahr jedoch aufgegeben worden waren und nun still und nahezu vergessen im Wald vor sich hinbröckelten, genauso wie die Umstände, die zu ihrer Errichtung geführt hatten. Solche Zeugnisse vom Durchgang und den Kämpfen der Menschen sind immer noch häufig entlang der breiten Wildnisbarriere zu finden, die einst die feindlichen Provinzen voneinander trennte, und bilden eine Art Ruinen, die eng mit den Erinnerungen an die Kolonialgeschichte verbunden sind und perfekt zur düsteren Atmosphäre der Umgebung passen. Das Dach aus Rinde war längst gefallen und hatte sich mit dem Boden vermischt, aber die großen Kiefernstämme, die hastig zusammengeworfen worden waren, bewahrten immer noch ihre relative Position, wenn auch einer der Winkel nachgab und einen schnellen Verfall des restlichen rustikalen Gebäudes ankündigte. Während Heyward und seine Begleiter zögerten, sich einem so verfallenen Bauwerk zu nähern, betraten Hawkeye und die Indianer ohne Furcht, aber mit offensichtlichem Interesse die niedrigen Mauern. Während der Späher die Ruinen sowohl nach innen als auch nach außen mit der Neugier eines Menschen betrachtete, dessen Erinnerungen zu jedem Moment wiederbelebt wurden, erzählte Chingachgook seinem Sohn in der Sprache der Delawaren und mit dem Stolz eines Siegers die kurze Geschichte des Scharmützels, das er in seiner Jugend an diesem abgeschiedenen Ort geschlagen hatte. Ein Hauch von Melancholie mischte sich jedoch mit seinem Triumph und ließ seine Stimme, wie üblich, sanft und melodisch klingen. Inzwischen stiegen die Schwestern froh ab und bereiteten sich darauf vor, ihren Halt bei der Kühle des Abends und in einer Sicherheit zu genießen, von der sie glaubten, dass nur die Tiere des Waldes sie stören könnten. "Wäre unser Ruheplatz nicht abgelegener gewesen, mein verehrter Freund?", fragte der wachsamere Duncan und bemerkte, dass der Späher seine kurze Untersuchung bereits beendet hatte, "hätten wir einen weniger bekannten Ort und einen seltener besuchten Ort gewählt?" "Kaum jemand lebt, der weiß, dass das Blockhaus je errichtet wurde", war die langsame und nachdenkliche Antwort, "es ist nicht oft, dass über eine solche Schlacht wie die zwischen den Mohikanern und den Mohawks, die ihren eigenen Krieg führten, Bücher geschrieben oder Berichte verfasst werden. Damals war ich ein junger Wildfang und zog mit den Delawaren aus, weil ich wusste, dass sie ein geschundenes und ungerechtes Volk waren. Vierzig Tage und Nächte lang verlangten die Höllenjungen hier um diesen Holzstapel herum unser Blut. Ich habe ihn entworfen und teilweise errichtet, wie ihr euch erinnern werdet, war ich selbst nicht Indianer, sondern ein Mann ohne indianisches Blut. Die Delawaren halfen bei der Arbeit und wir haben uns gut gehalten, zehn gegen zwanzig, bis unsere Zahlen fast gleich waren und dann sind wir auf die Hunde losgegangen und keiner von ihnen ist jemals zurückgekehrt, um das Schicksal seiner Truppe zu erzählen. Ja, ja, damals war ich jung und neu in Anbetracht des Anblicks von Blut, und da es mir nicht gefiel, dass Kreaturen, die eine Seele wie ich hatten, auf dem nackten Boden liegen und von Tieren zerrissen oder im Regen bleichen sollten, habe ich die Toten mit meinen eigenen Händen hier unter diesem kleinen Hügel begraben, auf dem ihr euch niedergelassen habt, und es ist gar kein schlechter Platz, obwohl er durch die Knochen sterblicher Menschen errichtet wurde." Heyward und die Schwestern erhoben sich auf der Stelle vom grasbewachsenen Grab. Die beiden Letzteren konnten trotz der furchterregenden Szenen, die sie gerade erlebt hatten, einen Ausdruck natürlichen Abscheus nicht vollständig unterdrücken, als sie sich in solch vertrautem Kontakt mit dem Grab der toten Mohawks befanden. Das graue Licht, der düstere kleine Bereich aus dunklem Gras, der von einem Saum aus Gebüsch umgeben "Genug!", sagte Heyward besorgt, dass das Thema zu einer Diskussion führen könnte, die die Harmonie unterbrechen könnte, die für den Erhalt seiner schönen Begleiterinnen so notwendig war. "Wir sind weit gereist und nur wenige von uns sind mit Körpern, wie dein Körper sie hat, gesegnet. Er scheint weder Ermüdung noch Schwäche zu kennen." "Die Sehnen und Knochen eines Mannes bringen mich durch alles hindurch", sagte der Jäger und betrachtete seine muskulösen Gliedmaßen mit einer Einfachheit, die das ehrliche Vergnügen verriet, das ihm das Kompliment bereitete. "In den Siedlungen gibt es größere und schwerere Männer zu finden, aber du könntest viele Tage in einer Stadt verbringen, bevor du jemanden treffen könntest, der in der Lage ist, fünfzig Meilen ohne anzuhalten zu gehen oder der die Hunde während einer stundenlangen Jagd im Gehör halten kann. Aber da Fleisch und Blut nicht immer dasselbe sind, ist es ganz vernünftig anzunehmen, dass die zarten Damen nach all dem, was sie heute gesehen und getan haben, ausruhen möchten. Uncas, räume den Quell aus, während dein Vater und ich eine Abdeckung aus diesen Kastanienzweigen machen und ein Bett aus Gras und Blättern." Der Dialog verstummte, während sich der Jäger und seine Begleiter damit beschäftigten, sich auf die Bequemlichkeit und den Schutz derer vorzubereiten, die sie führten. Eine Quelle, die viele Jahre zuvor die Ureinwohner veranlasst hatte, diesen Ort für ihre temporäre Befestigung auszuwählen, wurde bald von Blättern befreit und eine Kristallquelle strömte aus dem Bett und verteilte ihr Wasser über den grünen Hügel. Eine Ecke des Gebäudes wurde dann so eingedeckt, dass der schwere Tau des Klimas ausgeschlossen wurde, und Haufen von süßen Sträuchern und getrockneten Blättern wurden darunter gelegt, damit sich die Schwestern ausruhen konnten. Während die fleißigen Holzfäller auf diese Weise beschäftigt waren, nahmen Cora und Alice die Erfrischung zu sich, die ihre Pflicht ihnen viel mehr abverlangte, als ihre Neigung sie dazu trieb. Sie zogen sich dann in die Mauern zurück und brachten zunächst ihre Dankgebete für vergangene Gnaden dar und baten um eine Fortsetzung der göttlichen Gunst in der kommenden Nacht. Dann legten sie ihre zarten Körper auf das duftende Bett und sanken trotz Erinnerungen und Befürchtungen in jenen Schlaf, den die Natur so imperativ forderte und der durch Hoffnungen für den nächsten Tag versüßt wurde. Duncan hatte sich darauf vorbereitet, die Nacht in Wachsamkeit in ihrer Nähe zu verbringen, außerhalb der Ruine, aber der Jäger, der seine Absicht bemerkte, wies auf Chingachgook hin, als er seinen eigenen Körper ruhig auf das Gras legte und sagte: "Die Augen eines Weißen sind zu schwer und zu blind für eine Wache wie diese! Der Mohikaner wird unser Wachposten sein, also lasst uns schlafen." "In der vergangenen Nacht habe ich mich als Faulenzer auf meiner Posten bewiesen", sagte Heyward, "und habe weniger Schlaf benötigt als du, der mehr Ehre als ein Soldat abgelegt hat. Lasst die gesamte Gruppe sich ausruhen, während ich Wache halte." "Wenn wir uns in den weißen Zelten des 60th befänden und mit einem Feind wie den Franzosen konfrontiert wären, könnte ich keinen besseren Wachmann verlangen", erwiderte der Jäger, "aber in der Dunkelheit und zwischen den Anzeichen der Wildnis wäre dein Urteilsvermögen wie die Dummheit eines Kindes und deine Wachsamkeit umsonst. Tu also, wie Uncas und ich - schlafe und schlafe sicher." Heyward erkannte tatsächlich, dass der jüngere Indianer seinen Körper auf die Seite des Hügels gelegt hatte, während sie sprachen, wie jemand, der versuchte, die ihm zugewiesene Ruhezeit optimal zu nutzen, und dass sein Beispiel von David gefolgt wurde, dessen Stimme wortwörtlich "an seinen Kiefern klebte" vor Fieber aufgrund seiner Wunde, verstärkt durch ihren anstrengenden Marsch. Unwillig, eine nutzlose Diskussion zu verlängern, tat der junge Mann so, als würde er sich fügen, indem er seinen Rücken gegen die Holzstämme des Blockhauses positionierte, in einer halb liegenden Haltung, jedoch fest entschlossen, in seinem eigenen Kopf kein Auge zu schließen, bis er seine kostbare Bürde selbst in die Arme von Munro übergeben hatte. Hawkeye, der glaubte, gewonnen zu haben, schlief bald ein und eine Stille, so tief wie die Einsamkeit, die sie gefunden hatten, durchdrang den abgeschiedenen Ort. Viele Minuten lang gelang es Duncan, seine Sinne aufmerksam zu halten und auf jedes seufzende Geräusch zu achten, das aus dem Wald erklang. Seine Sicht wurde schärfer, während sich die Abenddunkelheit über den Ort senkte, und selbst nachdem die Sterne über seinem Kopf zu glimmen begannen, konnte er die liegenden Gestalten seiner Gefährten deutlich erkennen, wie sie sich auf dem Gras ausstreckten, und die Person von Chingachgook wahrnehmen, der wie einer der Bäume, die die dunkle Barriere auf jeder Seite bildeten, aufrecht und regungslos saß. Er hörte immer noch das sanfte Atmen der Schwestern, die nur wenige Meter von ihm entfernt lagen, und keine Blattbewegung entging seinem Ohr. Schließlich aber vermischten sich die klagenden Töne eines Ruflers mit dem Stöhnen einer Eule; seine schweren Augen suchten gelegentlich die hellen Strahlen der Sterne und dann glaubte er, sie durch die heruntergefallenen Augenlider zu sehen. Bei Momenten kurzzeitigen Wachseins verwechselte er einen Busch mit seinem Wachsentlastungssoldaten; sein Kopf sank auf seine Schulter, die ihrerseits Halt auf dem Boden suchte; und schließlich wurde sein ganzer Körper entspannt und nachgiebig, und der junge Mann versank in tiefen Schlaf und träumte, dass er ein Ritter des alten Rittertums war, der seine nächtlichen Wachen vor dem Zelt einer wiedergefundenen Prinzessin hielt, deren Gunst er nicht darauf verzichtete, durch solchen Beweis von Hingabe und Wachsamkeit zu gewinnen. Wie lange der erschöpfte Duncan in diesem bewusstlosen Zustand gelegen hatte, wusste er selbst nicht, aber seine schlafenden Visionen waren schon lange in völliger Vergessenheit versunken, als er durch ein leichtes Klopfen auf seiner Schulter aufgeweckt wurde. Durch dieses Signal, so schwach es auch war, sprang er mit verworrenem Bewusstsein der Pflicht, die er mit Beginn der Nacht übernommen hatte, auf die Füße. "Wer kommt?", fragte er und griff an die Stelle, an der sein Schwert normalerweise aufgehängt war. "Sprich! Freund oder Feind?" "Freund", antwortete die leise Stimme von Chingachgook, der mit dem Finger nach oben auf das Gestirn deutete, das sein mildes Licht durch die Öffnung in den Bäumen genau in ihr Biwak warf, und fügte sofort in seinem gebrochenen Englisch hinzu: "Der Mond kommt und das weiße Männerfort ist fern - sehr fern; es ist Zeit, sich zu bewegen, wenn der Schlaf die Augen der Franzosen geschlossen hat!" "Du hast Recht! Wecke deine Freunde und sattle die Pferde, während ich meine eigenen Begleiter auf den Marsch vorbereite!" "Wir sind wach, Duncan", sagte die weiche, silberne Stimme von Alice im Gebäude, "und bereit, nach solch einem erholsamen Schlaf sehr schnell zu reisen; aber du hast die ganze mü "Ein Geschöpf des Waldes schleicht umher auf der Suche nach Nahrung", flüsterte er, sobald die leisen und scheinbar entfernten Geräusche, die die Mohikaner erschreckt hatten, seine eigenen Ohren erreichten. "Hush!" erwiderte der aufmerksame Waldläufer. "Es ist ein Mensch. Ich kann seinen Gang jetzt sogar erkennen, obwohl meine Sinne im Vergleich zu einem Indianer schwach sind! Dieser fliehende Hurone ist auf eine der Streifpartien von Montcalm gestoßen und sie haben unsere Spur gefunden. Ich würde selbst nicht gerne noch mehr menschliches Blut an diesem Ort vergießen", fügte er hinzu und blickte besorgt auf die schwach beleuchteten Gegenstände, die ihn umgaben. "Aber was sein muss, muss sein! Führe die Pferde in das Blockhaus, Uncas, und ihr anderen, folgt in den gleichen Schutz. Arm und alt, wie es auch sein mag, es bietet Deckung und es wurde schon vor heute Nacht von Kugeln durchlöchert!" Sie gehorchten sofort. Die Mohikaner führten die Narragansetts in die Ruine, zu der sich die ganze Gruppe unter größtmöglicher Stille begab. Die Geräusche nahenden Schrittes waren nun zu deutlich hörbar, um Zweifel an der Natur der Unterbrechung zu lassen. Bald vermischten sie sich mit Stimmen, die in einer Indianer-Dialekt miteinander riefen, den der Jäger Heyward in einem Flüsterton als die Sprache der Huronen bestätigte. Als die Gruppe den Punkt erreichte, an dem die Pferde in das Dickicht gelangt waren, das das Blockhaus umgab, irrten sie eindeutig umher, nachdem sie die Spuren verloren hatten, die bis zu diesem Moment ihre Verfolgung gelenkt hatten. Anhand der Stimmen schien es, als hätten sich zwanzig Männer an dieser Stelle versammelt und ihre unterschiedlichen Meinungen und Ratschläge in lautem Geschrei gemischt. "Die Schurken kennen unsere Schwäche", flüsterte Hawkeye, der neben Heyward im Dunkeln stand und durch eine Öffnung in den Balken hindurchblickte, tief im Schatten. "Sonst würden sie ihre Faulheit nicht in so einem zögerlichen Marsch zur Schau stellen. Hört die Schlangen! Jeder von ihnen scheint zwei Zungen, aber nur ein Bein zu haben." Duncan, so tapfer er im Kampf war, konnte in einem Moment solch quälender Spannung keine Antwort auf die kühle und charakteristische Bemerkung des Waldläufers geben. Er umklammerte nur sein Gewehr fester und heftete seinen Blick auf die schmale Öffnung, durch die er mit zunehmender Unruhe auf den Ausblick im Mondschein starrte. Die tieferen Töne eines Mannes, der mit Autorität sprach, waren als nächstes zu hören, begleitet von einer Stille, die zeigte, mit welchem Respekt seine Befehle, oder eher Ratschläge, aufgenommen wurden. Danach wurde durch das Rascheln von Blättern und das Knacken von trockenen Zweigen deutlich, dass sich die Indianer auf der Suche nach der verlorenen Spur trennten. Glücklicherweise konnte das Mondscheinlicht das kleine Areal um die Ruine zwar mild beleuchten, aber nicht stark genug, um in die tiefen Bögen des Waldes vorzudringen, wo die Objekte immer noch in täuschenden Schatten lagen. Die Suche blieb erfolglos, da der Übergang von dem schwachen Pfad, den die Reisenden durch das Dickicht eingeschlagen hatten, so kurz und plötzlich war, dass jede Spur ihrer Fußabdrücke in der Dunkelheit des Waldes verloren ging. Es dauerte jedoch nicht lange, bis die unruhigen Indianer gehört wurden, wie sie das Gebüsch schlugen und allmählich den inneren Rand des dichten Gürtels aus jungen Kastanien erreichten, der den kleinen Bereich umgab. "Sie kommen", flüsterte Heyward und versuchte sein Gewehr durch die Ritze in den Balken zu stecken. "Lasst uns schießen, wenn sie näher kommen." "Haltet alles im Schatten", erwiderte der Waldläufer. "Das Klirren eines Feuersteins oder sogar der Geruch eines einzigen Korns Schwefel würde die hungrigen Burschen alle auf einmal auf uns hetzen. Wenn es Gott gefällt, dass wir uns um die Skalps schlagen müssen, vertraut auf die Erfahrung von Männern, die die Wege der Indianer kennen und die nicht oft zögern, wenn der Kriegsschrei ertönt." Duncan warf einen Blick hinter sich und sah, dass die zitternden Schwestern in der hinteren Ecke des Gebäudes kauerten, während die Mohikaner im Schatten wie zwei aufrechte Pfähle standen, bereit und offenbar willig zuzuschlagen, wenn der Schlag erforderlich sein würde. Seine Ungeduld unterdrückend, sah er erneut auf das Areal und wartete schweigend auf das Ergebnis. In diesem Moment öffnete sich das Gebüsch und ein großer, bewaffneter Hurone trat ein paar Schritte in den offenen Raum. Als er das stille Blockhaus betrachtete, fiel der Mond auf sein dunkles Gesicht und verriet seine Überraschung und Neugier. Er machte den Ausruf, der gewöhnlich mit dem früheren Gefühl des Staunens bei den Indianern einhergeht, und rief mit leiser Stimme einen Begleiter zu sich. Diese Kinder des Waldes standen einen Moment lang zusammen und zeigten auf das zerfallende Gebäude, wobei sie in der unverständlichen Sprache ihres Stammes miteinander sprachen. Dann näherten sie sich, jedoch mit langsamen und vorsichtigen Schritten, und hielten alle paar Sekunden inne, um das Gebäude zu betrachten wie erschrockene Hirsche, deren Neugier stark mit ihren erwachten Befürchtungen kämpfte. Der Fuß eines von ihnen ruhte plötzlich auf dem Erdhügel und er beugte sich hinunter, um dessen Beschaffenheit zu untersuchen. In diesem Moment bemerkte Heyward, dass der Waldläufer sein Messer in der Scheide lockerte und die Mündung seines Gewehrs senkte. Die Bewegungen nachahmend bereitete sich der junge Mann auf den Kampf vor, der nun unvermeidlich schien. Die Indianer waren so nahe, dass schon die kleinsten Bewegungen eines der Pferde oder sogar ein leiser als gewöhnlicher Atemzug die Flüchtlinge verraten hätten. Doch bei der Entdeckung der Beschaffenheit des Hügels schien die Aufmerksamkeit der Huronen auf ein anderes Objekt gerichtet zu sein. Sie sprachen miteinander und die Geräusche ihrer Stimmen waren leise und feierlich, als ob sie von einer Ehrfurcht beeinflusst wären, die tief mit Ehrfurcht verbunden war. Dann zogen sie sich vorsichtig zurück und hielten ihre Augen weiterhin auf die Ruine gerichtet, als ob sie erwarteten, dass die Erscheinungen der Toten aus ihren stillen Wänden hervorkommen würden. Bis sie die Grenze des Areals erreichten, bewegten sie sich langsam in das Dickicht und verschwanden schließlich. Hawkeye senkte den Verschluss seines Gewehrs auf den Boden und holte tief Luft. "Ja! Sie respektieren die Toten und es hat dieses Mal ihr eigenes Leben gerettet und möglicherweise auch das Leben besserer Männer." Heyward widmete seinem Begleiter einen kurzen Moment Aufmerksamkeit, antwortete jedoch nicht und wandte sich dann erneut denen zu, die ihn gerade mehr interessierten. Er hörte, wie die beiden Huronen das Gebüsch verließen, und es war bald klar, dass sich alle Verfolger versammelt hatten, um ihrer Erzählung mit tiefer Aufmerksamkeit zuzuhören. Nach einigen Minuten ernsthaften und feierlichen Dialogs, der sich deutlich von dem lauten Geschrei unterschied, mit dem sie sich zuerst um den Ort versammelt hatten, wurden die Geräusche schwächer und entfernten sich und wurden schließlich in den Tiefen des Waldes verloren. Hawkeye wartete, bis ein Signal von dem lauschenden Chingachgook ihm versicherte, dass jeder Klang von der sich zurückziehenden Party völlig von der Entfernung verschluckt war, dann deutete er Heyward an, die Pferde herauszuführen und den Schwestern beim Aufsteigen zu helfen. Sobald dies getan war, verließen sie durch das zerbrochene Tor und schlichen in eine entgegengesetzte Richtung von der, durch die sie gekommen waren, den Ort und warfen die Schwestern flüchtige Blicke auf das stille Grab und die zerfallende Ruine zu, bevor sie das sanfte Licht des Mondes verließen, um sich in der Dunkelheit des Waldes zu verbergen. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Gruppe reist zu einer verfallenen Blockhütte, wo Chingachgook und Hawkeye vor vielen Jahren eine Schlacht gewannen. Der Gedenkort veranlasst Hawkeye dazu, die Mohikaner als die letzten ihres Stammes zu beschreiben. Die Gruppe, mit Ausnahme von Chingachgook, schläft bis zum Einbruch der Nacht, als Geräusche von nahegelegenen Feinden Alarm auslösen. Die Geräusche, die sie hören, werden von den Huronen verursacht, die sich verirrt haben. Zwei Indianer nähern sich, aber ihre Achtung vor dem Gedenkort hält sie fern. Nachdem die Huronen abgezogen sind, setzt die Gruppe ihren Weg zum Fort 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: THE ELEVENTH BOOK I. The natural properties, and privileges of a reasonable soul are: That she seeth herself; that she can order, and compose herself: that she makes herself as she will herself: that she reaps her own fruits whatsoever, whereas plants, trees, unreasonable creatures, what fruit soever (be it either fruit properly, or analogically only) they bear, they bear them unto others, and not to themselves. Again; whensoever, and wheresoever, sooner or later, her life doth end, she hath her own end nevertheless. For it is not with her, as with dancers and players, who if they be interrupted in any part of their action, the whole action must needs be imperfect: but she in what part of time or action soever she be surprised, can make that which she hath in her hand whatsoever it be, complete and full, so that she may depart with that comfort, 'I have lived; neither want I anything of that which properly did belong unto me.' Again, she compasseth the whole world, and penetrateth into the vanity, and mere outside (wanting substance and solidity) of it, and stretcheth herself unto the infiniteness of eternity; and the revolution or restoration of all things after a certain period of time, to the same state and place as before, she fetcheth about, and doth comprehend in herself; and considers withal, and sees clearly this, that neither they that shall follow us, shall see any new thing, that we have not seen, nor they that went before, anything more than we: but that he that is once come to forty (if he have any wit at all) can in a manner (for that they are all of one kind) see all things, both past and future. As proper is it, and natural to the soul of man to love her neighbour, to be true and modest; and to regard nothing so much as herself: which is also the property of the law: whereby by the way it appears, that sound reason and justice comes all to one, and therefore that justice is the chief thing, that reasonable creatures ought to propose unto themselves as their end. II. A pleasant song or dance; the Pancratiast's exercise, sports that thou art wont to be much taken with, thou shalt easily contemn; if the harmonious voice thou shalt divide into so many particular sounds whereof it doth consist, and of every one in particular shall ask thyself; whether this or that sound is it, that doth so conquer thee. For thou wilt be ashamed of it. And so for shame, if accordingly thou shalt consider it, every particular motion and posture by itself: and so for the wrestler's exercise too. Generally then, whatsoever it be, besides virtue, and those things that proceed from virtue that thou art subject to be much affected with, remember presently thus to divide it, and by this kind of division, in each particular to attain unto the contempt of the whole. This thou must transfer and apply to thy whole life also. III. That soul which is ever ready, even now presently (if need be) from the body, whether by way of extinction, or dispersion, or continuation in another place and estate to be separated, how blessed and happy is it! But this readiness of it, it must proceed, not from an obstinate and peremptory resolution of the mind, violently and passionately set upon Opposition, as Christians are wont; but from a peculiar judgment; with discretion and gravity, so that others may be persuaded also and drawn to the like example, but without any noise and passionate exclamations. IV. Have I done anything charitably? then am I benefited by it. See that this upon all occasions may present itself unto thy mind, and never cease to think of it. What is thy profession? to be good. And how should this be well brought to pass, but by certain theorems and doctrines; some Concerning the nature of the universe, and some Concerning the proper and particular constitution of man? V. Tragedies were at first brought in and instituted, to put men in mind of worldly chances and casualties: that these things in the ordinary course of nature did so happen: that men that were much pleased and delighted by such accidents upon this stage, would not by the same things in a greater stage be grieved and afflicted: for here you see what is the end of all such things; and that even they that cry out so mournfully to Cithaeron, must bear them for all their cries and exclamations, as well as others. And in very truth many good things are spoken by these poets; as that (for example) is an excellent passage: 'But if so be that I and my two children be neglected by the Gods, they have some reason even for that,' &c. And again, 'It will but little avail thee to storm and rage against the things themselves,' &c. Again, 'To reap one's life, as a ripe ear of corn;' and whatsoever else is to be found in them, that is of the same kind. After the tragedy, the ancient comedy was brought in, which had the liberty to inveigh against personal vices; being therefore through this her freedom and liberty of speech of very good use and effect, to restrain men from pride and arrogancy. To which end it was, that Diogenes took also the same liberty. After these, what were either the Middle, or New Comedy admitted for, but merely, (Or for the most part at least) for the delight and pleasure of curious and excellent imitation? 'It will steal away; look to it,' &c. Why, no man denies, but that these also have some good things whereof that may be one: but the whole drift and foundation of that kind of dramatical poetry, what is it else, but as we have said? VI. How clearly doth it appear unto thee, that no other course of thy life could fit a true philosopher's practice better, than this very course, that thou art now already in? VII. A branch cut off from the continuity of that which was next unto it, must needs be cut off from the whole tree: so a man that is divided from another man, is divided from the whole society. A branch is cut off by another, but he that hates and is averse, cuts himself off from his neighbour, and knows not that at the same time he divides himself from the whole body, or corporation. But herein is the gift and mercy of God, the Author of this society, in that, once cut off we may grow together and become part of the whole again. But if this happen often the misery is that the further a man is run in this division, the harder he is to be reunited and restored again: and however the branch which, once cut of afterwards was graffed in, gardeners can tell you is not like that which sprouted together at first, and still continued in the unity of the body. VIII. To grow together like fellow branches in matter of good correspondence and affection; but not in matter of opinions. They that shall oppose thee in thy right courses, as it is not in their power to divert thee from thy good action, so neither let it be to divert thee from thy good affection towards them. But be it thy care to keep thyself constant in both; both in a right judgment and action, and in true meekness towards them, that either shall do their endeavour to hinder thee, or at least will be displeased with thee for what thou hast done. For to fail in either (either in the one to give over for fear, or in the other to forsake thy natural affection towards him, who by nature is both thy friend and thy kinsman) is equally base, and much savouring of the disposition of a cowardly fugitive soldier. IX. It is not possible that any nature should be inferior unto art, since that all arts imitate nature. If this be so; that the most perfect and general nature of all natures should in her operation come short of the skill of arts, is most improbable. Now common is it to all arts, to make that which is worse for the better's sake. Much more then doth the common nature do the same. Hence is the first ground of justice. From justice all other virtues have their existence. For justice cannot be preserved, if either we settle our minds and affections upon worldly things; or be apt to be deceived, or rash, and inconstant. X. The things themselves (which either to get or to avoid thou art put to so much trouble) come not unto thee themselves; but thou in a manner goest unto them. Let then thine own judgment and opinion concerning those things be at rest; and as for the things themselves, they stand still and quiet, without any noise or stir at all; and so shall all pursuing and flying cease. XI. Then is the soul as Empedocles doth liken it, like unto a sphere or globe, when she is all of one form and figure: when she neither greedily stretcheth out herself unto anything, nor basely contracts herself, or lies flat and dejected; but shineth all with light, whereby she does see and behold the true nature, both that of the universe, and her own in particular. XII. Will any contemn me? let him look to that, upon what grounds he does it: my care shall be that I may never be found either doing or speaking anything that doth truly deserve contempt. Will any hate me? let him look to that. I for my part will be kind and loving unto all, and even unto him that hates me, whom-soever he be, will I be ready to show his error, not by way of exprobation or ostentation of my patience, but ingenuously and meekly: such as was that famous Phocion, if so be that he did not dissemble. For it is inwardly that these things must be: that the Gods who look inwardly, and not upon the outward appearance, may behold a man truly free from all indignation and grief. For what hurt can it be unto thee whatsoever any man else doth, as long as thou mayest do that which is proper and suitable to thine own nature? Wilt not thou (a man wholly appointed to be both what, and as the common good shall require) accept of that which is now seasonable to the nature of the universe? XIII. They contemn one another, and yet they seek to please one another: and whilest they seek to surpass one another in worldly pomp and greatness, they most debase and prostitute themselves in their better part one to another. XIV. How rotten and insincere is he, that saith, I am resolved to carry myself hereafter towards you with all ingenuity and simplicity. O man, what doest thou mean! what needs this profession of thine? the thing itself will show it. It ought to be written upon thy forehead. No sooner thy voice is heard, than thy countenance must be able to show what is in thy mind: even as he that is loved knows presently by the looks of his sweetheart what is in her mind. Such must he be for all the world, that is truly simple and good, as he whose arm-holes are offensive, that whosoever stands by, as soon as ever he comes near him, may as it were smell him whether he will or no. But the affectation of simplicity is nowise laudable. There is nothing more shameful than perfidious friendship. Above all things, that must be avoided. However true goodness, simplicity, and kindness cannot so be hidden, but that as we have already said in the very eyes and countenance they will show themselves. XV. To live happily is an inward power of the soul, when she is affected with indifferency, towards those things that are by their nature indifferent. To be thus affected she must consider all worldly objects both divided and whole: remembering withal that no object can of itself beget any opinion in us, neither can come to us, but stands without still and quiet; but that we ourselves beget, and as it were print in ourselves opinions concerning them. Now it is in our power, not to print them; and if they creep in and lurk in some corner, it is in our power to wipe them off. Remembering moreover, that this care and circumspection of thine, is to continue but for a while, and then thy life will be at an end. And what should hinder, but that thou mayest do well with all these things? For if they be according to nature, rejoice in them, and let them be pleasing and acceptable unto thee. But if they be against nature, seek thou that which is according to thine own nature, and whether it be for thy credit or no, use all possible speed for the attainment of it: for no man ought to be blamed, for seeking his own good and happiness. XVI. Of everything thou must consider from whence it came, of what things it doth consist, and into what it will be changed: what will be the nature of it, or what it will be like unto when it is changed; and that it can suffer no hurt by this change. And as for other men's either foolishness or wickedness, that it may not trouble and grieve thee; first generally thus; What reference have I unto these? and that we are all born for one another's good: then more particularly after another consideration; as a ram is first in a flock of sheep, and a bull in a herd of cattle, so am I born to rule over them. Begin yet higher, even from this: if atoms be not the beginning of all things, than which to believe nothing can be more absurd, then must we needs grant that there is a nature, that doth govern the universe. If such a nature, then are all worse things made for the better's sake; and all better for one another's sake. Secondly, what manner of men they be, at board, and upon their beds, and so forth. But above all things, how they are forced by their opinions that they hold, to do what they do; and even those things that they do, with what pride and self-conceit they do them. Thirdly, that if they do these things rightly, thou hast no reason to be grieved. But if not rightly, it must needs be that they do them against their wills, and through mere ignorance. For as, according to Plato's opinion, no soul doth willingly err, so by consequent neither doth it anything otherwise than it ought, but against her will. Therefore are they grieved, whensoever they hear themselves charged, either of injustice, or unconscionableness, or covetousness, or in general, of any injurious kind of dealing towards their neighbours. Fourthly, that thou thyself doest transgress in many things, and art even such another as they are. And though perchance thou doest forbear the very act of some sins, yet hast thou in thyself an habitual disposition to them, but that either through fear, or vainglory, or some such other ambitious foolish respect, thou art restrained. Fifthly, that whether they have sinned or no, thou doest not understand perfectly. For many things are done by way of discreet policy; and generally a man must know many things first, before he be able truly and judiciously to judge of another man's action. Sixthly, that whensoever thou doest take on grievously, or makest great woe, little doest thou remember then that a man's life is but for a moment of time, and that within a while we shall all be in our graves. Seventhly, that it is not the sins and transgressions themselves that trouble us properly; for they have their existence in their minds and understandings only, that commit them; but our own opinions concerning those sins. Remove then, and be content to part with that conceit of thine, that it is a grievous thing, and thou hast removed thine anger. But how should I remove it? How? reasoning with thyself that it is not shameful. For if that which is shameful, be not the only true evil that is, thou also wilt be driven whilest thou doest follow the common instinct of nature, to avoid that which is evil, to commit many unjust things, and to become a thief, and anything, that will make to the attainment of thy intended worldly ends. Eighthly, how many things may and do oftentimes follow upon such fits of anger and grief; far more grievous in themselves, than those very things which we are so grieved or angry for. Ninthly, that meekness is a thing unconquerable, if it be true and natural, and not affected or hypocritical. For how shall even the most fierce and malicious that thou shalt conceive, be able to hold on against thee, if thou shalt still continue meek and loving unto him; and that even at that time, when he is about to do thee wrong, thou shalt be well disposed, and in good temper, with all meekness to teach him, and to instruct him better? As for example; My son, we were not born for this, to hurt and annoy one another; it will be thy hurt not mine, my son: and so to show him forcibly and fully, that it is so in very deed: and that neither bees do it one to another, nor any other creatures that are naturally sociable. But this thou must do, not scoffingly, not by way of exprobation, but tenderly without any harshness of words. Neither must thou do it by way of exercise, or ostentation, that they that are by and hear thee, may admire thee: but so always that nobody be privy to it, but himself alone: yea, though there be more present at the same time. These nine particular heads, as so many gifts from the Muses, see that thou remember well: and begin one day, whilest thou art yet alive, to be a man indeed. But on the other side thou must take heed, as much to flatter them, as to be angry with them: for both are equally uncharitable, and equally hurtful. And in thy passions, take it presently to thy consideration, that to be angry is not the part of a man, but that to be meek and gentle, as it savours of more humanity, so of more manhood. That in this, there is strength and nerves, or vigour and fortitude: whereof anger and indignation is altogether void. For the nearer everything is unto unpassionateness, the nearer it is unto power. And as grief doth proceed from weakness, so doth anger. For both, both he that is angry and that grieveth, have received a wound, and cowardly have as it were yielded themselves unto their affections. If thou wilt have a tenth also, receive this tenth gift from Hercules the guide and leader of the Muses: that is a mad man's part, to look that there should be no wicked men in the world, because it is impossible. Now for a man to brook well enough, that there should be wicked men in the world, but not to endure that any should transgress against himself, is against all equity, and indeed tyrannical. XVII. Four several dispositions or inclinations there be of the mind and understanding, which to be aware of, thou must carefully observe: and whensoever thou doest discover them, thou must rectify them, saying to thyself concerning every one of them, This imagination is not necessary; this is uncharitable: this thou shalt speak as another man's slave, or instrument; than which nothing can be more senseless and absurd: for the fourth, thou shalt sharply check and upbraid thyself; for that thou doest suffer that more divine part in thee, to become subject and obnoxious to that more ignoble part of thy body, and the gross lusts and concupiscences thereof. XVIII. What portion soever, either of air or fire there be in thee, although by nature it tend upwards, submitting nevertheless to the ordinance of the universe, it abides here below in this mixed body. So whatsoever is in thee, either earthy, or humid, although by nature it tend downwards, yet is it against its nature both raised upwards, and standing, or consistent. So obedient are even the elements themselves to the universe, abiding patiently wheresoever (though against their nature) they are placed, until the sound as it were of their retreat, and separation. Is it not a grievous thing then, that thy reasonable part only should be disobedient, and should not endure to keep its place: yea though it be nothing enjoined that is contrary unto it, but that only which is according to its nature? For we cannot say of it when it is disobedient, as we say of the fire, or air, that it tends upwards towards its proper element, for then goes it the quite contrary way. For the motion of the mind to any injustice, or incontinency, or to sorrow, or to fear, is nothing else but a separation from nature. Also when the mind is grieved for anything that is happened by the divine providence, then doth it likewise forsake its own place. For it was ordained unto holiness and godliness, which specially consist in an humble submission to God and His providence in all things; as well as unto justice: these also being part of those duties, which as naturally sociable, we are bound unto; and without which we cannot happily converse one with another: yea and the very ground and fountain indeed of all just actions. XIX. He that hath not one and the self-same general end always as long as he liveth, cannot possibly be one and the self-same man always. But this will not suffice except thou add also what ought to be this general end. For as the general conceit and apprehension of all those things which upon no certain ground are by the greater part of men deemed good, cannot be uniform and agreeable, but that only which is limited and restrained by some certain proprieties and conditions, as of community: that nothing be conceived good, which is not commonly and publicly good: so must the end also that we propose unto ourselves, be common and sociable. For he that doth direct all his own private motions and purposes to that end, all his actions will be agreeable and uniform; and by that means will be still the same man. XX. Remember the fable of the country mouse and the city mouse, and the great fright and terror that this was put into. XXI. Socrates was wont to call the common conceits and opinions of men, the common bugbears of the world: the proper terror of silly children. XXII. The Lacedaemonians at their public spectacles were wont to appoint seats and forms for their strangers in the shadow, they themselves were content to sit anywhere. XXIII. What Socrates answered unto Perdiccas, why he did not come unto him, Lest of all deaths I should die the worst kind of death, said he: that is, not able to requite the good that hath been done unto me. XXIV. In the ancient mystical letters of the Ephesians, there was an item, that a man should always have in his mind some one or other of the ancient worthies. XXV. The Pythagoreans were wont betimes in the morning the first thing they did, to look up unto the heavens, to put themselves in mind of them who constantly and invariably did perform their task: as also to put themselves in mind of orderliness, or good order, and of purity, and of naked simplicity. For no star or planet hath any cover before it. XXVI. How Socrates looked, when he was fain to gird himself with a skin, Xanthippe his wife having taken away his clothes, and carried them abroad with her, and what he said to his fellows and friends, who were ashamed; and out of respect to him, did retire themselves when they saw him thus decked. XXVII. In matter of writing or reading thou must needs be taught before thou can do either: much more in matter of life. 'For thou art born a mere slave, to thy senses and brutish affections;' destitute without teaching of all true knowledge and sound reason. XXVIII. 'My heart smiled within me.' 'They will accuse even virtue herself; with heinous and opprobrious words.' XXIX. As they that long after figs in winter when they cannot be had; so are they that long after children, before they be granted them. XXX. 'As often as a father kisseth his child, he should say secretly with himself' (said Epictetus,) 'tomorrow perchance shall he die.' But these words be ominous. No words ominous (said he) that signify anything that is natural: in very truth and deed not more ominous than this, 'to cut down grapes when they are ripe.' Green grapes, ripe grapes, dried grapes, or raisins: so many changes and mutations of one thing, not into that which was not absolutely, but rather so many several changes and mutations, not into that which hath no being at all, but into that which is not yet in being. XXXI. 'Of the free will there is no thief or robber:' out of Epictetus; Whose is this also: that we should find a certain art and method of assenting; and that we should always observe with great care and heed the inclinations of our minds, that they may always be with their due restraint and reservation, always charitable, and according to the true worth of every present object. And as for earnest longing, that we should altogether avoid it: and to use averseness in those things only, that wholly depend of our own wills. It is not about ordinary petty matters, believe it, that all our strife and contention is, but whether, with the vulgar, we should be mad, or by the help of philosophy wise and sober, said he. XXXII. Socrates said, 'What will you have? the souls of reasonable, or unreasonable creatures? Of reasonable. But what? Of those whose reason is sound and perfect? or of those whose reason is vitiated and corrupted? Of those whose reason is sound and perfect. Why then labour ye not for such? Because we have them already. What then do ye so strive and contend between you?' Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Marcus beschreibt die rational Seele als völlig selbstbestimmend: Sie beobachtet, definiert und arbeitet für sich selbst. Die rationale Seele betrachtet auch das gesamte Universum und beobachtet die Bewegung des Ganzen - wie es sich verändert und sich regeneriert. Sie beobachtet die zyklische Natur des Lebens. Die rationale Seele hat auch viele gute Eigenschaften wie Wahrhaftigkeit und Nächstenliebe. Marcus erinnert sich daran, wie gut es ist, alles in seine Bestandteile zu zerlegen, damit er weiß, wie er es richtig bewerten kann - das heißt, überhaupt nicht. Marcus denkt, dass eine Seele, die bereit ist, den Körper zu verlassen, das Beste ist, was es gibt. Aber die Seele muss dabei gnädig sein - nicht wie die hartnäckigen Christen, die in Defiance gegenüber den Römern sterben. Marcus sagt sich selbst, dass das Gute für das Wohl der Gemeinschaft zu tun, seine eigene Belohnung ist. Marcus' einzige wirkliche Aufgabe ist es, ein guter Mensch zu sein, und das kann nur erreicht werden, indem er sich an philosophische Prinzipien hält. Tragödien wurden für die Bühne gemacht, damit wir sehen können, wie schlimm die Dinge werden können und dennoch das Los der Menschheit sind. Marcus findet auch, dass es in solchen Stücken einige "nützliche Sprichwörter" gibt und fügt einige hier ein. Komödien hingegen sind von fragwürdigem Nutzen. Marcus analysiert jede Periode der komischen Dramatik und stellt fest, dass nur die Alte Komödie etwas Lehrreiches bietet. Mittlere und Neue Komödie sind zu modisch, zu realistisch für Marcus. Marcus jubelt darüber, dass er in der perfekten Berufsrichtung ist, um Philosophie zu praktizieren. Marcus verwendet die Analogie eines vom Baum abgeschnittenen Astes, um zu illustrieren, was passiert, wenn ein Mensch sich durch ungeselliges Verhalten von der Gesellschaft abschneidet. Aber im Gegensatz zu einem Baum haben Menschen die Fähigkeit, sich wieder in ihre Gemeinschaften "einzupfropfen" - und das ist ein Geschenk der Götter. Allerdings ist eine wiedereingepfropfte Person nicht dieselbe wie vor dem Riss. Und zu viele Fälle von Trennung machen es schwieriger, eine Person erfolgreich zu versöhnen. Marcus sagt, dass er seine Augen nach zwei Dingen offen halten muss: 1) Menschen, die ihn von seinem bestimmten Weg abbringen wollen, und 2) Zorn auf diese Menschen, weil sie dies tun. Es ist Marcus' Aufgabe, auf beiden Fronten das Gleichgewicht zu wahren, da Zorn gegen seine Landsleute zu sozialer Isolation führen würde. Marcus argumentiert, dass die Natur des Ganzen schöner ist als jedes künstlerische Bestreben. Die universelle Natur setzt eine Skala der Natur fest und macht die niedrigeren Lebewesen den höheren untergeordnet. Dadurch wird auch eine gerechte Gesellschaft aufgebaut, da höhere Wesen sich nicht um niedrigere sorgen müssen. Marcus behauptet, dass äußere Dinge das Innere des Geistes nicht durchdringen können - es sei denn, eine Person lässt es zu. Marcus empfiehlt sich selbst, sein Urteil über das Äußere auszuschalten, so dass es ihn nicht mehr stört. Die Seele behält ihre Reinheit und Ruhe, wenn sie ihren eigenen Raum einnimmt und sich nicht von äußeren Dingen beeinflussen lässt, sondern ihren Fokus auf die Wahrheit richtet. Marcus geht auf das Thema Ruf und Beurteilung durch seine Kollegen ein. Er sagt sich selbst, dass es ihm egal sein sollte, was andere Leute von ihm denken, solange er ein guter Mensch bleibt. Und egal was passiert, er wird sich benehmen und sanft sein gegenüber denen, die schlecht von ihm sprechen. Auf diese Weise kann ihm nichts geschehen, da er alles tut, was ein Mensch tun sollte. Mehr Verachtung für die Menschen um Marcus herum, die aus persönlichem Gewinn heuchlerisch handeln. Marcus vergleicht den ehrlichen Menschen mit einem Menschen, der starken Körpergeruch hat: Man kann die Aura spüren, wenn man an ihm vorbeigeht. Eek. Er meint zu sagen, dass Tugend leicht zu erkennen ist. Diejenigen, die Ehrlichkeit vortäuschen, sind die treacherous Companion. Marcus erinnert sich daran, dass er sein Bestes tun muss in seinem Leben. Marcus betont erneut die Bedeutung, keine Urteile über Dinge zu fällen, die geschehen; so wird er sich davor bewahren, sein Unglück zu vergrößern. Die Dinge werden auch einfacher, wenn Marcus sich daran erinnert, dass er bald sterben wird und diese Ärgernisse ihm nicht bis ins Grab folgen werden. Für jetzt muss Marcus sich auf das konzentrieren, was zu seiner rationalen Natur gehört und danach handeln. Wieder betont Marcus die Bedeutung, Dinge zu zerlegen. Es ist wichtig herauszufinden, was es ist, wie es sich verändern wird, wie lange es dauern wird usw. Marcus wird eine schrittweise Anleitung geben, wie man mit Wut umgeht und zu seinem rationalen Selbst zurückkehrt: 1) Marcus sollte sich daran erinnern, dass wir alle zum Wohl des anderen geboren wurden, dass eine soziale Hierarchie besteht und dass er zum Führer geboren wurde. 2) Marcus sollte die Quelle in Betracht ziehen. Die meiste Zeit sind die Menschen, die ihn ärgern, nicht die Mühe wert. 3) Wenn seine Kritiker recht haben, sollte Marcus nicht jammern. Wenn sie unrecht haben, dann kann er nicht wütend auf sie sein, weil sie unwissend sind. Und klar, niemand mag es, unwissend zu sein. Segne ihre Herzen. 4) Marcus sagt sich selbst, dass er auch nicht perfekt ist. Das sollte ihn über die Dummheit anderer hinwegtrösten. 5) Tun die ihn nervenden Menschen wirklich das Falsche? Oder ist Marcus einfach auf unhelpful Weise urteilsfähig? Was ist, wenn es Teil des universellen Plans ist? 6) Das menschliche Leben ist armselig und bald werden alle Beteiligten tot sein. Das sollte Marcus besser fühlen lassen. 7) Marcus gesteht, dass er nur wütend ist wegen seiner eigenen Wahrnehmung der Situation. Er sollte aufhören, so zu beurteilen; ihm wurde wirklich kein Schaden zugefügt. 8) Marcus sagt, dass er nur wegen seiner emotionalen Reaktion verärgert ist. Die ursprüngliche Ursache ist kaum dafür verantwortlich. 9) Marcus kann seine Wut eindämmen, indem er die Dummköpfe, die ihn zuerst geärgert haben, wiedererzieht. Das wäre viel besser, als sie den Löwen zum Fraß vorzuwerfen. Marcus sagt sich selbst, diese neun hilfreichen Hinweise das nächste Mal im Gedächtnis zu behalten, wenn er in Versuchung kommt, wütend zu werden. Er erinnert sich daran, wie wünschenswert es ist, ruhig zu bleiben. Wenn Marcus seine emotionale Reaktion kontrollieren kann, wird er in einer Machtposition sein. Und ein gelassener Mann ist ein männlicherer Mann, da dies näher an dem liegt, was die Natur beabsichtigte. Wut ist auch ein Zeichen von Schwäche, genauso wie das Eingeständnis von Schmerz. Und noch ein Hinweis: Es ist völlig dumm, von schlechten Menschen zu erwarten, dass sie sich gut benehmen. Warum sind wir überrascht, wenn sie Zicken machen und uns ärgern? Trotzdem ist es Marcus' Aufgabe, schlechtes Verhalten zu stoppen, da es andere tatsächlich schädigen kann. Marcus identifiziert vier Dinge, die den verstandesmäßigen Geist dämpfen können und unbedingt vermieden werden müssen. Er empfiehlt vier Gegenmittel: 1) Überprüfen Sie unnötige Vorstellungen an der Tür. 2) Fragen Sie sich, ob

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Early as day comes in the beginning of July, it was still dark when we reached our destination, a cleft in the head of a great mountain, with a water running through the midst, and upon the one hand a shallow cave in a rock. Birches grew there in a thin, pretty wood, which a little farther on was changed into a wood of pines. The burn was full of trout; the wood of cushat-doves; on the open side of the mountain beyond, whaups would be always whistling, and cuckoos were plentiful. From the mouth of the cleft we looked down upon a part of Mamore, and on the sea-loch that divides that country from Appin; and this from so great a height as made it my continual wonder and pleasure to sit and behold them. The name of the cleft was the Heugh of Corrynakiegh; and although from its height and being so near upon the sea, it was often beset with clouds, yet it was on the whole a pleasant place, and the five days we lived in it went happily. We slept in the cave, making our bed of heather bushes which we cut for that purpose, and covering ourselves with Alan's great-coat. There was a low concealed place, in a turning of the glen, where we were so bold as to make fire: so that we could warm ourselves when the clouds set in, and cook hot porridge, and grill the little trouts that we caught with our hands under the stones and overhanging banks of the burn. This was indeed our chief pleasure and business; and not only to save our meal against worse times, but with a rivalry that much amused us, we spent a great part of our days at the water-side, stripped to the waist and groping about or (as they say) guddling for these fish. The largest we got might have been a quarter of a pound; but they were of good flesh and flavour, and when broiled upon the coals, lacked only a little salt to be delicious. In any by-time Alan must teach me to use my sword, for my ignorance had much distressed him; and I think besides, as I had sometimes the upper-hand of him in the fishing, he was not sorry to turn to an exercise where he had so much the upper-hand of me. He made it somewhat more of a pain than need have been, for he stormed at me all through the lessons in a very violent manner of scolding, and would push me so close that I made sure he must run me through the body. I was often tempted to turn tail, but held my ground for all that, and got some profit of my lessons; if it was but to stand on guard with an assured countenance, which is often all that is required. So, though I could never in the least please my master, I was not altogether displeased with myself. In the meanwhile, you are not to suppose that we neglected our chief business, which was to get away. "It will be many a long day," Alan said to me on our first morning, "before the red-coats think upon seeking Corrynakiegh; so now we must get word sent to James, and he must find the siller for us." "And how shall we send that word?" says I. "We are here in a desert place, which yet we dare not leave; and unless ye get the fowls of the air to be your messengers, I see not what we shall be able to do." "Ay?" said Alan. "Ye're a man of small contrivance, David." Thereupon he fell in a muse, looking in the embers of the fire; and presently, getting a piece of wood, he fashioned it in a cross, the four ends of which he blackened on the coals. Then he looked at me a little shyly. "Could ye lend me my button?" says he. "It seems a strange thing to ask a gift again, but I own I am laith to cut another." I gave him the button; whereupon he strung it on a strip of his great-coat which he had used to bind the cross; and tying in a little sprig of birch and another of fir, he looked upon his work with satisfaction. "Now," said he, "there is a little clachan" (what is called a hamlet in the English) "not very far from Corrynakiegh, and it has the name of Koalisnacoan. There there are living many friends of mine whom I could trust with my life, and some that I am no just so sure of. Ye see, David, there will be money set upon our heads; James himsel' is to set money on them; and as for the Campbells, they would never spare siller where there was a Stewart to be hurt. If it was otherwise, I would go down to Koalisnacoan whatever, and trust my life into these people's hands as lightly as I would trust another with my glove." "But being so?" said I. "Being so," said he, "I would as lief they didnae see me. There's bad folk everywhere, and what's far worse, weak ones. So when it comes dark again, I will steal down into that clachan, and set this that I have been making in the window of a good friend of mine, John Breck Maccoll, a bouman* of Appin's." *A bouman is a tenant who takes stock from the landlord and shares with him the increase. "With all my heart," says I; "and if he finds it, what is he to think?" "Well," says Alan, "I wish he was a man of more penetration, for by my troth I am afraid he will make little enough of it! But this is what I have in my mind. This cross is something in the nature of the crosstarrie, or fiery cross, which is the signal of gathering in our clans; yet he will know well enough the clan is not to rise, for there it is standing in his window, and no word with it. So he will say to himsel', THE CLAN IS NOT TO RISE, BUT THERE IS SOMETHING. Then he will see my button, and that was Duncan Stewart's. And then he will say to himsel', THE SON OF DUNCAN IS IN THE HEATHER, AND HAS NEED OF ME." "Well," said I, "it may be. But even supposing so, there is a good deal of heather between here and the Forth." "And that is a very true word," says Alan. "But then John Breck will see the sprig of birch and the sprig of pine; and he will say to himsel' (if he is a man of any penetration at all, which I misdoubt), ALAN WILL BE LYING IN A WOOD WHICH IS BOTH OF PINES AND BIRCHES. Then he will think to himsel', THAT IS NOT SO VERY RIFE HEREABOUT; and then he will come and give us a look up in Corrynakiegh. And if he does not, David, the devil may fly away with him, for what I care; for he will no be worth the salt to his porridge." "Eh, man," said I, drolling with him a little, "you're very ingenious! But would it not be simpler for you to write him a few words in black and white?" "And that is an excellent observe, Mr. Balfour of Shaws," says Alan, drolling with me; "and it would certainly be much simpler for me to write to him, but it would be a sore job for John Breck to read it. He would have to go to the school for two-three years; and it's possible we might be wearied waiting on him." So that night Alan carried down his fiery cross and set it in the bouman's window. He was troubled when he came back; for the dogs had barked and the folk run out from their houses; and he thought he had heard a clatter of arms and seen a red-coat come to one of the doors. On all accounts we lay the next day in the borders of the wood and kept a close look-out, so that if it was John Breck that came we might be ready to guide him, and if it was the red-coats we should have time to get away. About noon a man was to be spied, straggling up the open side of the mountain in the sun, and looking round him as he came, from under his hand. No sooner had Alan seen him than he whistled; the man turned and came a little towards us: then Alan would give another "peep!" and the man would come still nearer; and so by the sound of whistling, he was guided to the spot where we lay. He was a ragged, wild, bearded man, about forty, grossly disfigured with the small pox, and looked both dull and savage. Although his English was very bad and broken, yet Alan (according to his very handsome use, whenever I was by) would suffer him to speak no Gaelic. Perhaps the strange language made him appear more backward than he really was; but I thought he had little good-will to serve us, and what he had was the child of terror. Alan would have had him carry a message to James; but the bouman would hear of no message. "She was forget it," he said in his screaming voice; and would either have a letter or wash his hands of us. I thought Alan would be gravelled at that, for we lacked the means of writing in that desert. But he was a man of more resources than I knew; searched the wood until he found the quill of a cushat-dove, which he shaped into a pen; made himself a kind of ink with gunpowder from his horn and water from the running stream; and tearing a corner from his French military commission (which he carried in his pocket, like a talisman to keep him from the gallows), he sat down and wrote as follows: "DEAR KINSMAN,--Please send the money by the bearer to the place he kens of. "Your affectionate cousin, "A. S." This he intrusted to the bouman, who promised to make what manner of speed he best could, and carried it off with him down the hill. He was three full days gone, but about five in the evening of the third, we heard a whistling in the wood, which Alan answered; and presently the bouman came up the water-side, looking for us, right and left. He seemed less sulky than before, and indeed he was no doubt well pleased to have got to the end of such a dangerous commission. He gave us the news of the country; that it was alive with red-coats; that arms were being found, and poor folk brought in trouble daily; and that James and some of his servants were already clapped in prison at Fort William, under strong suspicion of complicity. It seemed it was noised on all sides that Alan Breck had fired the shot; and there was a bill issued for both him and me, with one hundred pounds reward. This was all as bad as could be; and the little note the bouman had carried us from Mrs. Stewart was of a miserable sadness. In it she besought Alan not to let himself be captured, assuring him, if he fell in the hands of the troops, both he and James were no better than dead men. The money she had sent was all that she could beg or borrow, and she prayed heaven we could be doing with it. Lastly, she said, she enclosed us one of the bills in which we were described. This we looked upon with great curiosity and not a little fear, partly as a man may look in a mirror, partly as he might look into the barrel of an enemy's gun to judge if it be truly aimed. Alan was advertised as "a small, pock-marked, active man of thirty-five or thereby, dressed in a feathered hat, a French side-coat of blue with silver buttons, and lace a great deal tarnished, a red waistcoat and breeches of black, shag;" and I as "a tall strong lad of about eighteen, wearing an old blue coat, very ragged, an old Highland bonnet, a long homespun waistcoat, blue breeches; his legs bare, low-country shoes, wanting the toes; speaks like a Lowlander, and has no beard." Alan was well enough pleased to see his finery so fully remembered and set down; only when he came to the word tarnish, he looked upon his lace like one a little mortified. As for myself, I thought I cut a miserable figure in the bill; and yet was well enough pleased too, for since I had changed these rags, the description had ceased to be a danger and become a source of safety. "Alan," said I, "you should change your clothes." "Na, troth!" said Alan, "I have nae others. A fine sight I would be, if I went back to France in a bonnet!" This put a second reflection in my mind: that if I were to separate from Alan and his tell-tale clothes I should be safe against arrest, and might go openly about my business. Nor was this all; for suppose I was arrested when I was alone, there was little against me; but suppose I was taken in company with the reputed murderer, my case would begin to be grave. For generosity's sake I dare not speak my mind upon this head; but I thought of it none the less. I thought of it all the more, too, when the bouman brought out a green purse with four guineas in gold, and the best part of another in small change. True, it was more than I had. But then Alan, with less than five guineas, had to get as far as France; I, with my less than two, not beyond Queensferry; so that taking things in their proportion, Alan's society was not only a peril to my life, but a burden on my purse. But there was no thought of the sort in the honest head of my companion. He believed he was serving, helping, and protecting me. And what could I do but hold my peace, and chafe, and take my chance of it? "It's little enough," said Alan, putting the purse in his pocket, "but it'll do my business. And now, John Breck, if ye will hand me over my button, this gentleman and me will be for taking the road." But the bouman, after feeling about in a hairy purse that hung in front of him in the Highland manner (though he wore otherwise the Lowland habit, with sea-trousers), began to roll his eyes strangely, and at last said, "Her nainsel will loss it," meaning he thought he had lost it. "What!" cried Alan, "you will lose my button, that was my father's before me? Now I will tell you what is in my mind, John Breck: it is in my mind this is the worst day's work that ever ye did since ye was born." And as Alan spoke, he set his hands on his knees and looked at the bouman with a smiling mouth, and that dancing light in his eyes that meant mischief to his enemies. Perhaps the bouman was honest enough; perhaps he had meant to cheat and then, finding himself alone with two of us in a desert place, cast back to honesty as being safer; at least, and all at once, he seemed to find that button and handed it to Alan. "Well, and it is a good thing for the honour of the Maccolls," said Alan, and then to me, "Here is my button back again, and I thank you for parting with it, which is of a piece with all your friendships to me." Then he took the warmest parting of the bouman. "For," says he, "ye have done very well by me, and set your neck at a venture, and I will always give you the name of a good man." Lastly, the bouman took himself off by one way; and Alan and I (getting our chattels together) struck into another to resume our flight. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Alan und David bewegen sich heimlich durch die Berge in der Dunkelheit, bis sie eine Höhle mit einem Bach in der Nähe erreichen. In diesem angenehmen Versteck verbringen sie fünf Tage mit dem Zubereiten von Haferbrei, Grillen von Forellen und Schlafen auf Heidelbetten. Alan beschließt, James of the Glens über seine Sicherheit zu informieren. In der Nacht besucht er das Haus von John Breck, um ein Zeichen zu hinterlassen, ein verbranntes Kreuz mit seinem Silberknopf daran, im Fenster. Am nächsten Tag besucht Breck Alan. Alan schickt eine schriftliche Nachricht an James über Breck. Drei Tage später kommt Breck mit der Nachricht von James' Festnahme zurück. Er übergibt Alan auch ein Paket mit etwas Geld, das von Frau Stewart geschickt wurde. David und Alan machen sich bald auf den Weg zu ihrem Ziel.