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Craft a concise overview of chapter 25 using the context provided.

chapter 25|chapter 26

After docking at San Francisco, Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout have a whole day before a train they intend to catch leaves for New York. Fogg and Aouda go out to eat and "by chance" bump into Fix. The three go on a small tour of the city. They get caught up in a political rally and are afraid for Aouda's safety as things start to get rough and rowdy between the two parties. An all-out brawl occurs before the three can make their way out of it. A man with a red goatee tries to punch Phileas but misses him and hits Fix instead. Fogg calls him a "Yankee"--ouch, what an insult--and the goatee calls him "Englishman." Sick burns all around. Then the goatee calls him out. He challenges Phileas to a duel and we find out the goatee belongs to one Colonel Stamp Proctor. Both Phileas and Fix are in need of new clothes after the brawl, but Aouda is unhurt. Fogg swears he will have the duel with Proctor, even if it means he has to come back to America after winning the "around the world" bet.

----------CHAPTER 25--------- It was seven in the morning when Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout set foot upon the American continent, if this name can be given to the floating quay upon which they disembarked. These quays, rising and falling with the tide, thus facilitate the loading and unloading of vessels. Alongside them were clippers of all sizes, steamers of all nationalities, and the steamboats, with several decks rising one above the other, which ply on the Sacramento and its tributaries. There were also heaped up the products of a commerce which extends to Mexico, Chili, Peru, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and all the Pacific islands. Passepartout, in his joy on reaching at last the American continent, thought he would manifest it by executing a perilous vault in fine style; but, tumbling upon some worm-eaten planks, he fell through them. Put out of countenance by the manner in which he thus "set foot" upon the New World, he uttered a loud cry, which so frightened the innumerable cormorants and pelicans that are always perched upon these movable quays, that they flew noisily away. Mr. Fogg, on reaching shore, proceeded to find out at what hour the first train left for New York, and learned that this was at six o'clock p.m.; he had, therefore, an entire day to spend in the Californian capital. Taking a carriage at a charge of three dollars, he and Aouda entered it, while Passepartout mounted the box beside the driver, and they set out for the International Hotel. From his exalted position Passepartout observed with much curiosity the wide streets, the low, evenly ranged houses, the Anglo-Saxon Gothic churches, the great docks, the palatial wooden and brick warehouses, the numerous conveyances, omnibuses, horse-cars, and upon the side-walks, not only Americans and Europeans, but Chinese and Indians. Passepartout was surprised at all he saw. San Francisco was no longer the legendary city of 1849--a city of banditti, assassins, and incendiaries, who had flocked hither in crowds in pursuit of plunder; a paradise of outlaws, where they gambled with gold-dust, a revolver in one hand and a bowie-knife in the other: it was now a great commercial emporium. The lofty tower of its City Hall overlooked the whole panorama of the streets and avenues, which cut each other at right-angles, and in the midst of which appeared pleasant, verdant squares, while beyond appeared the Chinese quarter, seemingly imported from the Celestial Empire in a toy-box. Sombreros and red shirts and plumed Indians were rarely to be seen; but there were silk hats and black coats everywhere worn by a multitude of nervously active, gentlemanly-looking men. Some of the streets--especially Montgomery Street, which is to San Francisco what Regent Street is to London, the Boulevard des Italiens to Paris, and Broadway to New York--were lined with splendid and spacious stores, which exposed in their windows the products of the entire world. When Passepartout reached the International Hotel, it did not seem to him as if he had left England at all. The ground floor of the hotel was occupied by a large bar, a sort of restaurant freely open to all passers-by, who might partake of dried beef, oyster soup, biscuits, and cheese, without taking out their purses. Payment was made only for the ale, porter, or sherry which was drunk. This seemed "very American" to Passepartout. The hotel refreshment-rooms were comfortable, and Mr. Fogg and Aouda, installing themselves at a table, were abundantly served on diminutive plates by negroes of darkest hue. After breakfast, Mr. Fogg, accompanied by Aouda, started for the English consulate to have his passport visaed. As he was going out, he met Passepartout, who asked him if it would not be well, before taking the train, to purchase some dozens of Enfield rifles and Colt's revolvers. He had been listening to stories of attacks upon the trains by the Sioux and Pawnees. Mr. Fogg thought it a useless precaution, but told him to do as he thought best, and went on to the consulate. He had not proceeded two hundred steps, however, when, "by the greatest chance in the world," he met Fix. The detective seemed wholly taken by surprise. What! Had Mr. Fogg and himself crossed the Pacific together, and not met on the steamer! At least Fix felt honoured to behold once more the gentleman to whom he owed so much, and, as his business recalled him to Europe, he should be delighted to continue the journey in such pleasant company. Mr. Fogg replied that the honour would be his; and the detective--who was determined not to lose sight of him--begged permission to accompany them in their walk about San Francisco--a request which Mr. Fogg readily granted. They soon found themselves in Montgomery Street, where a great crowd was collected; the side-walks, street, horsecar rails, the shop-doors, the windows of the houses, and even the roofs, were full of people. Men were going about carrying large posters, and flags and streamers were floating in the wind; while loud cries were heard on every hand. "Hurrah for Camerfield!" "Hurrah for Mandiboy!" It was a political meeting; at least so Fix conjectured, who said to Mr. Fogg, "Perhaps we had better not mingle with the crowd. There may be danger in it." "Yes," returned Mr. Fogg; "and blows, even if they are political are still blows." Fix smiled at this remark; and, in order to be able to see without being jostled about, the party took up a position on the top of a flight of steps situated at the upper end of Montgomery Street. Opposite them, on the other side of the street, between a coal wharf and a petroleum warehouse, a large platform had been erected in the open air, towards which the current of the crowd seemed to be directed. For what purpose was this meeting? What was the occasion of this excited assemblage? Phileas Fogg could not imagine. Was it to nominate some high official--a governor or member of Congress? It was not improbable, so agitated was the multitude before them. Just at this moment there was an unusual stir in the human mass. All the hands were raised in the air. Some, tightly closed, seemed to disappear suddenly in the midst of the cries--an energetic way, no doubt, of casting a vote. The crowd swayed back, the banners and flags wavered, disappeared an instant, then reappeared in tatters. The undulations of the human surge reached the steps, while all the heads floundered on the surface like a sea agitated by a squall. Many of the black hats disappeared, and the greater part of the crowd seemed to have diminished in height. "It is evidently a meeting," said Fix, "and its object must be an exciting one. I should not wonder if it were about the Alabama, despite the fact that that question is settled." "Perhaps," replied Mr. Fogg, simply. "At least, there are two champions in presence of each other, the Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy." Aouda, leaning upon Mr. Fogg's arm, observed the tumultuous scene with surprise, while Fix asked a man near him what the cause of it all was. Before the man could reply, a fresh agitation arose; hurrahs and excited shouts were heard; the staffs of the banners began to be used as offensive weapons; and fists flew about in every direction. Thumps were exchanged from the tops of the carriages and omnibuses which had been blocked up in the crowd. Boots and shoes went whirling through the air, and Mr. Fogg thought he even heard the crack of revolvers mingling in the din, the rout approached the stairway, and flowed over the lower step. One of the parties had evidently been repulsed; but the mere lookers-on could not tell whether Mandiboy or Camerfield had gained the upper hand. "It would be prudent for us to retire," said Fix, who was anxious that Mr. Fogg should not receive any injury, at least until they got back to London. "If there is any question about England in all this, and we were recognised, I fear it would go hard with us." "An English subject--" began Mr. Fogg. He did not finish his sentence; for a terrific hubbub now arose on the terrace behind the flight of steps where they stood, and there were frantic shouts of, "Hurrah for Mandiboy! Hip, hip, hurrah!" It was a band of voters coming to the rescue of their allies, and taking the Camerfield forces in flank. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix found themselves between two fires; it was too late to escape. The torrent of men, armed with loaded canes and sticks, was irresistible. Phileas Fogg and Fix were roughly hustled in their attempts to protect their fair companion; the former, as cool as ever, tried to defend himself with the weapons which nature has placed at the end of every Englishman's arm, but in vain. A big brawny fellow with a red beard, flushed face, and broad shoulders, who seemed to be the chief of the band, raised his clenched fist to strike Mr. Fogg, whom he would have given a crushing blow, had not Fix rushed in and received it in his stead. An enormous bruise immediately made its appearance under the detective's silk hat, which was completely smashed in. "Yankee!" exclaimed Mr. Fogg, darting a contemptuous look at the ruffian. "Englishman!" returned the other. "We will meet again!" "When you please." "What is your name?" "Phileas Fogg. And yours?" "Colonel Stamp Proctor." The human tide now swept by, after overturning Fix, who speedily got upon his feet again, though with tattered clothes. Happily, he was not seriously hurt. His travelling overcoat was divided into two unequal parts, and his trousers resembled those of certain Indians, which fit less compactly than they are easy to put on. Aouda had escaped unharmed, and Fix alone bore marks of the fray in his black and blue bruise. "Thanks," said Mr. Fogg to the detective, as soon as they were out of the crowd. "No thanks are necessary," replied. Fix; "but let us go." "Where?" "To a tailor's." Such a visit was, indeed, opportune. The clothing of both Mr. Fogg and Fix was in rags, as if they had themselves been actively engaged in the contest between Camerfield and Mandiboy. An hour after, they were once more suitably attired, and with Aouda returned to the International Hotel. Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen six-barrelled revolvers. When he perceived Fix, he knit his brows; but Aouda having, in a few words, told him of their adventure, his countenance resumed its placid expression. Fix evidently was no longer an enemy, but an ally; he was faithfully keeping his word. Dinner over, the coach which was to convey the passengers and their luggage to the station drew up to the door. As he was getting in, Mr. Fogg said to Fix, "You have not seen this Colonel Proctor again?" "No." "I will come back to America to find him," said Phileas Fogg calmly. "It would not be right for an Englishman to permit himself to be treated in that way, without retaliating." The detective smiled, but did not reply. It was clear that Mr. Fogg was one of those Englishmen who, while they do not tolerate duelling at home, fight abroad when their honour is attacked. At a quarter before six the travellers reached the station, and found the train ready to depart. As he was about to enter it, Mr. Fogg called a porter, and said to him: "My friend, was there not some trouble to-day in San Francisco?" "It was a political meeting, sir," replied the porter. "But I thought there was a great deal of disturbance in the streets." "It was only a meeting assembled for an election." "The election of a general-in-chief, no doubt?" asked Mr. Fogg. "No, sir; of a justice of the peace." Phileas Fogg got into the train, which started off at full speed. ----------CHAPTER 26--------- "From ocean to ocean"--so say the Americans; and these four words compose the general designation of the "great trunk line" which crosses the entire width of the United States. The Pacific Railroad is, however, really divided into two distinct lines: the Central Pacific, between San Francisco and Ogden, and the Union Pacific, between Ogden and Omaha. Five main lines connect Omaha with New York. New York and San Francisco are thus united by an uninterrupted metal ribbon, which measures no less than three thousand seven hundred and eighty-six miles. Between Omaha and the Pacific the railway crosses a territory which is still infested by Indians and wild beasts, and a large tract which the Mormons, after they were driven from Illinois in 1845, began to colonise. The journey from New York to San Francisco consumed, formerly, under the most favourable conditions, at least six months. It is now accomplished in seven days. It was in 1862 that, in spite of the Southern Members of Congress, who wished a more southerly route, it was decided to lay the road between the forty-first and forty-second parallels. President Lincoln himself fixed the end of the line at Omaha, in Nebraska. The work was at once commenced, and pursued with true American energy; nor did the rapidity with which it went on injuriously affect its good execution. The road grew, on the prairies, a mile and a half a day. A locomotive, running on the rails laid down the evening before, brought the rails to be laid on the morrow, and advanced upon them as fast as they were put in position. The Pacific Railroad is joined by several branches in Iowa, Kansas, Colorado, and Oregon. On leaving Omaha, it passes along the left bank of the Platte River as far as the junction of its northern branch, follows its southern branch, crosses the Laramie territory and the Wahsatch Mountains, turns the Great Salt Lake, and reaches Salt Lake City, the Mormon capital, plunges into the Tuilla Valley, across the American Desert, Cedar and Humboldt Mountains, the Sierra Nevada, and descends, via Sacramento, to the Pacific--its grade, even on the Rocky Mountains, never exceeding one hundred and twelve feet to the mile. Such was the road to be traversed in seven days, which would enable Phileas Fogg--at least, so he hoped--to take the Atlantic steamer at New York on the 11th for Liverpool. The car which he occupied was a sort of long omnibus on eight wheels, and with no compartments in the interior. It was supplied with two rows of seats, perpendicular to the direction of the train on either side of an aisle which conducted to the front and rear platforms. These platforms were found throughout the train, and the passengers were able to pass from one end of the train to the other. It was supplied with saloon cars, balcony cars, restaurants, and smoking-cars; theatre cars alone were wanting, and they will have these some day. Book and news dealers, sellers of edibles, drinkables, and cigars, who seemed to have plenty of customers, were continually circulating in the aisles. The train left Oakland station at six o'clock. It was already night, cold and cheerless, the heavens being overcast with clouds which seemed to threaten snow. The train did not proceed rapidly; counting the stoppages, it did not run more than twenty miles an hour, which was a sufficient speed, however, to enable it to reach Omaha within its designated time. There was but little conversation in the car, and soon many of the passengers were overcome with sleep. Passepartout found himself beside the detective; but he did not talk to him. After recent events, their relations with each other had grown somewhat cold; there could no longer be mutual sympathy or intimacy between them. Fix's manner had not changed; but Passepartout was very reserved, and ready to strangle his former friend on the slightest provocation. Snow began to fall an hour after they started, a fine snow, however, which happily could not obstruct the train; nothing could be seen from the windows but a vast, white sheet, against which the smoke of the locomotive had a greyish aspect. At eight o'clock a steward entered the car and announced that the time for going to bed had arrived; and in a few minutes the car was transformed into a dormitory. The backs of the seats were thrown back, bedsteads carefully packed were rolled out by an ingenious system, berths were suddenly improvised, and each traveller had soon at his disposition a comfortable bed, protected from curious eyes by thick curtains. The sheets were clean and the pillows soft. It only remained to go to bed and sleep which everybody did--while the train sped on across the State of California. The country between San Francisco and Sacramento is not very hilly. The Central Pacific, taking Sacramento for its starting-point, extends eastward to meet the road from Omaha. The line from San Francisco to Sacramento runs in a north-easterly direction, along the American River, which empties into San Pablo Bay. The one hundred and twenty miles between these cities were accomplished in six hours, and towards midnight, while fast asleep, the travellers passed through Sacramento; so that they saw nothing of that important place, the seat of the State government, with its fine quays, its broad streets, its noble hotels, squares, and churches. The train, on leaving Sacramento, and passing the junction, Roclin, Auburn, and Colfax, entered the range of the Sierra Nevada. 'Cisco was reached at seven in the morning; and an hour later the dormitory was transformed into an ordinary car, and the travellers could observe the picturesque beauties of the mountain region through which they were steaming. The railway track wound in and out among the passes, now approaching the mountain-sides, now suspended over precipices, avoiding abrupt angles by bold curves, plunging into narrow defiles, which seemed to have no outlet. The locomotive, its great funnel emitting a weird light, with its sharp bell, and its cow-catcher extended like a spur, mingled its shrieks and bellowings with the noise of torrents and cascades, and twined its smoke among the branches of the gigantic pines. There were few or no bridges or tunnels on the route. The railway turned around the sides of the mountains, and did not attempt to violate nature by taking the shortest cut from one point to another. The train entered the State of Nevada through the Carson Valley about nine o'clock, going always northeasterly; and at midday reached Reno, where there was a delay of twenty minutes for breakfast. From this point the road, running along Humboldt River, passed northward for several miles by its banks; then it turned eastward, and kept by the river until it reached the Humboldt Range, nearly at the extreme eastern limit of Nevada. Having breakfasted, Mr. Fogg and his companions resumed their places in the car, and observed the varied landscape which unfolded itself as they passed along the vast prairies, the mountains lining the horizon, and the creeks, with their frothy, foaming streams. Sometimes a great herd of buffaloes, massing together in the distance, seemed like a moveable dam. These innumerable multitudes of ruminating beasts often form an insurmountable obstacle to the passage of the trains; thousands of them have been seen passing over the track for hours together, in compact ranks. The locomotive is then forced to stop and wait till the road is once more clear. This happened, indeed, to the train in which Mr. Fogg was travelling. About twelve o'clock a troop of ten or twelve thousand head of buffalo encumbered the track. The locomotive, slackening its speed, tried to clear the way with its cow-catcher; but the mass of animals was too great. The buffaloes marched along with a tranquil gait, uttering now and then deafening bellowings. There was no use of interrupting them, for, having taken a particular direction, nothing can moderate and change their course; it is a torrent of living flesh which no dam could contain. The travellers gazed on this curious spectacle from the platforms; but Phileas Fogg, who had the most reason of all to be in a hurry, remained in his seat, and waited philosophically until it should please the buffaloes to get out of the way. Passepartout was furious at the delay they occasioned, and longed to discharge his arsenal of revolvers upon them. "What a country!" cried he. "Mere cattle stop the trains, and go by in a procession, just as if they were not impeding travel! Parbleu! I should like to know if Mr. Fogg foresaw this mishap in his programme! And here's an engineer who doesn't dare to run the locomotive into this herd of beasts!" The engineer did not try to overcome the obstacle, and he was wise. He would have crushed the first buffaloes, no doubt, with the cow-catcher; but the locomotive, however powerful, would soon have been checked, the train would inevitably have been thrown off the track, and would then have been helpless. The best course was to wait patiently, and regain the lost time by greater speed when the obstacle was removed. The procession of buffaloes lasted three full hours, and it was night before the track was clear. The last ranks of the herd were now passing over the rails, while the first had already disappeared below the southern horizon. It was eight o'clock when the train passed through the defiles of the Humboldt Range, and half-past nine when it penetrated Utah, the region of the Great Salt Lake, the singular colony of the Mormons.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 27, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 27|chapter 28

As the travelers traverse the length of Utah, a Mormon missionary boards the train and proceeds to give all who will listen to him an odd lesson in Mormon history, practice, theory, and culture. Passepartout is curious at first and joins the lecture, but he manages to escape when he finds it extremely boring. At Ogden the train stops and another Mormon man hurries onto the train, having just had a fight at home. Passepartout asks him how many wives he has and the man answers that he only has one. Passepartout finds this different from the other Mormons and possibly a better idea because having more than one wife can be a hot mess.

----------CHAPTER 27--------- During the night of the 5th of December, the train ran south-easterly for about fifty miles; then rose an equal distance in a north-easterly direction, towards the Great Salt Lake. Passepartout, about nine o'clock, went out upon the platform to take the air. The weather was cold, the heavens grey, but it was not snowing. The sun's disc, enlarged by the mist, seemed an enormous ring of gold, and Passepartout was amusing himself by calculating its value in pounds sterling, when he was diverted from this interesting study by a strange-looking personage who made his appearance on the platform. This personage, who had taken the train at Elko, was tall and dark, with black moustache, black stockings, a black silk hat, a black waistcoat, black trousers, a white cravat, and dogskin gloves. He might have been taken for a clergyman. He went from one end of the train to the other, and affixed to the door of each car a notice written in manuscript. Passepartout approached and read one of these notices, which stated that Elder William Hitch, Mormon missionary, taking advantage of his presence on train No. 48, would deliver a lecture on Mormonism in car No. 117, from eleven to twelve o'clock; and that he invited all who were desirous of being instructed concerning the mysteries of the religion of the "Latter Day Saints" to attend. "I'll go," said Passepartout to himself. He knew nothing of Mormonism except the custom of polygamy, which is its foundation. The news quickly spread through the train, which contained about one hundred passengers, thirty of whom, at most, attracted by the notice, ensconced themselves in car No. 117. Passepartout took one of the front seats. Neither Mr. Fogg nor Fix cared to attend. At the appointed hour Elder William Hitch rose, and, in an irritated voice, as if he had already been contradicted, said, "I tell you that Joe Smith is a martyr, that his brother Hiram is a martyr, and that the persecutions of the United States Government against the prophets will also make a martyr of Brigham Young. Who dares to say the contrary?" No one ventured to gainsay the missionary, whose excited tone contrasted curiously with his naturally calm visage. No doubt his anger arose from the hardships to which the Mormons were actually subjected. The government had just succeeded, with some difficulty, in reducing these independent fanatics to its rule. It had made itself master of Utah, and subjected that territory to the laws of the Union, after imprisoning Brigham Young on a charge of rebellion and polygamy. The disciples of the prophet had since redoubled their efforts, and resisted, by words at least, the authority of Congress. Elder Hitch, as is seen, was trying to make proselytes on the very railway trains. Then, emphasising his words with his loud voice and frequent gestures, he related the history of the Mormons from Biblical times: how that, in Israel, a Mormon prophet of the tribe of Joseph published the annals of the new religion, and bequeathed them to his son Mormon; how, many centuries later, a translation of this precious book, which was written in Egyptian, was made by Joseph Smith, junior, a Vermont farmer, who revealed himself as a mystical prophet in 1825; and how, in short, the celestial messenger appeared to him in an illuminated forest, and gave him the annals of the Lord. Several of the audience, not being much interested in the missionary's narrative, here left the car; but Elder Hitch, continuing his lecture, related how Smith, junior, with his father, two brothers, and a few disciples, founded the church of the "Latter Day Saints," which, adopted not only in America, but in England, Norway and Sweden, and Germany, counts many artisans, as well as men engaged in the liberal professions, among its members; how a colony was established in Ohio, a temple erected there at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, and a town built at Kirkland; how Smith became an enterprising banker, and received from a simple mummy showman a papyrus scroll written by Abraham and several famous Egyptians. The Elder's story became somewhat wearisome, and his audience grew gradually less, until it was reduced to twenty passengers. But this did not disconcert the enthusiast, who proceeded with the story of Joseph Smith's bankruptcy in 1837, and how his ruined creditors gave him a coat of tar and feathers; his reappearance some years afterwards, more honourable and honoured than ever, at Independence, Missouri, the chief of a flourishing colony of three thousand disciples, and his pursuit thence by outraged Gentiles, and retirement into the Far West. Ten hearers only were now left, among them honest Passepartout, who was listening with all his ears. Thus he learned that, after long persecutions, Smith reappeared in Illinois, and in 1839 founded a community at Nauvoo, on the Mississippi, numbering twenty-five thousand souls, of which he became mayor, chief justice, and general-in-chief; that he announced himself, in 1843, as a candidate for the Presidency of the United States; and that finally, being drawn into ambuscade at Carthage, he was thrown into prison, and assassinated by a band of men disguised in masks. Passepartout was now the only person left in the car, and the Elder, looking him full in the face, reminded him that, two years after the assassination of Joseph Smith, the inspired prophet, Brigham Young, his successor, left Nauvoo for the banks of the Great Salt Lake, where, in the midst of that fertile region, directly on the route of the emigrants who crossed Utah on their way to California, the new colony, thanks to the polygamy practised by the Mormons, had flourished beyond expectations. "And this," added Elder William Hitch, "this is why the jealousy of Congress has been aroused against us! Why have the soldiers of the Union invaded the soil of Utah? Why has Brigham Young, our chief, been imprisoned, in contempt of all justice? Shall we yield to force? Never! Driven from Vermont, driven from Illinois, driven from Ohio, driven from Missouri, driven from Utah, we shall yet find some independent territory on which to plant our tents. And you, my brother," continued the Elder, fixing his angry eyes upon his single auditor, "will you not plant yours there, too, under the shadow of our flag?" "No!" replied Passepartout courageously, in his turn retiring from the car, and leaving the Elder to preach to vacancy. During the lecture the train had been making good progress, and towards half-past twelve it reached the northwest border of the Great Salt Lake. Thence the passengers could observe the vast extent of this interior sea, which is also called the Dead Sea, and into which flows an American Jordan. It is a picturesque expanse, framed in lofty crags in large strata, encrusted with white salt--a superb sheet of water, which was formerly of larger extent than now, its shores having encroached with the lapse of time, and thus at once reduced its breadth and increased its depth. The Salt Lake, seventy miles long and thirty-five wide, is situated three miles eight hundred feet above the sea. Quite different from Lake Asphaltite, whose depression is twelve hundred feet below the sea, it contains considerable salt, and one quarter of the weight of its water is solid matter, its specific weight being 1,170, and, after being distilled, 1,000. Fishes are, of course, unable to live in it, and those which descend through the Jordan, the Weber, and other streams soon perish. The country around the lake was well cultivated, for the Mormons are mostly farmers; while ranches and pens for domesticated animals, fields of wheat, corn, and other cereals, luxuriant prairies, hedges of wild rose, clumps of acacias and milk-wort, would have been seen six months later. Now the ground was covered with a thin powdering of snow. The train reached Ogden at two o'clock, where it rested for six hours, Mr. Fogg and his party had time to pay a visit to Salt Lake City, connected with Ogden by a branch road; and they spent two hours in this strikingly American town, built on the pattern of other cities of the Union, like a checker-board, "with the sombre sadness of right-angles," as Victor Hugo expresses it. The founder of the City of the Saints could not escape from the taste for symmetry which distinguishes the Anglo-Saxons. In this strange country, where the people are certainly not up to the level of their institutions, everything is done "squarely"--cities, houses, and follies. The travellers, then, were promenading, at three o'clock, about the streets of the town built between the banks of the Jordan and the spurs of the Wahsatch Range. They saw few or no churches, but the prophet's mansion, the court-house, and the arsenal, blue-brick houses with verandas and porches, surrounded by gardens bordered with acacias, palms, and locusts. A clay and pebble wall, built in 1853, surrounded the town; and in the principal street were the market and several hotels adorned with pavilions. The place did not seem thickly populated. The streets were almost deserted, except in the vicinity of the temple, which they only reached after having traversed several quarters surrounded by palisades. There were many women, which was easily accounted for by the "peculiar institution" of the Mormons; but it must not be supposed that all the Mormons are polygamists. They are free to marry or not, as they please; but it is worth noting that it is mainly the female citizens of Utah who are anxious to marry, as, according to the Mormon religion, maiden ladies are not admitted to the possession of its highest joys. These poor creatures seemed to be neither well off nor happy. Some--the more well-to-do, no doubt--wore short, open, black silk dresses, under a hood or modest shawl; others were habited in Indian fashion. Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women, charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a vocation, and he imagined--perhaps he was mistaken--that the fair ones of Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person. Happily, his stay there was but brief. At four the party found themselves again at the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels began to move, cries of "Stop! stop!" were heard. Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers. He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train, and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats. Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast, approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken flight after an unpleasant domestic scene. When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least. "One, sir," replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward--"one, and that was enough!" ----------CHAPTER 28--------- The train, on leaving Great Salt Lake at Ogden, passed northward for an hour as far as Weber River, having completed nearly nine hundred miles from San Francisco. From this point it took an easterly direction towards the jagged Wahsatch Mountains. It was in the section included between this range and the Rocky Mountains that the American engineers found the most formidable difficulties in laying the road, and that the government granted a subsidy of forty-eight thousand dollars per mile, instead of sixteen thousand allowed for the work done on the plains. But the engineers, instead of violating nature, avoided its difficulties by winding around, instead of penetrating the rocks. One tunnel only, fourteen thousand feet in length, was pierced in order to arrive at the great basin. The track up to this time had reached its highest elevation at the Great Salt Lake. From this point it described a long curve, descending towards Bitter Creek Valley, to rise again to the dividing ridge of the waters between the Atlantic and the Pacific. There were many creeks in this mountainous region, and it was necessary to cross Muddy Creek, Green Creek, and others, upon culverts. Passepartout grew more and more impatient as they went on, while Fix longed to get out of this difficult region, and was more anxious than Phileas Fogg himself to be beyond the danger of delays and accidents, and set foot on English soil. At ten o'clock at night the train stopped at Fort Bridger station, and twenty minutes later entered Wyoming Territory, following the valley of Bitter Creek throughout. The next day, 7th December, they stopped for a quarter of an hour at Green River station. Snow had fallen abundantly during the night, but, being mixed with rain, it had half melted, and did not interrupt their progress. The bad weather, however, annoyed Passepartout; for the accumulation of snow, by blocking the wheels of the cars, would certainly have been fatal to Mr. Fogg's tour. "What an idea!" he said to himself. "Why did my master make this journey in winter? Couldn't he have waited for the good season to increase his chances?" While the worthy Frenchman was absorbed in the state of the sky and the depression of the temperature, Aouda was experiencing fears from a totally different cause. Several passengers had got off at Green River, and were walking up and down the platforms; and among these Aouda recognised Colonel Stamp Proctor, the same who had so grossly insulted Phileas Fogg at the San Francisco meeting. Not wishing to be recognised, the young woman drew back from the window, feeling much alarm at her discovery. She was attached to the man who, however coldly, gave her daily evidences of the most absolute devotion. She did not comprehend, perhaps, the depth of the sentiment with which her protector inspired her, which she called gratitude, but which, though she was unconscious of it, was really more than that. Her heart sank within her when she recognised the man whom Mr. Fogg desired, sooner or later, to call to account for his conduct. Chance alone, it was clear, had brought Colonel Proctor on this train; but there he was, and it was necessary, at all hazards, that Phileas Fogg should not perceive his adversary. Aouda seized a moment when Mr. Fogg was asleep to tell Fix and Passepartout whom she had seen. "That Proctor on this train!" cried Fix. "Well, reassure yourself, madam; before he settles with Mr. Fogg; he has got to deal with me! It seems to me that I was the more insulted of the two." "And, besides," added Passepartout, "I'll take charge of him, colonel as he is." "Mr. Fix," resumed Aouda, "Mr. Fogg will allow no one to avenge him. He said that he would come back to America to find this man. Should he perceive Colonel Proctor, we could not prevent a collision which might have terrible results. He must not see him." "You are right, madam," replied Fix; "a meeting between them might ruin all. Whether he were victorious or beaten, Mr. Fogg would be delayed, and--" "And," added Passepartout, "that would play the game of the gentlemen of the Reform Club. In four days we shall be in New York. Well, if my master does not leave this car during those four days, we may hope that chance will not bring him face to face with this confounded American. We must, if possible, prevent his stirring out of it." The conversation dropped. Mr. Fogg had just woke up, and was looking out of the window. Soon after Passepartout, without being heard by his master or Aouda, whispered to the detective, "Would you really fight for him?" "I would do anything," replied Fix, in a tone which betrayed determined will, "to get him back living to Europe!" Passepartout felt something like a shudder shoot through his frame, but his confidence in his master remained unbroken. Was there any means of detaining Mr. Fogg in the car, to avoid a meeting between him and the colonel? It ought not to be a difficult task, since that gentleman was naturally sedentary and little curious. The detective, at least, seemed to have found a way; for, after a few moments, he said to Mr. Fogg, "These are long and slow hours, sir, that we are passing on the railway." "Yes," replied Mr. Fogg; "but they pass." "You were in the habit of playing whist," resumed Fix, "on the steamers." "Yes; but it would be difficult to do so here. I have neither cards nor partners." "Oh, but we can easily buy some cards, for they are sold on all the American trains. And as for partners, if madam plays--" "Certainly, sir," Aouda quickly replied; "I understand whist. It is part of an English education." "I myself have some pretensions to playing a good game. Well, here are three of us, and a dummy--" "As you please, sir," replied Phileas Fogg, heartily glad to resume his favourite pastime even on the railway. Passepartout was dispatched in search of the steward, and soon returned with two packs of cards, some pins, counters, and a shelf covered with cloth. The game commenced. Aouda understood whist sufficiently well, and even received some compliments on her playing from Mr. Fogg. As for the detective, he was simply an adept, and worthy of being matched against his present opponent. "Now," thought Passepartout, "we've got him. He won't budge." At eleven in the morning the train had reached the dividing ridge of the waters at Bridger Pass, seven thousand five hundred and twenty-four feet above the level of the sea, one of the highest points attained by the track in crossing the Rocky Mountains. After going about two hundred miles, the travellers at last found themselves on one of those vast plains which extend to the Atlantic, and which nature has made so propitious for laying the iron road. On the declivity of the Atlantic basin the first streams, branches of the North Platte River, already appeared. The whole northern and eastern horizon was bounded by the immense semi-circular curtain which is formed by the southern portion of the Rocky Mountains, the highest being Laramie Peak. Between this and the railway extended vast plains, plentifully irrigated. On the right rose the lower spurs of the mountainous mass which extends southward to the sources of the Arkansas River, one of the great tributaries of the Missouri. At half-past twelve the travellers caught sight for an instant of Fort Halleck, which commands that section; and in a few more hours the Rocky Mountains were crossed. There was reason to hope, then, that no accident would mark the journey through this difficult country. The snow had ceased falling, and the air became crisp and cold. Large birds, frightened by the locomotive, rose and flew off in the distance. No wild beast appeared on the plain. It was a desert in its vast nakedness. After a comfortable breakfast, served in the car, Mr. Fogg and his partners had just resumed whist, when a violent whistling was heard, and the train stopped. Passepartout put his head out of the door, but saw nothing to cause the delay; no station was in view. Aouda and Fix feared that Mr. Fogg might take it into his head to get out; but that gentleman contented himself with saying to his servant, "See what is the matter." Passepartout rushed out of the car. Thirty or forty passengers had already descended, amongst them Colonel Stamp Proctor. The train had stopped before a red signal which blocked the way. The engineer and conductor were talking excitedly with a signal-man, whom the station-master at Medicine Bow, the next stopping place, had sent on before. The passengers drew around and took part in the discussion, in which Colonel Proctor, with his insolent manner, was conspicuous. Passepartout, joining the group, heard the signal-man say, "No! you can't pass. The bridge at Medicine Bow is shaky, and would not bear the weight of the train." This was a suspension-bridge thrown over some rapids, about a mile from the place where they now were. According to the signal-man, it was in a ruinous condition, several of the iron wires being broken; and it was impossible to risk the passage. He did not in any way exaggerate the condition of the bridge. It may be taken for granted that, rash as the Americans usually are, when they are prudent there is good reason for it. Passepartout, not daring to apprise his master of what he heard, listened with set teeth, immovable as a statue. "Hum!" cried Colonel Proctor; "but we are not going to stay here, I imagine, and take root in the snow?" "Colonel," replied the conductor, "we have telegraphed to Omaha for a train, but it is not likely that it will reach Medicine Bow in less than six hours." "Six hours!" cried Passepartout. "Certainly," returned the conductor, "besides, it will take us as long as that to reach Medicine Bow on foot." "But it is only a mile from here," said one of the passengers. "Yes, but it's on the other side of the river." "And can't we cross that in a boat?" asked the colonel. "That's impossible. The creek is swelled by the rains. It is a rapid, and we shall have to make a circuit of ten miles to the north to find a ford." The colonel launched a volley of oaths, denouncing the railway company and the conductor; and Passepartout, who was furious, was not disinclined to make common cause with him. Here was an obstacle, indeed, which all his master's banknotes could not remove. There was a general disappointment among the passengers, who, without reckoning the delay, saw themselves compelled to trudge fifteen miles over a plain covered with snow. They grumbled and protested, and would certainly have thus attracted Phileas Fogg's attention if he had not been completely absorbed in his game. Passepartout found that he could not avoid telling his master what had occurred, and, with hanging head, he was turning towards the car, when the engineer, a true Yankee, named Forster called out, "Gentlemen, perhaps there is a way, after all, to get over." "On the bridge?" asked a passenger. "On the bridge." "With our train?" "With our train." Passepartout stopped short, and eagerly listened to the engineer. "But the bridge is unsafe," urged the conductor. "No matter," replied Forster; "I think that by putting on the very highest speed we might have a chance of getting over." "The devil!" muttered Passepartout. But a number of the passengers were at once attracted by the engineer's proposal, and Colonel Proctor was especially delighted, and found the plan a very feasible one. He told stories about engineers leaping their trains over rivers without bridges, by putting on full steam; and many of those present avowed themselves of the engineer's mind. "We have fifty chances out of a hundred of getting over," said one. "Eighty! ninety!" Passepartout was astounded, and, though ready to attempt anything to get over Medicine Creek, thought the experiment proposed a little too American. "Besides," thought he, "there's a still more simple way, and it does not even occur to any of these people! Sir," said he aloud to one of the passengers, "the engineer's plan seems to me a little dangerous, but--" "Eighty chances!" replied the passenger, turning his back on him. "I know it," said Passepartout, turning to another passenger, "but a simple idea--" "Ideas are no use," returned the American, shrugging his shoulders, "as the engineer assures us that we can pass." "Doubtless," urged Passepartout, "we can pass, but perhaps it would be more prudent--" "What! Prudent!" cried Colonel Proctor, whom this word seemed to excite prodigiously. "At full speed, don't you see, at full speed!" "I know--I see," repeated Passepartout; "but it would be, if not more prudent, since that word displeases you, at least more natural--" "Who! What! What's the matter with this fellow?" cried several. The poor fellow did not know to whom to address himself. "Are you afraid?" asked Colonel Proctor. "I afraid? Very well; I will show these people that a Frenchman can be as American as they!" "All aboard!" cried the conductor. "Yes, all aboard!" repeated Passepartout, and immediately. "But they can't prevent me from thinking that it would be more natural for us to cross the bridge on foot, and let the train come after!" But no one heard this sage reflection, nor would anyone have acknowledged its justice. The passengers resumed their places in the cars. Passepartout took his seat without telling what had passed. The whist-players were quite absorbed in their game. The locomotive whistled vigorously; the engineer, reversing the steam, backed the train for nearly a mile--retiring, like a jumper, in order to take a longer leap. Then, with another whistle, he began to move forward; the train increased its speed, and soon its rapidity became frightful; a prolonged screech issued from the locomotive; the piston worked up and down twenty strokes to the second. They perceived that the whole train, rushing on at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, hardly bore upon the rails at all. And they passed over! It was like a flash. No one saw the bridge. The train leaped, so to speak, from one bank to the other, and the engineer could not stop it until it had gone five miles beyond the station. But scarcely had the train passed the river, when the bridge, completely ruined, fell with a crash into the rapids of Medicine Bow.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 29, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 29|chapter 30

The train journey is now about halfway over, and Phileas is totes absorbed in playing cards--that is until Colonel Proctor asks if he can play... uh oh. Fogg and the Colonel try to decide when and where to duel. Phileas wants a six-month appointment, but the Colonel says he wants to do his dueling here and now. They decide all sophisticated-like that the duel should take place at the next train stop, with Fix acting as Phileas's second. The conductor has to rain on their parade, though, because the train won't be stopping at the agreed-upon point-of-duel. He then suggests, "Hey, why don't you boys just duel on the train? There's an empty car, after all?"--oh good. Right as Fogg and Proctor begin their duel , a band of Sioux Indians attacks the train. The passengers fight for their belongings and their lives. Passepartout makes a daring attempt to uncouple the passenger cars from the train engine. He slips under the cars and removes the chains connecting them to the engine. The train halts just outside Fort Kearney. The soldiers of the fort come on over and clean up the rascally Indians still engaged in battle. But after it's all over, it seems that several people are missing, including Passepartout.

----------CHAPTER 29--------- The train pursued its course, that evening, without interruption, passing Fort Saunders, crossing Cheyne Pass, and reaching Evans Pass. The road here attained the highest elevation of the journey, eight thousand and ninety-two feet above the level of the sea. The travellers had now only to descend to the Atlantic by limitless plains, levelled by nature. A branch of the "grand trunk" led off southward to Denver, the capital of Colorado. The country round about is rich in gold and silver, and more than fifty thousand inhabitants are already settled there. Thirteen hundred and eighty-two miles had been passed over from San Francisco, in three days and three nights; four days and nights more would probably bring them to New York. Phileas Fogg was not as yet behind-hand. During the night Camp Walbach was passed on the left; Lodge Pole Creek ran parallel with the road, marking the boundary between the territories of Wyoming and Colorado. They entered Nebraska at eleven, passed near Sedgwick, and touched at Julesburg, on the southern branch of the Platte River. It was here that the Union Pacific Railroad was inaugurated on the 23rd of October, 1867, by the chief engineer, General Dodge. Two powerful locomotives, carrying nine cars of invited guests, amongst whom was Thomas C. Durant, vice-president of the road, stopped at this point; cheers were given, the Sioux and Pawnees performed an imitation Indian battle, fireworks were let off, and the first number of the Railway Pioneer was printed by a press brought on the train. Thus was celebrated the inauguration of this great railroad, a mighty instrument of progress and civilisation, thrown across the desert, and destined to link together cities and towns which do not yet exist. The whistle of the locomotive, more powerful than Amphion's lyre, was about to bid them rise from American soil. Fort McPherson was left behind at eight in the morning, and three hundred and fifty-seven miles had yet to be traversed before reaching Omaha. The road followed the capricious windings of the southern branch of the Platte River, on its left bank. At nine the train stopped at the important town of North Platte, built between the two arms of the river, which rejoin each other around it and form a single artery, a large tributary, whose waters empty into the Missouri a little above Omaha. The one hundred and first meridian was passed. Mr. Fogg and his partners had resumed their game; no one--not even the dummy--complained of the length of the trip. Fix had begun by winning several guineas, which he seemed likely to lose; but he showed himself a not less eager whist-player than Mr. Fogg. During the morning, chance distinctly favoured that gentleman. Trumps and honours were showered upon his hands. Once, having resolved on a bold stroke, he was on the point of playing a spade, when a voice behind him said, "I should play a diamond." Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix raised their heads, and beheld Colonel Proctor. Stamp Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognised each other at once. "Ah! it's you, is it, Englishman?" cried the colonel; "it's you who are going to play a spade!" "And who plays it," replied Phileas Fogg coolly, throwing down the ten of spades. "Well, it pleases me to have it diamonds," replied Colonel Proctor, in an insolent tone. He made a movement as if to seize the card which had just been played, adding, "You don't understand anything about whist." "Perhaps I do, as well as another," said Phileas Fogg, rising. "You have only to try, son of John Bull," replied the colonel. Aouda turned pale, and her blood ran cold. She seized Mr. Fogg's arm and gently pulled him back. Passepartout was ready to pounce upon the American, who was staring insolently at his opponent. But Fix got up, and, going to Colonel Proctor said, "You forget that it is I with whom you have to deal, sir; for it was I whom you not only insulted, but struck!" "Mr. Fix," said Mr. Fogg, "pardon me, but this affair is mine, and mine only. The colonel has again insulted me, by insisting that I should not play a spade, and he shall give me satisfaction for it." "When and where you will," replied the American, "and with whatever weapon you choose." Aouda in vain attempted to retain Mr. Fogg; as vainly did the detective endeavour to make the quarrel his. Passepartout wished to throw the colonel out of the window, but a sign from his master checked him. Phileas Fogg left the car, and the American followed him upon the platform. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg to his adversary, "I am in a great hurry to get back to Europe, and any delay whatever will be greatly to my disadvantage." "Well, what's that to me?" replied Colonel Proctor. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg, very politely, "after our meeting at San Francisco, I determined to return to America and find you as soon as I had completed the business which called me to England." "Really!" "Will you appoint a meeting for six months hence?" "Why not ten years hence?" "I say six months," returned Phileas Fogg; "and I shall be at the place of meeting promptly." "All this is an evasion," cried Stamp Proctor. "Now or never!" "Very good. You are going to New York?" "No." "To Chicago?" "No." "To Omaha?" "What difference is it to you? Do you know Plum Creek?" "No," replied Mr. Fogg. "It's the next station. The train will be there in an hour, and will stop there ten minutes. In ten minutes several revolver-shots could be exchanged." "Very well," said Mr. Fogg. "I will stop at Plum Creek." "And I guess you'll stay there too," added the American insolently. "Who knows?" replied Mr. Fogg, returning to the car as coolly as usual. He began to reassure Aouda, telling her that blusterers were never to be feared, and begged Fix to be his second at the approaching duel, a request which the detective could not refuse. Mr. Fogg resumed the interrupted game with perfect calmness. At eleven o'clock the locomotive's whistle announced that they were approaching Plum Creek station. Mr. Fogg rose, and, followed by Fix, went out upon the platform. Passepartout accompanied him, carrying a pair of revolvers. Aouda remained in the car, as pale as death. The door of the next car opened, and Colonel Proctor appeared on the platform, attended by a Yankee of his own stamp as his second. But just as the combatants were about to step from the train, the conductor hurried up, and shouted, "You can't get off, gentlemen!" "Why not?" asked the colonel. "We are twenty minutes late, and we shall not stop." "But I am going to fight a duel with this gentleman." "I am sorry," said the conductor; "but we shall be off at once. There's the bell ringing now." The train started. "I'm really very sorry, gentlemen," said the conductor. "Under any other circumstances I should have been happy to oblige you. But, after all, as you have not had time to fight here, why not fight as we go along?" "That wouldn't be convenient, perhaps, for this gentleman," said the colonel, in a jeering tone. "It would be perfectly so," replied Phileas Fogg. "Well, we are really in America," thought Passepartout, "and the conductor is a gentleman of the first order!" So muttering, he followed his master. The two combatants, their seconds, and the conductor passed through the cars to the rear of the train. The last car was only occupied by a dozen passengers, whom the conductor politely asked if they would not be so kind as to leave it vacant for a few moments, as two gentlemen had an affair of honour to settle. The passengers granted the request with alacrity, and straightway disappeared on the platform. The car, which was some fifty feet long, was very convenient for their purpose. The adversaries might march on each other in the aisle, and fire at their ease. Never was duel more easily arranged. Mr. Fogg and Colonel Proctor, each provided with two six-barrelled revolvers, entered the car. The seconds, remaining outside, shut them in. They were to begin firing at the first whistle of the locomotive. After an interval of two minutes, what remained of the two gentlemen would be taken from the car. Nothing could be more simple. Indeed, it was all so simple that Fix and Passepartout felt their hearts beating as if they would crack. They were listening for the whistle agreed upon, when suddenly savage cries resounded in the air, accompanied by reports which certainly did not issue from the car where the duellists were. The reports continued in front and the whole length of the train. Cries of terror proceeded from the interior of the cars. Colonel Proctor and Mr. Fogg, revolvers in hand, hastily quitted their prison, and rushed forward where the noise was most clamorous. They then perceived that the train was attacked by a band of Sioux. This was not the first attempt of these daring Indians, for more than once they had waylaid trains on the road. A hundred of them had, according to their habit, jumped upon the steps without stopping the train, with the ease of a clown mounting a horse at full gallop. The Sioux were armed with guns, from which came the reports, to which the passengers, who were almost all armed, responded by revolver-shots. The Indians had first mounted the engine, and half stunned the engineer and stoker with blows from their muskets. A Sioux chief, wishing to stop the train, but not knowing how to work the regulator, had opened wide instead of closing the steam-valve, and the locomotive was plunging forward with terrific velocity. The Sioux had at the same time invaded the cars, skipping like enraged monkeys over the roofs, thrusting open the doors, and fighting hand to hand with the passengers. Penetrating the baggage-car, they pillaged it, throwing the trunks out of the train. The cries and shots were constant. The travellers defended themselves bravely; some of the cars were barricaded, and sustained a siege, like moving forts, carried along at a speed of a hundred miles an hour. Aouda behaved courageously from the first. She defended herself like a true heroine with a revolver, which she shot through the broken windows whenever a savage made his appearance. Twenty Sioux had fallen mortally wounded to the ground, and the wheels crushed those who fell upon the rails as if they had been worms. Several passengers, shot or stunned, lay on the seats. It was necessary to put an end to the struggle, which had lasted for ten minutes, and which would result in the triumph of the Sioux if the train was not stopped. Fort Kearney station, where there was a garrison, was only two miles distant; but, that once passed, the Sioux would be masters of the train between Fort Kearney and the station beyond. The conductor was fighting beside Mr. Fogg, when he was shot and fell. At the same moment he cried, "Unless the train is stopped in five minutes, we are lost!" "It shall be stopped," said Phileas Fogg, preparing to rush from the car. "Stay, monsieur," cried Passepartout; "I will go." Mr. Fogg had not time to stop the brave fellow, who, opening a door unperceived by the Indians, succeeded in slipping under the car; and while the struggle continued and the balls whizzed across each other over his head, he made use of his old acrobatic experience, and with amazing agility worked his way under the cars, holding on to the chains, aiding himself by the brakes and edges of the sashes, creeping from one car to another with marvellous skill, and thus gaining the forward end of the train. There, suspended by one hand between the baggage-car and the tender, with the other he loosened the safety chains; but, owing to the traction, he would never have succeeded in unscrewing the yoking-bar, had not a violent concussion jolted this bar out. The train, now detached from the engine, remained a little behind, whilst the locomotive rushed forward with increased speed. Carried on by the force already acquired, the train still moved for several minutes; but the brakes were worked and at last they stopped, less than a hundred feet from Kearney station. The soldiers of the fort, attracted by the shots, hurried up; the Sioux had not expected them, and decamped in a body before the train entirely stopped. But when the passengers counted each other on the station platform several were found missing; among others the courageous Frenchman, whose devotion had just saved them. ----------CHAPTER 30--------- Three passengers including Passepartout had disappeared. Had they been killed in the struggle? Were they taken prisoners by the Sioux? It was impossible to tell. There were many wounded, but none mortally. Colonel Proctor was one of the most seriously hurt; he had fought bravely, and a ball had entered his groin. He was carried into the station with the other wounded passengers, to receive such attention as could be of avail. Aouda was safe; and Phileas Fogg, who had been in the thickest of the fight, had not received a scratch. Fix was slightly wounded in the arm. But Passepartout was not to be found, and tears coursed down Aouda's cheeks. All the passengers had got out of the train, the wheels of which were stained with blood. From the tyres and spokes hung ragged pieces of flesh. As far as the eye could reach on the white plain behind, red trails were visible. The last Sioux were disappearing in the south, along the banks of Republican River. Mr. Fogg, with folded arms, remained motionless. He had a serious decision to make. Aouda, standing near him, looked at him without speaking, and he understood her look. If his servant was a prisoner, ought he not to risk everything to rescue him from the Indians? "I will find him, living or dead," said he quietly to Aouda. "Ah, Mr.--Mr. Fogg!" cried she, clasping his hands and covering them with tears. "Living," added Mr. Fogg, "if we do not lose a moment." Phileas Fogg, by this resolution, inevitably sacrificed himself; he pronounced his own doom. The delay of a single day would make him lose the steamer at New York, and his bet would be certainly lost. But as he thought, "It is my duty," he did not hesitate. The commanding officer of Fort Kearney was there. A hundred of his soldiers had placed themselves in a position to defend the station, should the Sioux attack it. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg to the captain, "three passengers have disappeared." "Dead?" asked the captain. "Dead or prisoners; that is the uncertainty which must be solved. Do you propose to pursue the Sioux?" "That's a serious thing to do, sir," returned the captain. "These Indians may retreat beyond the Arkansas, and I cannot leave the fort unprotected." "The lives of three men are in question, sir," said Phileas Fogg. "Doubtless; but can I risk the lives of fifty men to save three?" "I don't know whether you can, sir; but you ought to do so." "Nobody here," returned the other, "has a right to teach me my duty." "Very well," said Mr. Fogg, coldly. "I will go alone." "You, sir!" cried Fix, coming up; "you go alone in pursuit of the Indians?" "Would you have me leave this poor fellow to perish--him to whom every one present owes his life? I shall go." "No, sir, you shall not go alone," cried the captain, touched in spite of himself. "No! you are a brave man. Thirty volunteers!" he added, turning to the soldiers. The whole company started forward at once. The captain had only to pick his men. Thirty were chosen, and an old sergeant placed at their head. "Thanks, captain," said Mr. Fogg. "Will you let me go with you?" asked Fix. "Do as you please, sir. But if you wish to do me a favour, you will remain with Aouda. In case anything should happen to me--" A sudden pallor overspread the detective's face. Separate himself from the man whom he had so persistently followed step by step! Leave him to wander about in this desert! Fix gazed attentively at Mr. Fogg, and, despite his suspicions and of the struggle which was going on within him, he lowered his eyes before that calm and frank look. "I will stay," said he. A few moments after, Mr. Fogg pressed the young woman's hand, and, having confided to her his precious carpet-bag, went off with the sergeant and his little squad. But, before going, he had said to the soldiers, "My friends, I will divide five thousand dollars among you, if we save the prisoners." It was then a little past noon. Aouda retired to a waiting-room, and there she waited alone, thinking of the simple and noble generosity, the tranquil courage of Phileas Fogg. He had sacrificed his fortune, and was now risking his life, all without hesitation, from duty, in silence. Fix did not have the same thoughts, and could scarcely conceal his agitation. He walked feverishly up and down the platform, but soon resumed his outward composure. He now saw the folly of which he had been guilty in letting Fogg go alone. What! This man, whom he had just followed around the world, was permitted now to separate himself from him! He began to accuse and abuse himself, and, as if he were director of police, administered to himself a sound lecture for his greenness. "I have been an idiot!" he thought, "and this man will see it. He has gone, and won't come back! But how is it that I, Fix, who have in my pocket a warrant for his arrest, have been so fascinated by him? Decidedly, I am nothing but an ass!" So reasoned the detective, while the hours crept by all too slowly. He did not know what to do. Sometimes he was tempted to tell Aouda all; but he could not doubt how the young woman would receive his confidences. What course should he take? He thought of pursuing Fogg across the vast white plains; it did not seem impossible that he might overtake him. Footsteps were easily printed on the snow! But soon, under a new sheet, every imprint would be effaced. Fix became discouraged. He felt a sort of insurmountable longing to abandon the game altogether. He could now leave Fort Kearney station, and pursue his journey homeward in peace. Towards two o'clock in the afternoon, while it was snowing hard, long whistles were heard approaching from the east. A great shadow, preceded by a wild light, slowly advanced, appearing still larger through the mist, which gave it a fantastic aspect. No train was expected from the east, neither had there been time for the succour asked for by telegraph to arrive; the train from Omaha to San Francisco was not due till the next day. The mystery was soon explained. The locomotive, which was slowly approaching with deafening whistles, was that which, having been detached from the train, had continued its route with such terrific rapidity, carrying off the unconscious engineer and stoker. It had run several miles, when, the fire becoming low for want of fuel, the steam had slackened; and it had finally stopped an hour after, some twenty miles beyond Fort Kearney. Neither the engineer nor the stoker was dead, and, after remaining for some time in their swoon, had come to themselves. The train had then stopped. The engineer, when he found himself in the desert, and the locomotive without cars, understood what had happened. He could not imagine how the locomotive had become separated from the train; but he did not doubt that the train left behind was in distress. He did not hesitate what to do. It would be prudent to continue on to Omaha, for it would be dangerous to return to the train, which the Indians might still be engaged in pillaging. Nevertheless, he began to rebuild the fire in the furnace; the pressure again mounted, and the locomotive returned, running backwards to Fort Kearney. This it was which was whistling in the mist. The travellers were glad to see the locomotive resume its place at the head of the train. They could now continue the journey so terribly interrupted. Aouda, on seeing the locomotive come up, hurried out of the station, and asked the conductor, "Are you going to start?" "At once, madam." "But the prisoners, our unfortunate fellow-travellers--" "I cannot interrupt the trip," replied the conductor. "We are already three hours behind time." "And when will another train pass here from San Francisco?" "To-morrow evening, madam." "To-morrow evening! But then it will be too late! We must wait--" "It is impossible," responded the conductor. "If you wish to go, please get in." "I will not go," said Aouda. Fix had heard this conversation. A little while before, when there was no prospect of proceeding on the journey, he had made up his mind to leave Fort Kearney; but now that the train was there, ready to start, and he had only to take his seat in the car, an irresistible influence held him back. The station platform burned his feet, and he could not stir. The conflict in his mind again began; anger and failure stifled him. He wished to struggle on to the end. Meanwhile the passengers and some of the wounded, among them Colonel Proctor, whose injuries were serious, had taken their places in the train. The buzzing of the over-heated boiler was heard, and the steam was escaping from the valves. The engineer whistled, the train started, and soon disappeared, mingling its white smoke with the eddies of the densely falling snow. The detective had remained behind. Several hours passed. The weather was dismal, and it was very cold. Fix sat motionless on a bench in the station; he might have been thought asleep. Aouda, despite the storm, kept coming out of the waiting-room, going to the end of the platform, and peering through the tempest of snow, as if to pierce the mist which narrowed the horizon around her, and to hear, if possible, some welcome sound. She heard and saw nothing. Then she would return, chilled through, to issue out again after the lapse of a few moments, but always in vain. Evening came, and the little band had not returned. Where could they be? Had they found the Indians, and were they having a conflict with them, or were they still wandering amid the mist? The commander of the fort was anxious, though he tried to conceal his apprehensions. As night approached, the snow fell less plentifully, but it became intensely cold. Absolute silence rested on the plains. Neither flight of bird nor passing of beast troubled the perfect calm. Throughout the night Aouda, full of sad forebodings, her heart stifled with anguish, wandered about on the verge of the plains. Her imagination carried her far off, and showed her innumerable dangers. What she suffered through the long hours it would be impossible to describe. Fix remained stationary in the same place, but did not sleep. Once a man approached and spoke to him, and the detective merely replied by shaking his head. Thus the night passed. At dawn, the half-extinguished disc of the sun rose above a misty horizon; but it was now possible to recognise objects two miles off. Phileas Fogg and the squad had gone southward; in the south all was still vacancy. It was then seven o'clock. The captain, who was really alarmed, did not know what course to take. Should he send another detachment to the rescue of the first? Should he sacrifice more men, with so few chances of saving those already sacrificed? His hesitation did not last long, however. Calling one of his lieutenants, he was on the point of ordering a reconnaissance, when gunshots were heard. Was it a signal? The soldiers rushed out of the fort, and half a mile off they perceived a little band returning in good order. Mr. Fogg was marching at their head, and just behind him were Passepartout and the other two travellers, rescued from the Sioux. They had met and fought the Indians ten miles south of Fort Kearney. Shortly before the detachment arrived, Passepartout and his companions had begun to struggle with their captors, three of whom the Frenchman had felled with his fists, when his master and the soldiers hastened up to their relief. All were welcomed with joyful cries. Phileas Fogg distributed the reward he had promised to the soldiers, while Passepartout, not without reason, muttered to himself, "It must certainly be confessed that I cost my master dear!" Fix, without saying a word, looked at Mr. Fogg, and it would have been difficult to analyse the thoughts which struggled within him. As for Aouda, she took her protector's hand and pressed it in her own, too much moved to speak. Meanwhile, Passepartout was looking about for the train; he thought he should find it there, ready to start for Omaha, and he hoped that the time lost might be regained. "The train! the train!" cried he. "Gone," replied Fix. "And when does the next train pass here?" said Phileas Fogg. "Not till this evening." "Ah!" returned the impassible gentleman quietly.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 31 using the context provided.

chapter 31|chapter 32

Because of all the mad rescuing going on, Phileas is now about twenty hours behind schedule and has no train to get him from Fort Kearney to his next destination. Passepartout feels guilty because it's all his fault, but it's Detective Fix who proposes a new plan. He decides to "help" Fogg by suggesting they travel via a newfangled gadget called a "sledge" . Phileas gives the okay, but his gentlemanly honor comes out when he suggests the trip will be dangerous and that Aouda should remain behind with Passepartout. Aouda refuses, being the brave girl that she is, and accompanies Fogg to Omaha. Phileas and company grab a train to Chicago and then another one to New York, only to find that the ship bound for Liverpool, England has already left.

----------CHAPTER 31--------- 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! ----------CHAPTER 32--------- The China, in leaving, seemed to have carried off Phileas Fogg's last hope. None of the other steamers were able to serve his projects. The Pereire, of the French Transatlantic Company, whose admirable steamers are equal to any in speed and comfort, did not leave until the 14th; the Hamburg boats did not go directly to Liverpool or London, but to Havre; and the additional trip from Havre to Southampton would render Phileas Fogg's last efforts of no avail. The Inman steamer did not depart till the next day, and could not cross the Atlantic in time to save the wager. Mr. Fogg learned all this in consulting his Bradshaw, which gave him the daily movements of the trans-Atlantic steamers. Passepartout was crushed; it overwhelmed him to lose the boat by three-quarters of an hour. It was his fault, for, instead of helping his master, he had not ceased putting obstacles in his path! And when he recalled all the incidents of the tour, when he counted up the sums expended in pure loss and on his own account, when he thought that the immense stake, added to the heavy charges of this useless journey, would completely ruin Mr. Fogg, he overwhelmed himself with bitter self-accusations. Mr. Fogg, however, did not reproach him; and, on leaving the Cunard pier, only said: "We will consult about what is best to-morrow. Come." The party crossed the Hudson in the Jersey City ferryboat, and drove in a carriage to the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Broadway. Rooms were engaged, and the night passed, briefly to Phileas Fogg, who slept profoundly, but very long to Aouda and the others, whose agitation did not permit them to rest. The next day was the 12th of December. From seven in the morning of the 12th to a quarter before nine in the evening of the 21st there were nine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes. If Phileas Fogg had left in the China, one of the fastest steamers on the Atlantic, he would have reached Liverpool, and then London, within the period agreed upon. Mr. Fogg left the hotel alone, after giving Passepartout instructions to await his return, and inform Aouda to be ready at an instant's notice. He proceeded to the banks of the Hudson, and looked about among the vessels moored or anchored in the river, for any that were about to depart. Several had departure signals, and were preparing to put to sea at morning tide; for in this immense and admirable port there is not one day in a hundred that vessels do not set out for every quarter of the globe. But they were mostly sailing vessels, of which, of course, Phileas Fogg could make no use. He seemed about to give up all hope, when he espied, anchored at the Battery, a cable's length off at most, a trading vessel, with a screw, well-shaped, whose funnel, puffing a cloud of smoke, indicated that she was getting ready for departure. Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got into it, and soon found himself on board the Henrietta, iron-hulled, wood-built above. He ascended to the deck, and asked for the captain, who forthwith presented himself. He was a man of fifty, a sort of sea-wolf, with big eyes, a complexion of oxidised copper, red hair and thick neck, and a growling voice. "The captain?" asked Mr. Fogg. "I am the captain." "I am Phileas Fogg, of London." "And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff." "You are going to put to sea?" "In an hour." "You are bound for--" "Bordeaux." "And your cargo?" "No freight. Going in ballast." "Have you any passengers?" "No passengers. Never have passengers. Too much in the way." "Is your vessel a swift one?" "Between eleven and twelve knots. The Henrietta, well known." "Will you carry me and three other persons to Liverpool?" "To Liverpool? Why not to China?" "I said Liverpool." "No!" "No?" "No. I am setting out for Bordeaux, and shall go to Bordeaux." "Money is no object?" "None." The captain spoke in a tone which did not admit of a reply. "But the owners of the Henrietta--" resumed Phileas Fogg. "The owners are myself," replied the captain. "The vessel belongs to me." "I will freight it for you." "No." "I will buy it of you." "No." Phileas Fogg did not betray the least disappointment; but the situation was a grave one. It was not at New York as at Hong Kong, nor with the captain of the Henrietta as with the captain of the Tankadere. Up to this time money had smoothed away every obstacle. Now money failed. Still, some means must be found to cross the Atlantic on a boat, unless by balloon--which would have been venturesome, besides not being capable of being put in practice. It seemed that Phileas Fogg had an idea, for he said to the captain, "Well, will you carry me to Bordeaux?" "No, not if you paid me two hundred dollars." "I offer you two thousand." "Apiece?" "Apiece." "And there are four of you?" "Four." Captain Speedy began to scratch his head. There were eight thousand dollars to gain, without changing his route; for which it was well worth conquering the repugnance he had for all kinds of passengers. Besides, passengers at two thousand dollars are no longer passengers, but valuable merchandise. "I start at nine o'clock," said Captain Speedy, simply. "Are you and your party ready?" "We will be on board at nine o'clock," replied, no less simply, Mr. Fogg. It was half-past eight. To disembark from the Henrietta, jump into a hack, hurry to the St. Nicholas, and return with Aouda, Passepartout, and even the inseparable Fix was the work of a brief time, and was performed by Mr. Fogg with the coolness which never abandoned him. They were on board when the Henrietta made ready to weigh anchor. When Passepartout heard what this last voyage was going to cost, he uttered a prolonged "Oh!" which extended throughout his vocal gamut. As for Fix, he said to himself that the Bank of England would certainly not come out of this affair well indemnified. When they reached England, even if Mr. Fogg did not throw some handfuls of bank-bills into the sea, more than seven thousand pounds would have been spent!

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 34 based on the provided context.

chapter 33|chapter 34|chapter 35

Phileas is thrown in jail. His deadline is super close to passing him by, and he has no way of getting out of this one. It's hopeless. Useless. And for once, Phileas Fogg seems downright depressed. Yup, the guy who never bats an eyelash at rain, snow, crazy suttee rituals, or duels with American colonels is super duper sad. Did we just see him squirt a tear? But if you thought P.F. was sad, Passepartout and Aouda are standing around the entrance to the jailhouse, dumbfounded with grief. They don't know what to do. The whole party is over, it seems. Detective Fix comes running to Phileas's cell claiming the whole dealy-o is a mistake. The real criminal was caught three days ago, so P.F. is a free man. When Fogg hears this, he punches Fix right in the nose. Huzzah. The train bound for London has already left, so Fogg, Passepartout, and Aouda try to hire a special train. But they experience all kinds of delays, and the train doesn't make it to London in time.

----------CHAPTER 33--------- An hour after, the Henrietta passed the lighthouse which marks the entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea. During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and directed her course rapidly eastward. At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the vessel's position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy. Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire. As for Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and excessive. What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the Henrietta was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor. How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg's manoeuvre simply glorious. The captain had said "between eleven and twelve knots," and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction. If, then--for there were "ifs" still--the sea did not become too boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta might cross the three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days, between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta, added to that of the Bank of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he imagined or could desire. During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east, the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves like a real trans-Atlantic steamer. Passepartout was delighted. His master's last exploit, the consequences of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors, and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past, its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if heated by the furnaces of the Henrietta. Often, also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer existed. Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on. The conquest of the Henrietta, the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing the boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not unnaturally inclined to conclude that the Henrietta under Fogg's command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair. As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin; and Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals, courageous as he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg did not seem even to know that there was a captain on board. On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland, a dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are frequent fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening before the barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching change in the atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied, the cold became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east. This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his course, furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the vessel's speed slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves of which broke against the stern. She pitched violently, and this retarded her progress. The breeze little by little swelled into a tempest, and it was to be feared that the Henrietta might not be able to maintain herself upright on the waves. Passepartout's visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the poor fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold mariner, and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept on his course, without even decreasing his steam. The Henrietta, when she could not rise upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but passing safely. Sometimes the screw rose out of the water, beating its protruding end, when a mountain of water raised the stern above the waves; but the craft always kept straight ahead. The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been feared; it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with a speed of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it remained obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless. The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg's departure from London, and the Henrietta had not yet been seriously delayed. Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst localities had been passed. In summer, success would have been well-nigh certain. In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season. Passepartout said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and comforted himself with the reflection that, if the wind failed them, they might still count on the steam. On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and began to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was a presentiment, perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy. He would have given one of his ears to hear with the other what the engineer was saying. He finally managed to catch a few words, and was sure he heard his master say, "You are certain of what you tell me?" "Certain, sir," replied the engineer. "You must remember that, since we started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces, and, though we had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to Bordeaux, we haven't enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool." "I will consider," replied Mr. Fogg. Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety. The coal was giving out! "Ah, if my master can get over that," muttered he, "he'll be a famous man!" He could not help imparting to Fix what he had overheard. "Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?" "Of course." "Ass!" replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on his heel. Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet, the reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend; but he reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much disappointed and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so awkwardly followed a false scent around the world, and refrained. And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult to imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one, for that evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him, "Feed all the fires until the coal is exhausted." A few moments after, the funnel of the Henrietta vomited forth torrents of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on; but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced that the coal would give out in the course of the day. "Do not let the fires go down," replied Mr. Fogg. "Keep them up to the last. Let the valves be filled." Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position, called Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy. It was as if the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger. He went to the poop, saying to himself, "He will be like a madman!" In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the poop-deck. The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the point of bursting. "Where are we?" were the first words his anger permitted him to utter. Had the poor man been an apoplectic, he could never have recovered from his paroxysm of wrath. "Where are we?" he repeated, with purple face. "Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool," replied Mr. Fogg, with imperturbable calmness. "Pirate!" cried Captain Speedy. "I have sent for you, sir--" "Pickaroon!" "--sir," continued Mr. Fogg, "to ask you to sell me your vessel." "No! By all the devils, no!" "But I shall be obliged to burn her." "Burn the Henrietta!" "Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out." "Burn my vessel!" cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely pronounce the words. "A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!" "Here are sixty thousand," replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. An American can scarcely remain unmoved at the sight of sixty thousand dollars. The captain forgot in an instant his anger, his imprisonment, and all his grudges against his passenger. The Henrietta was twenty years old; it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all. Mr. Fogg had taken away the match. "And I shall still have the iron hull," said the captain in a softer tone. "The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?" "Agreed." And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them and consigned them to his pocket. During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet, and Fix seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit. Nearly twenty thousand pounds had been expended, and Fogg left the hull and engine to the captain, that is, near the whole value of the craft! It was true, however, that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank. When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him, "Don't let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall lose twenty thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by a quarter before nine on the evening of the 21st of December. I missed the steamer at New York, and as you refused to take me to Liverpool--" "And I did well!" cried Andrew Speedy; "for I have gained at least forty thousand dollars by it!" He added, more sedately, "Do you know one thing, Captain--" "Fogg." "Captain Fogg, you've got something of the Yankee about you." And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment, he was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, "The vessel now belongs to me?" "Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts--all the wood, that is." "Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down, and burn them." It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up to the adequate pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins, bunks, and the spare deck were sacrificed. On the next day, the 19th of December, the masts, rafts, and spars were burned; the crew worked lustily, keeping up the fires. Passepartout hewed, cut, and sawed away with all his might. There was a perfect rage for demolition. The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides disappeared on the 20th, and the Henrietta was now only a flat hulk. But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light. By ten in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had only twenty-four hours more in which to get to London; that length of time was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on. And the steam was about to give out altogether! "Sir," said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in Mr. Fogg's project, "I really commiserate you. Everything is against you. We are only opposite Queenstown." "Ah," said Mr. Fogg, "is that place where we see the lights Queenstown?" "Yes." "Can we enter the harbour?" "Not under three hours. Only at high tide." "Stay," replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer ill-fortune. Queenstown is the Irish port at which the trans-Atlantic steamers stop to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the Atlantic steamers. Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way. Instead of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the Henrietta, he would be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before a quarter before nine in the evening. The Henrietta entered Queenstown Harbour at one o'clock in the morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold it for. The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr. Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle was going on within him? Had he changed his mind about "his man"? Did he understand that he had made a grave mistake? He did not, however, abandon Mr. Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the waves, invariably cut through them. Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only six hours distant from London. But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg's shoulder, and, showing his warrant, said, "You are really Phileas Fogg?" "I am." "I arrest you in the Queen's name!" ----------CHAPTER 34--------- Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom House, and he was to be transferred to London the next day. Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon Fix had he not been held back by some policemen. Aouda was thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not understand. Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber. The young woman's heart revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly. As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether Mr. Fogg were guilty or not. The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this new misfortune! Had he not concealed Fix's errand from his master? When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least, Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of his master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil. Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains out. Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place; both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again. That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal. Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st of December, he had till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter; the journey from Liverpool to London was six hours. If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true, resigned; but this last blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which only burst forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment? No one could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting--for what? Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed? However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern. The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he was a knave, he was caught. Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were any practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping from it? Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room. But the door was locked, and the window heavily barred with iron rods. He sat down again, and drew his journal from his pocket. On the line where these words were written, "21st December, Saturday, Liverpool," he added, "80th day, 11.40 a.m.," and waited. The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch was two hours too fast. Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an express train, he could reach London and the Reform Club by a quarter before nine, p.m. His forehead slightly wrinkled. At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside, then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout's voice was audible, and immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg's eyes brightened for an instant. The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix, who hurried towards him. Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not speak. "Sir," he stammered, "sir--forgive me--most--unfortunate resemblance--robber arrested three days ago--you are free!" Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him steadily in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his life, or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the precision of a machine knocked Fix down. "Well hit!" cried Passepartout, "Parbleu! that's what you might call a good application of English fists!" Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word. He had only received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout left the Custom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few moments descended at the station. Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train about to leave for London. It was forty minutes past two. The express train had left thirty-five minutes before. Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train. There were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway arrangements did not permit the special train to leave until three o'clock. At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by the offer of a generous reward, at last set out towards London with Aouda and his faithful servant. It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half; and this would have been easy on a clear road throughout. But there were forced delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped from the train at the terminus, all the clocks in London were striking ten minutes before nine. Having made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand five minutes. He had lost the wager! ----------CHAPTER 35--------- The dwellers in Saville Row would have been surprised the next day, if they had been told that Phileas Fogg had returned home. His doors and windows were still closed, no appearance of change was visible. After leaving the station, Mr. Fogg gave Passepartout instructions to purchase some provisions, and quietly went to his domicile. He bore his misfortune with his habitual tranquillity. Ruined! And by the blundering of the detective! After having steadily traversed that long journey, overcome a hundred obstacles, braved many dangers, and still found time to do some good on his way, to fail near the goal by a sudden event which he could not have foreseen, and against which he was unarmed; it was terrible! But a few pounds were left of the large sum he had carried with him. There only remained of his fortune the twenty thousand pounds deposited at Barings, and this amount he owed to his friends of the Reform Club. So great had been the expense of his tour that, even had he won, it would not have enriched him; and it is probable that he had not sought to enrich himself, being a man who rather laid wagers for honour's sake than for the stake proposed. But this wager totally ruined him. Mr. Fogg's course, however, was fully decided upon; he knew what remained for him to do. A room in the house in Saville Row was set apart for Aouda, who was overwhelmed with grief at her protector's misfortune. From the words which Mr. Fogg dropped, she saw that he was meditating some serious project. Knowing that Englishmen governed by a fixed idea sometimes resort to the desperate expedient of suicide, Passepartout kept a narrow watch upon his master, though he carefully concealed the appearance of so doing. First of all, the worthy fellow had gone up to his room, and had extinguished the gas burner, which had been burning for eighty days. He had found in the letter-box a bill from the gas company, and he thought it more than time to put a stop to this expense, which he had been doomed to bear. The night passed. Mr. Fogg went to bed, but did he sleep? Aouda did not once close her eyes. Passepartout watched all night, like a faithful dog, at his master's door. Mr. Fogg called him in the morning, and told him to get Aouda's breakfast, and a cup of tea and a chop for himself. He desired Aouda to excuse him from breakfast and dinner, as his time would be absorbed all day in putting his affairs to rights. In the evening he would ask permission to have a few moment's conversation with the young lady. Passepartout, having received his orders, had nothing to do but obey them. He looked at his imperturbable master, and could scarcely bring his mind to leave him. His heart was full, and his conscience tortured by remorse; for he accused himself more bitterly than ever of being the cause of the irretrievable disaster. Yes! if he had warned Mr. Fogg, and had betrayed Fix's projects to him, his master would certainly not have given the detective passage to Liverpool, and then-- Passepartout could hold in no longer. "My master! Mr. Fogg!" he cried, "why do you not curse me? It was my fault that--" "I blame no one," returned Phileas Fogg, with perfect calmness. "Go!" Passepartout left the room, and went to find Aouda, to whom he delivered his master's message. "Madam," he added, "I can do nothing myself--nothing! I have no influence over my master; but you, perhaps--" "What influence could I have?" replied Aouda. "Mr. Fogg is influenced by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude to him is overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend, he must not be left alone an instant! You say he is going to speak with me this evening?" "Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in England." "We shall see," replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive. Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if uninhabited, and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in that house, did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck half-past eleven. Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer expected him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on the evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine), he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should go to his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists already had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their credit. Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so he remained at home. He shut himself up in his room, and busied himself putting his affairs in order. Passepartout continually ascended and descended the stairs. The hours were long for him. He listened at his master's door, and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do, and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment. Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all the world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty in tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout. . . . This thought haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly. Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda's door, went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a corner, and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still pensive. About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know if Aouda would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself alone with her. Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace, opposite Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face. Fogg returned was exactly the Fogg who had gone away; there was the same calm, the same impassibility. He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on Aouda, "Madam," said he, "will you pardon me for bringing you to England?" "I, Mr. Fogg!" replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart. "Please let me finish," returned Mr. Fogg. "When I decided to bring you far away from the country which was so unsafe for you, I was rich, and counted on putting a portion of my fortune at your disposal; then your existence would have been free and happy. But now I am ruined." "I know it, Mr. Fogg," replied Aouda; "and I ask you in my turn, will you forgive me for having followed you, and--who knows?--for having, perhaps, delayed you, and thus contributed to your ruin?" "Madam, you could not remain in India, and your safety could only be assured by bringing you to such a distance that your persecutors could not take you." "So, Mr. Fogg," resumed Aouda, "not content with rescuing me from a terrible death, you thought yourself bound to secure my comfort in a foreign land?" "Yes, madam; but circumstances have been against me. Still, I beg to place the little I have left at your service." "But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?" "As for me, madam," replied the gentleman, coldly, "I have need of nothing." "But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?" "As I am in the habit of doing." "At least," said Aouda, "want should not overtake a man like you. Your friends--" "I have no friends, madam." "Your relatives--" "I have no longer any relatives." "I pity you, then, Mr. Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing, with no heart to which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself, shared by two sympathetic souls, may be borne with patience." "They say so, madam." "Mr. Fogg," said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, "do you wish at once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?" Mr. Fogg, at this, rose in his turn. There was an unwonted light in his eyes, and a slight trembling of his lips. Aouda looked into his face. The sincerity, rectitude, firmness, and sweetness of this soft glance of a noble woman, who could dare all to save him to whom she owed all, at first astonished, then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an instant, as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again, "I love you!" he said, simply. "Yes, by all that is holiest, I love you, and I am entirely yours!" "Ah!" cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart. Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr. Fogg still held Aouda's hand in his own; Passepartout understood, and his big, round face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith. Mr. Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify the Reverend Samuel Wilson, of Marylebone parish, that evening. Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said, "Never too late." It was five minutes past eight. "Will it be for to-morrow, Monday?" "For to-morrow, Monday," said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda. "Yes; for to-morrow, Monday," she replied. Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 37 using the context provided.

chapter 36|chapter 37|chapter 1|chapter 2

While running to grab the nearest preacher , Passepartout finds out that it's actually Sunday, not Monday like the group's been thinking. By traveling eastward around the world, Phileas Fogg, master calculator and obsessive organizer, has forgotten the time he's gained by journeying through all those time zones. The group actually arrived two days early. Passepartout races home, grabs Phileas by the collar, shoves him into a cab, and deposits him at the club. Phileas presents himself with minutes to spare and effectively wins the bet. He's rich once more, but more important , he has won the heart of a "charming" woman.

----------CHAPTER 36--------- It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion when it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand, had been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh. Three days before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being desperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable gentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the world. The papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had laid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic; the "Phileas Fogg bonds" again became negotiable, and many new wagers were made. Phileas Fogg's name was once more at a premium on 'Change. His five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state of feverish suspense. Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten, reappear before their eyes! Where was he at this moment? The 17th of December, the day of James Strand's arrest, was the seventy-sixth since Phileas Fogg's departure, and no news of him had been received. Was he dead? Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey along the route agreed upon? And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold of the Reform Club saloon? The anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be described. Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas Fogg. Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning and evening. No news. The police were ignorant what had become of the detective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent. Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value. Phileas Fogg, like a racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point. The bonds were quoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at five; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour. A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets on Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently established around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded, and everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going on. The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as the hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to its highest pitch. The five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the club. John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart, the engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and Thomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously. When the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got up, saying, "Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between Mr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired." "What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?" asked Thomas Flanagan. "At twenty-three minutes past seven," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and the next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve." "Well, gentlemen," resumed Andrew Stuart, "if Phileas Fogg had come in the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can, therefore, regard the bet as won." "Wait; don't let us be too hasty," replied Samuel Fallentin. "You know that Mr. Fogg is very eccentric. His punctuality is well known; he never arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if he appeared before us at the last minute." "Why," said Andrew Stuart nervously, "if I should see him, I should not believe it was he." "The fact is," resumed Thomas Flanagan, "Mr. Fogg's project was absurdly foolish. Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the delays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three days would be fatal to his tour." "Observe, too," added John Sullivan, "that we have received no intelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along his route." "He has lost, gentleman," said Andrew Stuart, "he has a hundred times lost! You know, besides, that the China the only steamer he could have taken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday. I have seen a list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among them. Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can scarcely have reached America. I think he will be at least twenty days behind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand." "It is clear," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and we have nothing to do but to present Mr. Fogg's cheque at Barings to-morrow." At this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes to nine. "Five minutes more," said Andrew Stuart. The five gentlemen looked at each other. Their anxiety was becoming intense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr. Fallentin's proposal of a rubber. "I wouldn't give up my four thousand of the bet," said Andrew Stuart, as he took his seat, "for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine." The clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine. The players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the clock. Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed so long to them! "Seventeen minutes to nine," said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards which Ralph handed to him. Then there was a moment of silence. The great saloon was perfectly quiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and then a shrill cry. The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player eagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity. "Sixteen minutes to nine!" said John Sullivan, in a voice which betrayed his emotion. One minute more, and the wager would be won. Andrew Stuart and his partners suspended their game. They left their cards, and counted the seconds. At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth, still nothing. At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by applause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls. The players rose from their seats. At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared, followed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club doors, and in his calm voice, said, "Here I am, gentlemen!" ----------CHAPTER 37--------- IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR AROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS Yes; Phileas Fogg in person. The reader will remember that at five minutes past eight in the evening--about five and twenty hours after the arrival of the travellers in London--Passepartout had been sent by his master to engage the services of the Reverend Samuel Wilson in a certain marriage ceremony, which was to take place the next day. Passepartout went on his errand enchanted. He soon reached the clergyman's house, but found him not at home. Passepartout waited a good twenty minutes, and when he left the reverend gentleman, it was thirty-five minutes past eight. But in what a state he was! With his hair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the sidewalk like a waterspout. In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into Mr. Fogg's room. He could not speak. "What is the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "My master!" gasped Passepartout--"marriage--impossible--" "Impossible?" "Impossible--for to-morrow." "Why so?" "Because to-morrow--is Sunday!" "Monday," replied Mr. Fogg. "No--to-day is Saturday." "Saturday? Impossible!" "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" cried Passepartout. "You have made a mistake of one day! We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time; but there are only ten minutes left!" Passepartout had seized his master by the collar, and was dragging him along with irresistible force. Phileas Fogg, thus kidnapped, without having time to think, left his house, jumped into a cab, promised a hundred pounds to the cabman, and, having run over two dogs and overturned five carriages, reached the Reform Club. The clock indicated a quarter before nine when he appeared in the great saloon. Phileas Fogg had accomplished the journey round the world in eighty days! Phileas Fogg had won his wager of twenty thousand pounds! How was it that a man so exact and fastidious could have made this error of a day? How came he to think that he had arrived in London on Saturday, the twenty-first day of December, when it was really Friday, the twentieth, the seventy-ninth day only from his departure? The cause of the error is very simple. Phileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey, and this merely because he had travelled constantly eastward; he would, on the contrary, have lost a day had he gone in the opposite direction, that is, westward. In journeying eastward he had gone towards the sun, and the days therefore diminished for him as many times four minutes as he crossed degrees in this direction. There are three hundred and sixty degrees on the circumference of the earth; and these three hundred and sixty degrees, multiplied by four minutes, gives precisely twenty-four hours--that is, the day unconsciously gained. In other words, while Phileas Fogg, going eastward, saw the sun pass the meridian eighty times, his friends in London only saw it pass the meridian seventy-nine times. This is why they awaited him at the Reform Club on Saturday, and not Sunday, as Mr. Fogg thought. And Passepartout's famous family watch, which had always kept London time, would have betrayed this fact, if it had marked the days as well as the hours and the minutes! Phileas Fogg, then, had won the twenty thousand pounds; but, as he had spent nearly nineteen thousand on the way, the pecuniary gain was small. His object was, however, to be victorious, and not to win money. He divided the one thousand pounds that remained between Passepartout and the unfortunate Fix, against whom he cherished no grudge. He deducted, however, from Passepartout's share the cost of the gas which had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty hours, for the sake of regularity. That evening, Mr. Fogg, as tranquil and phlegmatic as ever, said to Aouda: "Is our marriage still agreeable to you?" "Mr. Fogg," replied she, "it is for me to ask that question. You were ruined, but now you are rich again." "Pardon me, madam; my fortune belongs to you. If you had not suggested our marriage, my servant would not have gone to the Reverend Samuel Wilson's, I should not have been apprised of my error, and--" "Dear Mr. Fogg!" said the young woman. "Dear Aouda!" replied Phileas Fogg. It need not be said that the marriage took place forty-eight hours after, and that Passepartout, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride away. Had he not saved her, and was he not entitled to this honour? The next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously at his master's door. Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, "What's the matter, Passepartout?" "What is it, sir? Why, I've just this instant found out--" "What?" "That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight days." "No doubt," returned Mr. Fogg, "by not crossing India. But if I had not crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have been my wife, and--" Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door. Phileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the world in eighty days. To do this he had employed every means of conveyance--steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading-vessels, sledges, elephants. The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed all his marvellous qualities of coolness and exactitude. But what then? What had he really gained by all this trouble? What had he brought back from this long and weary journey? Nothing, say you? Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who, strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men! Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world? ----------CHAPTER 1--------- Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron--at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old. Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He was never seen on 'Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the counting-rooms of the "City"; no ships ever came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen's Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take part in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London Institution, the Artisan's Association, or the Institution of Arts and Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects. Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all. The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple enough. He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His cheques were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which was always flush. Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the least communicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled. Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the true probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions. He must have travelled everywhere, at least in the spirit. It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better acquaintance with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one, harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, congenial to his tastes. Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which may happen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house in Saville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleeping or making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined all the resources of the club--its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and dairy--aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port, and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes. If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that there is something good in eccentricity. The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past. Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform. A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared. "The new servant," said he. A young man of thirty advanced and bowed. "You are a Frenchman, I believe," asked Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?" "Jean, if monsieur pleases," replied the newcomer, "Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I believe I'm honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout." "Passepartout suits me," responded Mr. Fogg. "You are well recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?" "Yes, monsieur." "Good! What time is it?" "Twenty-two minutes after eleven," returned Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket. "You are too slow," said Mr. Fogg. "Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible--" "You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it's enough to mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my service." Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a word. Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the house in Saville Row. ----------CHAPTER 2--------- "Faith," muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, "I've seen people at Madame Tussaud's as lively as my new master!" Madame Tussaud's "people," let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human. During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call "repose in action," a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions. He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment. He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody. As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva's tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet. It would be rash to predict how Passepartout's lively nature would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required; experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on policemen's shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen. At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail's shell, lighted and warmed by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg's bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. "That's good, that'll do," said Passepartout to himself. He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club--all the details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired. Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was applied to the master's shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits. Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, "This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don't mind serving a machine."

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 5, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 3|chapter 4|chapter 5

Phileas Fogg rightly suspected that his departure from London would create a lively sensation. The news of the bet spread through the Reform Club, and got into the papers throughout England. The boasted "tour of the world" was talked about, disputed and argued by many. Some took sides with Phileas Fogg, but the large majority shook their heads and declared against him. Those who did not support him declared, that the tour of the world could be made, but only theoretically. Numerous articles in papers debated the question of the possibility of such a journey. The ladies supported Fogg after seeing a picture of his handsome figure. At last a long article appeared, on the 7 th of October, in the bulletin of the Royal Geographical Society, which treated the question from every point of view, and demonstrated the utter folly of the enterprise. It showed how Fogg would have to mathematically jump from trains to ships and so on to be able to accomplish the task at hand. It pointed out the many obstacles that would be faced. This article made a great deal of noise, and, being copied into all the papers, seriously depressed the advocates of the rash tourist. England is the world of betting men, who are of a higher class than mere gamblers. Not only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made heavy wagers for or against Phileas Fogg, who was set down in the betting books as if he were a race-horse. Bonds were issued, and made their appearance on Change. Though after the article, the value of Fogg stock declined. Lord Albemarle, an elderly paralytic gentleman, was now the only advocate of Phileas Fogg left. He felt that if the journey could be accomplished, an Englishman should complete it first. The Fogg party dwindled more and more, everybody was going against him, and the bets stood a hundred and fifty and two hundred to one; and a week after his departure an incident occurred which deprived him of backers at any price. The commissioner of police received the following telegraphic dispatch:- Suez. Rowan, Chief of Police, Scotland Yard, London. ' Am shadowing bank thief, Phileas Fogg. Send without delay warrant for arrest Bombay .Detective Fix' The effect of this dispatch was instantaneous. The polished gentleman disappeared to give place to the bank robber. His photograph was minutely examined, and it betrayed, feature by feature, the description of the robber which had been provided to the police. The mysterious habits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary ways, his sudden departure; and it seemed clear that, in undertaking a tour round the world on the pretext of a wager, he had no other end in view than to elude the detectives, and throw them off his track.

----------CHAPTER 3--------- Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-past eleven, and having put his right foot before his left five hundred and seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right five hundred and seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions. He repaired at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a tasteful garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn colouring; and took his place at the habitual table, the cover of which had already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish, a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel of Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed down with several cups of tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thirteen minutes to one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him an uncut Times, which he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed familiarity with this delicate operation. The perusal of this paper absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the Standard, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg re-appeared in the reading-room and sat down to the Pall Mall at twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were Mr. Fogg's usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England--all rich and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the princes of English trade and finance. "Well, Ralph," said Thomas Flanagan, "what about that robbery?" "Oh," replied Stuart, "the Bank will lose the money." "On the contrary," broke in Ralph, "I hope we may put our hands on the robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of America and the Continent, and he'll be a clever fellow if he slips through their fingers." "But have you got the robber's description?" asked Stuart. "In the first place, he is no robber at all," returned Ralph, positively. "What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no robber?" "No." "Perhaps he's a manufacturer, then." "The Daily Telegraph says that he is a gentleman." It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from behind his newspapers, who made this remark. He bowed to his friends, and entered into the conversation. The affair which formed its subject, and which was town talk, had occurred three days before at the Bank of England. A package of banknotes, to the value of fifty-five thousand pounds, had been taken from the principal cashier's table, that functionary being at the moment engaged in registering the receipt of three shillings and sixpence. Of course, he could not have his eyes everywhere. Let it be observed that the Bank of England reposes a touching confidence in the honesty of the public. There are neither guards nor gratings to protect its treasures; gold, silver, banknotes are freely exposed, at the mercy of the first comer. A keen observer of English customs relates that, being in one of the rooms of the Bank one day, he had the curiosity to examine a gold ingot weighing some seven or eight pounds. He took it up, scrutinised it, passed it to his neighbour, he to the next man, and so on until the ingot, going from hand to hand, was transferred to the end of a dark entry; nor did it return to its place for half an hour. Meanwhile, the cashier had not so much as raised his head. But in the present instance things had not gone so smoothly. The package of notes not being found when five o'clock sounded from the ponderous clock in the "drawing office," the amount was passed to the account of profit and loss. As soon as the robbery was discovered, picked detectives hastened off to Liverpool, Glasgow, Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York, and other ports, inspired by the proffered reward of two thousand pounds, and five per cent. on the sum that might be recovered. Detectives were also charged with narrowly watching those who arrived at or left London by rail, and a judicial examination was at once entered upon. There were real grounds for supposing, as the Daily Telegraph said, that the thief did not belong to a professional band. On the day of the robbery a well-dressed gentleman of polished manners, and with a well-to-do air, had been observed going to and fro in the paying room where the crime was committed. A description of him was easily procured and sent to the detectives; and some hopeful spirits, of whom Ralph was one, did not despair of his apprehension. The papers and clubs were full of the affair, and everywhere people were discussing the probabilities of a successful pursuit; and the Reform Club was especially agitated, several of its members being Bank officials. Ralph would not concede that the work of the detectives was likely to be in vain, for he thought that the prize offered would greatly stimulate their zeal and activity. But Stuart was far from sharing this confidence; and, as they placed themselves at the whist-table, they continued to argue the matter. Stuart and Flanagan played together, while Phileas Fogg had Fallentin for his partner. As the game proceeded the conversation ceased, excepting between the rubbers, when it revived again. "I maintain," said Stuart, "that the chances are in favour of the thief, who must be a shrewd fellow." "Well, but where can he fly to?" asked Ralph. "No country is safe for him." "Pshaw!" "Where could he go, then?" "Oh, I don't know that. The world is big enough." "It was once," said Phileas Fogg, in a low tone. "Cut, sir," he added, handing the cards to Thomas Flanagan. The discussion fell during the rubber, after which Stuart took up its thread. "What do you mean by `once'? Has the world grown smaller?" "Certainly," returned Ralph. "I agree with Mr. Fogg. The world has grown smaller, since a man can now go round it ten times more quickly than a hundred years ago. And that is why the search for this thief will be more likely to succeed." "And also why the thief can get away more easily." "Be so good as to play, Mr. Stuart," said Phileas Fogg. But the incredulous Stuart was not convinced, and when the hand was finished, said eagerly: "You have a strange way, Ralph, of proving that the world has grown smaller. So, because you can go round it in three months--" "In eighty days," interrupted Phileas Fogg. "That is true, gentlemen," added John Sullivan. "Only eighty days, now that the section between Rothal and Allahabad, on the Great Indian Peninsula Railway, has been opened. Here is the estimate made by the Daily Telegraph: From London to Suez via Mont Cenis and Brindisi, by rail and steamboats ................. 7 days From Suez to Bombay, by steamer .................... 13 " From Bombay to Calcutta, by rail ................... 3 " From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamer ............. 13 " From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamer ..... 6 " From Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamer ......... 22 " From San Francisco to New York, by rail ............. 7 " From New York to London, by steamer and rail ........ 9 " ------ Total ............................................ 80 days." "Yes, in eighty days!" exclaimed Stuart, who in his excitement made a false deal. "But that doesn't take into account bad weather, contrary winds, shipwrecks, railway accidents, and so on." "All included," returned Phileas Fogg, continuing to play despite the discussion. "But suppose the Hindoos or Indians pull up the rails," replied Stuart; "suppose they stop the trains, pillage the luggage-vans, and scalp the passengers!" "All included," calmly retorted Fogg; adding, as he threw down the cards, "Two trumps." Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, gathered them up, and went on: "You are right, theoretically, Mr. Fogg, but practically--" "Practically also, Mr. Stuart." "I'd like to see you do it in eighty days." "It depends on you. Shall we go?" "Heaven preserve me! But I would wager four thousand pounds that such a journey, made under these conditions, is impossible." "Quite possible, on the contrary," returned Mr. Fogg. "Well, make it, then!" "The journey round the world in eighty days?" "Yes." "I should like nothing better." "When?" "At once. Only I warn you that I shall do it at your expense." "It's absurd!" cried Stuart, who was beginning to be annoyed at the persistency of his friend. "Come, let's go on with the game." "Deal over again, then," said Phileas Fogg. "There's a false deal." Stuart took up the pack with a feverish hand; then suddenly put them down again. "Well, Mr. Fogg," said he, "it shall be so: I will wager the four thousand on it." "Calm yourself, my dear Stuart," said Fallentin. "It's only a joke." "When I say I'll wager," returned Stuart, "I mean it." "All right," said Mr. Fogg; and, turning to the others, he continued: "I have a deposit of twenty thousand at Baring's which I will willingly risk upon it." "Twenty thousand pounds!" cried Sullivan. "Twenty thousand pounds, which you would lose by a single accidental delay!" "The unforeseen does not exist," quietly replied Phileas Fogg. "But, Mr. Fogg, eighty days are only the estimate of the least possible time in which the journey can be made." "A well-used minimum suffices for everything." "But, in order not to exceed it, you must jump mathematically from the trains upon the steamers, and from the steamers upon the trains again." "I will jump--mathematically." "You are joking." "A true Englishman doesn't joke when he is talking about so serious a thing as a wager," replied Phileas Fogg, solemnly. "I will bet twenty thousand pounds against anyone who wishes that I will make the tour of the world in eighty days or less; in nineteen hundred and twenty hours, or a hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Do you accept?" "We accept," replied Messrs. Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and Ralph, after consulting each other. "Good," said Mr. Fogg. "The train leaves for Dover at a quarter before nine. I will take it." "This very evening?" asked Stuart. "This very evening," returned Phileas Fogg. He took out and consulted a pocket almanac, and added, "As today is Wednesday, the 2nd of October, I shall be due in London in this very room of the Reform Club, on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine p.m.; or else the twenty thousand pounds, now deposited in my name at Baring's, will belong to you, in fact and in right, gentlemen. Here is a cheque for the amount." A memorandum of the wager was at once drawn up and signed by the six parties, during which Phileas Fogg preserved a stoical composure. He certainly did not bet to win, and had only staked the twenty thousand pounds, half of his fortune, because he foresaw that he might have to expend the other half to carry out this difficult, not to say unattainable, project. As for his antagonists, they seemed much agitated; not so much by the value of their stake, as because they had some scruples about betting under conditions so difficult to their friend. The clock struck seven, and the party offered to suspend the game so that Mr. Fogg might make his preparations for departure. "I am quite ready now," was his tranquil response. "Diamonds are trumps: be so good as to play, gentlemen." ----------CHAPTER 4--------- Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club. Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight. Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, "Passepartout!" Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour. "Passepartout!" repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice. Passepartout made his appearance. "I've called you twice," observed his master. "But it is not midnight," responded the other, showing his watch. "I know it; I don't blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes." A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout's round face; clearly he had not comprehended his master. "Monsieur is going to leave home?" "Yes," returned Phileas Fogg. "We are going round the world." Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment. "Round the world!" he murmured. "In eighty days," responded Mr. Fogg. "So we haven't a moment to lose." "But the trunks?" gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left. "We'll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We'll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!" Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: "That's good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!" He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt--but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this so domestic person hitherto! By eight o'clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag, containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of Bradshaw's Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, with its timetables showing the arrival and departure of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass wherever he might go. "You have forgotten nothing?" asked he. "Nothing, monsieur." "My mackintosh and cloak?" "Here they are." "Good! Take this carpet-bag," handing it to Passepartout. "Take good care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it." Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and weighed him down. Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms. Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the beggar, saying, "Here, my good woman. I'm glad that I met you;" and passed on. Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master's action touched his susceptible heart. Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr. Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five friends of the Reform. "Well, gentlemen," said he, "I'm off, you see; and, if you will examine my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon." "Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg," said Ralph politely. "We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour." "You do not forget when you are due in London again?" asked Stuart. "In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen." Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station. The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout, not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure. Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair. "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "Alas! In my hurry--I--I forgot--" "What?" "To turn off the gas in my room!" "Very well, young man," returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; "it will burn--at your expense." ----------CHAPTER 5--------- Phileas Fogg rightly suspected that his departure from London would create a lively sensation at the West End. The news of the bet spread through the Reform Club, and afforded an exciting topic of conversation to its members. From the club it soon got into the papers throughout England. The boasted "tour of the world" was talked about, disputed, argued with as much warmth as if the subject were another Alabama claim. Some took sides with Phileas Fogg, but the large majority shook their heads and declared against him; it was absurd, impossible, they declared, that the tour of the world could be made, except theoretically and on paper, in this minimum of time, and with the existing means of travelling. The Times, Standard, Morning Post, and Daily News, and twenty other highly respectable newspapers scouted Mr. Fogg's project as madness; the Daily Telegraph alone hesitatingly supported him. People in general thought him a lunatic, and blamed his Reform Club friends for having accepted a wager which betrayed the mental aberration of its proposer. Articles no less passionate than logical appeared on the question, for geography is one of the pet subjects of the English; and the columns devoted to Phileas Fogg's venture were eagerly devoured by all classes of readers. At first some rash individuals, principally of the gentler sex, espoused his cause, which became still more popular when the Illustrated London News came out with his portrait, copied from a photograph in the Reform Club. A few readers of the Daily Telegraph even dared to say, "Why not, after all? Stranger things have come to pass." At last a long article appeared, on the 7th of October, in the bulletin of the Royal Geographical Society, which treated the question from every point of view, and demonstrated the utter folly of the enterprise. Everything, it said, was against the travellers, every obstacle imposed alike by man and by nature. A miraculous agreement of the times of departure and arrival, which was impossible, was absolutely necessary to his success. He might, perhaps, reckon on the arrival of trains at the designated hours, in Europe, where the distances were relatively moderate; but when he calculated upon crossing India in three days, and the United States in seven, could he rely beyond misgiving upon accomplishing his task? There were accidents to machinery, the liability of trains to run off the line, collisions, bad weather, the blocking up by snow--were not all these against Phileas Fogg? Would he not find himself, when travelling by steamer in winter, at the mercy of the winds and fogs? Is it uncommon for the best ocean steamers to be two or three days behind time? But a single delay would suffice to fatally break the chain of communication; should Phileas Fogg once miss, even by an hour; a steamer, he would have to wait for the next, and that would irrevocably render his attempt vain. This article made a great deal of noise, and, being copied into all the papers, seriously depressed the advocates of the rash tourist. Everybody knows that England is the world of betting men, who are of a higher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English temperament. Not only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made heavy wagers for or against Phileas Fogg, who was set down in the betting books as if he were a race-horse. Bonds were issued, and made their appearance on 'Change; "Phileas Fogg bonds" were offered at par or at a premium, and a great business was done in them. But five days after the article in the bulletin of the Geographical Society appeared, the demand began to subside: "Phileas Fogg" declined. They were offered by packages, at first of five, then of ten, until at last nobody would take less than twenty, fifty, a hundred! Lord Albemarle, an elderly paralytic gentleman, was now the only advocate of Phileas Fogg left. This noble lord, who was fastened to his chair, would have given his fortune to be able to make the tour of the world, if it took ten years; and he bet five thousand pounds on Phileas Fogg. When the folly as well as the uselessness of the adventure was pointed out to him, he contented himself with replying, "If the thing is feasible, the first to do it ought to be an Englishman." The Fogg party dwindled more and more, everybody was going against him, and the bets stood a hundred and fifty and two hundred to one; and a week after his departure an incident occurred which deprived him of backers at any price. The commissioner of police was sitting in his office at nine o'clock one evening, when the following telegraphic dispatch was put into his hands: Suez to London. Rowan, Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard: I've found the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send with out delay warrant of arrest to Bombay. Fix, Detective. The effect of this dispatch was instantaneous. The polished gentleman disappeared to give place to the bank robber. His photograph, which was hung with those of the rest of the members at the Reform Club, was minutely examined, and it betrayed, feature by feature, the description of the robber which had been provided to the police. The mysterious habits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary ways, his sudden departure; and it seemed clear that, in undertaking a tour round the world on the pretext of a wager, he had had no other end in view than to elude the detectives, and throw them off his track.

cliffnotes

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chapter 6|chapter 7|chapter 8|chapter 9

In this chapter, Verne explains the circumstances in which the above mentioned telegraphic dispatch about Phileas Fogg was sent. The steamer Mongolia, belonging to the Peninsular and Oriental Company, was due at eleven oclock a.m. on the 9 th of October, at Suez. The Mongolia plied regularly between Brindisi and Bombay via the Suez Canal. Two men were promenading up and down the wharves, among the crowd of natives. One was the British consul at Suez, who was in the habit of seeing, from his office window, English ships daily passing to and fro on the great canal. The other was a small built personage with a nervous, intelligent face, and bright eyes peering out from under eyebrows, which he was incessantly twitching. He was manifesting signs of impatience, nervously pacing up and down. This was Fix, one of the detectives who had been dispatched from England in search of the bank robber. It was his responsibility to note all suspicious looking people. The detective was inspired by the hope of obtaining the splendid reward, which would be the prize of success, and waited with a feverish impatience, the arrival of the steamer Mongolia. He has a conversation with the consul, while awaiting the arrival of the Mongolia, in which he explains how he proposed to find the robber. Mr. Fix evidently was not wanting in a tinge of self-conceit. As he passed among the busy crowd, Fix, scrutinized the passers by with a keen, rapid glance. He was irritated that the Mongolia had not yet come in and was questioning the consul on the course of the ship. The consul pointed out that the bank robber might be able to successfully hide in England itself, without leaving the country. This observation furnished the detective food for thought, and meanwhile the consul went away to his office. Fix had a feeling that the robber would be on board the Mongolia. When the ship came in, Fix carefully examined each face and figure, which made its appearance. One of the passengers came up to him and politely asked if he could point out the English consulate, at the same time showing a passport which he wished to have validated. Fix took the passport, and with a rapid glance read the description of its bearer. An involuntary motion of surprise nearly escaped him, for the description in the passport was identical with that of the bank robber, which he had received from Scotland Yard. He found out that the passport was that of the mans master and he advised the questioner that for getting the passport validated, the master would have to make an appearance himself at the Consulate.

----------CHAPTER 6--------- The circumstances under which this telegraphic dispatch about Phileas Fogg was sent were as follows: The steamer Mongolia, belonging to the Peninsular and Oriental Company, built of iron, of two thousand eight hundred tons burden, and five hundred horse-power, was due at eleven o'clock a.m. on Wednesday, the 9th of October, at Suez. The Mongolia plied regularly between Brindisi and Bombay via the Suez Canal, and was one of the fastest steamers belonging to the company, always making more than ten knots an hour between Brindisi and Suez, and nine and a half between Suez and Bombay. Two men were promenading up and down the wharves, among the crowd of natives and strangers who were sojourning at this once straggling village--now, thanks to the enterprise of M. Lesseps, a fast-growing town. One was the British consul at Suez, who, despite the prophecies of the English Government, and the unfavourable predictions of Stephenson, was in the habit of seeing, from his office window, English ships daily passing to and fro on the great canal, by which the old roundabout route from England to India by the Cape of Good Hope was abridged by at least a half. The other was a small, slight-built personage, with a nervous, intelligent face, and bright eyes peering out from under eyebrows which he was incessantly twitching. He was just now manifesting unmistakable signs of impatience, nervously pacing up and down, and unable to stand still for a moment. This was Fix, one of the detectives who had been dispatched from England in search of the bank robber; it was his task to narrowly watch every passenger who arrived at Suez, and to follow up all who seemed to be suspicious characters, or bore a resemblance to the description of the criminal, which he had received two days before from the police headquarters at London. The detective was evidently inspired by the hope of obtaining the splendid reward which would be the prize of success, and awaited with a feverish impatience, easy to understand, the arrival of the steamer Mongolia. "So you say, consul," asked he for the twentieth time, "that this steamer is never behind time?" "No, Mr. Fix," replied the consul. "She was bespoken yesterday at Port Said, and the rest of the way is of no account to such a craft. I repeat that the Mongolia has been in advance of the time required by the company's regulations, and gained the prize awarded for excess of speed." "Does she come directly from Brindisi?" "Directly from Brindisi; she takes on the Indian mails there, and she left there Saturday at five p.m. Have patience, Mr. Fix; she will not be late. But really, I don't see how, from the description you have, you will be able to recognise your man, even if he is on board the Mongolia." "A man rather feels the presence of these fellows, consul, than recognises them. You must have a scent for them, and a scent is like a sixth sense which combines hearing, seeing, and smelling. I've arrested more than one of these gentlemen in my time, and, if my thief is on board, I'll answer for it; he'll not slip through my fingers." "I hope so, Mr. Fix, for it was a heavy robbery." "A magnificent robbery, consul; fifty-five thousand pounds! We don't often have such windfalls. Burglars are getting to be so contemptible nowadays! A fellow gets hung for a handful of shillings!" "Mr. Fix," said the consul, "I like your way of talking, and hope you'll succeed; but I fear you will find it far from easy. Don't you see, the description which you have there has a singular resemblance to an honest man?" "Consul," remarked the detective, dogmatically, "great robbers always resemble honest folks. Fellows who have rascally faces have only one course to take, and that is to remain honest; otherwise they would be arrested off-hand. The artistic thing is, to unmask honest countenances; it's no light task, I admit, but a real art." Mr. Fix evidently was not wanting in a tinge of self-conceit. Little by little the scene on the quay became more animated; sailors of various nations, merchants, ship-brokers, porters, fellahs, bustled to and fro as if the steamer were immediately expected. The weather was clear, and slightly chilly. The minarets of the town loomed above the houses in the pale rays of the sun. A jetty pier, some two thousand yards along, extended into the roadstead. A number of fishing-smacks and coasting boats, some retaining the fantastic fashion of ancient galleys, were discernible on the Red Sea. As he passed among the busy crowd, Fix, according to habit, scrutinised the passers-by with a keen, rapid glance. It was now half-past ten. "The steamer doesn't come!" he exclaimed, as the port clock struck. "She can't be far off now," returned his companion. "How long will she stop at Suez?" "Four hours; long enough to get in her coal. It is thirteen hundred and ten miles from Suez to Aden, at the other end of the Red Sea, and she has to take in a fresh coal supply." "And does she go from Suez directly to Bombay?" "Without putting in anywhere." "Good!" said Fix. "If the robber is on board he will no doubt get off at Suez, so as to reach the Dutch or French colonies in Asia by some other route. He ought to know that he would not be safe an hour in India, which is English soil." "Unless," objected the consul, "he is exceptionally shrewd. An English criminal, you know, is always better concealed in London than anywhere else." This observation furnished the detective food for thought, and meanwhile the consul went away to his office. Fix, left alone, was more impatient than ever, having a presentiment that the robber was on board the Mongolia. If he had indeed left London intending to reach the New World, he would naturally take the route via India, which was less watched and more difficult to watch than that of the Atlantic. But Fix's reflections were soon interrupted by a succession of sharp whistles, which announced the arrival of the Mongolia. The porters and fellahs rushed down the quay, and a dozen boats pushed off from the shore to go and meet the steamer. Soon her gigantic hull appeared passing along between the banks, and eleven o'clock struck as she anchored in the road. She brought an unusual number of passengers, some of whom remained on deck to scan the picturesque panorama of the town, while the greater part disembarked in the boats, and landed on the quay. Fix took up a position, and carefully examined each face and figure which made its appearance. Presently one of the passengers, after vigorously pushing his way through the importunate crowd of porters, came up to him and politely asked if he could point out the English consulate, at the same time showing a passport which he wished to have visaed. Fix instinctively took the passport, and with a rapid glance read the description of its bearer. An involuntary motion of surprise nearly escaped him, for the description in the passport was identical with that of the bank robber which he had received from Scotland Yard. "Is this your passport?" asked he. "No, it's my master's." "And your master is--" "He stayed on board." "But he must go to the consul's in person, so as to establish his identity." "Oh, is that necessary?" "Quite indispensable." "And where is the consulate?" "There, on the corner of the square," said Fix, pointing to a house two hundred steps off. "I'll go and fetch my master, who won't be much pleased, however, to be disturbed." The passenger bowed to Fix, and returned to the steamer. ----------CHAPTER 7--------- The detective passed down the quay, and rapidly made his way to the consul's office, where he was at once admitted to the presence of that official. "Consul," said he, without preamble, "I have strong reasons for believing that my man is a passenger on the Mongolia." And he narrated what had just passed concerning the passport. "Well, Mr. Fix," replied the consul, "I shall not be sorry to see the rascal's face; but perhaps he won't come here--that is, if he is the person you suppose him to be. A robber doesn't quite like to leave traces of his flight behind him; and, besides, he is not obliged to have his passport countersigned." "If he is as shrewd as I think he is, consul, he will come." "To have his passport visaed?" "Yes. Passports are only good for annoying honest folks, and aiding in the flight of rogues. I assure you it will be quite the thing for him to do; but I hope you will not visa the passport." "Why not? If the passport is genuine I have no right to refuse." "Still, I must keep this man here until I can get a warrant to arrest him from London." "Ah, that's your look-out. But I cannot--" The consul did not finish his sentence, for as he spoke a knock was heard at the door, and two strangers entered, one of whom was the servant whom Fix had met on the quay. The other, who was his master, held out his passport with the request that the consul would do him the favour to visa it. The consul took the document and carefully read it, whilst Fix observed, or rather devoured, the stranger with his eyes from a corner of the room. "You are Mr. Phileas Fogg?" said the consul, after reading the passport. "I am." "And this man is your servant?" "He is: a Frenchman, named Passepartout." "You are from London?" "Yes." "And you are going--" "To Bombay." "Very good, sir. You know that a visa is useless, and that no passport is required?" "I know it, sir," replied Phileas Fogg; "but I wish to prove, by your visa, that I came by Suez." "Very well, sir." The consul proceeded to sign and date the passport, after which he added his official seal. Mr. Fogg paid the customary fee, coldly bowed, and went out, followed by his servant. "Well?" queried the detective. "Well, he looks and acts like a perfectly honest man," replied the consul. "Possibly; but that is not the question. Do you think, consul, that this phlegmatic gentleman resembles, feature by feature, the robber whose description I have received?" "I concede that; but then, you know, all descriptions--" "I'll make certain of it," interrupted Fix. "The servant seems to me less mysterious than the master; besides, he's a Frenchman, and can't help talking. Excuse me for a little while, consul." Fix started off in search of Passepartout. Meanwhile Mr. Fogg, after leaving the consulate, repaired to the quay, gave some orders to Passepartout, went off to the Mongolia in a boat, and descended to his cabin. He took up his note-book, which contained the following memoranda: "Left London, Wednesday, October 2nd, at 8.45 p.m. "Reached Paris, Thursday, October 3rd, at 7.20 a.m. "Left Paris, Thursday, at 8.40 a.m. "Reached Turin by Mont Cenis, Friday, October 4th, at 6.35 a.m. "Left Turin, Friday, at 7.20 a.m. "Arrived at Brindisi, Saturday, October 5th, at 4 p.m. "Sailed on the Mongolia, Saturday, at 5 p.m. "Reached Suez, Wednesday, October 9th, at 11 a.m. "Total of hours spent, 158+; or, in days, six days and a half." These dates were inscribed in an itinerary divided into columns, indicating the month, the day of the month, and the day for the stipulated and actual arrivals at each principal point Paris, Brindisi, Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco, New York, and London--from the 2nd of October to the 21st of December; and giving a space for setting down the gain made or the loss suffered on arrival at each locality. This methodical record thus contained an account of everything needed, and Mr. Fogg always knew whether he was behind-hand or in advance of his time. On this Friday, October 9th, he noted his arrival at Suez, and observed that he had as yet neither gained nor lost. He sat down quietly to breakfast in his cabin, never once thinking of inspecting the town, being one of those Englishmen who are wont to see foreign countries through the eyes of their domestics. ----------CHAPTER 8--------- Fix soon rejoined Passepartout, who was lounging and looking about on the quay, as if he did not feel that he, at least, was obliged not to see anything. "Well, my friend," said the detective, coming up with him, "is your passport visaed?" "Ah, it's you, is it, monsieur?" responded Passepartout. "Thanks, yes, the passport is all right." "And you are looking about you?" "Yes; but we travel so fast that I seem to be journeying in a dream. So this is Suez?" "Yes." "In Egypt?" "Certainly, in Egypt." "And in Africa?" "In Africa." "In Africa!" repeated Passepartout. "Just think, monsieur, I had no idea that we should go farther than Paris; and all that I saw of Paris was between twenty minutes past seven and twenty minutes before nine in the morning, between the Northern and the Lyons stations, through the windows of a car, and in a driving rain! How I regret not having seen once more Pere la Chaise and the circus in the Champs Elysees!" "You are in a great hurry, then?" "I am not, but my master is. By the way, I must buy some shoes and shirts. We came away without trunks, only with a carpet-bag." "I will show you an excellent shop for getting what you want." "Really, monsieur, you are very kind." And they walked off together, Passepartout chatting volubly as they went along. "Above all," said he; "don't let me lose the steamer." "You have plenty of time; it's only twelve o'clock." Passepartout pulled out his big watch. "Twelve!" he exclaimed; "why, it's only eight minutes before ten." "Your watch is slow." "My watch? A family watch, monsieur, which has come down from my great-grandfather! It doesn't vary five minutes in the year. It's a perfect chronometer, look you." "I see how it is," said Fix. "You have kept London time, which is two hours behind that of Suez. You ought to regulate your watch at noon in each country." "I regulate my watch? Never!" "Well, then, it will not agree with the sun." "So much the worse for the sun, monsieur. The sun will be wrong, then!" And the worthy fellow returned the watch to its fob with a defiant gesture. After a few minutes silence, Fix resumed: "You left London hastily, then?" "I rather think so! Last Friday at eight o'clock in the evening, Monsieur Fogg came home from his club, and three-quarters of an hour afterwards we were off." "But where is your master going?" "Always straight ahead. He is going round the world." "Round the world?" cried Fix. "Yes, and in eighty days! He says it is on a wager; but, between us, I don't believe a word of it. That wouldn't be common sense. There's something else in the wind." "Ah! Mr. Fogg is a character, is he?" "I should say he was." "Is he rich?" "No doubt, for he is carrying an enormous sum in brand new banknotes with him. And he doesn't spare the money on the way, either: he has offered a large reward to the engineer of the Mongolia if he gets us to Bombay well in advance of time." "And you have known your master a long time?" "Why, no; I entered his service the very day we left London." The effect of these replies upon the already suspicious and excited detective may be imagined. The hasty departure from London soon after the robbery; the large sum carried by Mr. Fogg; his eagerness to reach distant countries; the pretext of an eccentric and foolhardy bet--all confirmed Fix in his theory. He continued to pump poor Passepartout, and learned that he really knew little or nothing of his master, who lived a solitary existence in London, was said to be rich, though no one knew whence came his riches, and was mysterious and impenetrable in his affairs and habits. Fix felt sure that Phileas Fogg would not land at Suez, but was really going on to Bombay. "Is Bombay far from here?" asked Passepartout. "Pretty far. It is a ten days' voyage by sea." "And in what country is Bombay?" "India." "In Asia?" "Certainly." "The deuce! I was going to tell you there's one thing that worries me--my burner!" "What burner?" "My gas-burner, which I forgot to turn off, and which is at this moment burning at my expense. I have calculated, monsieur, that I lose two shillings every four and twenty hours, exactly sixpence more than I earn; and you will understand that the longer our journey--" Did Fix pay any attention to Passepartout's trouble about the gas? It is not probable. He was not listening, but was cogitating a project. Passepartout and he had now reached the shop, where Fix left his companion to make his purchases, after recommending him not to miss the steamer, and hurried back to the consulate. Now that he was fully convinced, Fix had quite recovered his equanimity. "Consul," said he, "I have no longer any doubt. I have spotted my man. He passes himself off as an odd stick who is going round the world in eighty days." "Then he's a sharp fellow," returned the consul, "and counts on returning to London after putting the police of the two countries off his track." "We'll see about that," replied Fix. "But are you not mistaken?" "I am not mistaken." "Why was this robber so anxious to prove, by the visa, that he had passed through Suez?" "Why? I have no idea; but listen to me." He reported in a few words the most important parts of his conversation with Passepartout. "In short," said the consul, "appearances are wholly against this man. And what are you going to do?" "Send a dispatch to London for a warrant of arrest to be dispatched instantly to Bombay, take passage on board the Mongolia, follow my rogue to India, and there, on English ground, arrest him politely, with my warrant in my hand, and my hand on his shoulder." Having uttered these words with a cool, careless air, the detective took leave of the consul, and repaired to the telegraph office, whence he sent the dispatch which we have seen to the London police office. A quarter of an hour later found Fix, with a small bag in his hand, proceeding on board the Mongolia; and, ere many moments longer, the noble steamer rode out at full steam upon the waters of the Red Sea. ----------CHAPTER 9--------- The distance between Suez and Aden is precisely thirteen hundred and ten miles, and the regulations of the company allow the steamers one hundred and thirty-eight hours in which to traverse it. The Mongolia, thanks to the vigorous exertions of the engineer, seemed likely, so rapid was her speed, to reach her destination considerably within that time. The greater part of the passengers from Brindisi were bound for India some for Bombay, others for Calcutta by way of Bombay, the nearest route thither, now that a railway crosses the Indian peninsula. Among the passengers was a number of officials and military officers of various grades, the latter being either attached to the regular British forces or commanding the Sepoy troops, and receiving high salaries ever since the central government has assumed the powers of the East India Company: for the sub-lieutenants get 280 pounds, brigadiers, 2,400 pounds, and generals of divisions, 4,000 pounds. What with the military men, a number of rich young Englishmen on their travels, and the hospitable efforts of the purser, the time passed quickly on the Mongolia. The best of fare was spread upon the cabin tables at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the eight o'clock supper, and the ladies scrupulously changed their toilets twice a day; and the hours were whirled away, when the sea was tranquil, with music, dancing, and games. But the Red Sea is full of caprice, and often boisterous, like most long and narrow gulfs. When the wind came from the African or Asian coast the Mongolia, with her long hull, rolled fearfully. Then the ladies speedily disappeared below; the pianos were silent; singing and dancing suddenly ceased. Yet the good ship ploughed straight on, unretarded by wind or wave, towards the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. What was Phileas Fogg doing all this time? It might be thought that, in his anxiety, he would be constantly watching the changes of the wind, the disorderly raging of the billows--every chance, in short, which might force the Mongolia to slacken her speed, and thus interrupt his journey. But, if he thought of these possibilities, he did not betray the fact by any outward sign. Always the same impassible member of the Reform Club, whom no incident could surprise, as unvarying as the ship's chronometers, and seldom having the curiosity even to go upon the deck, he passed through the memorable scenes of the Red Sea with cold indifference; did not care to recognise the historic towns and villages which, along its borders, raised their picturesque outlines against the sky; and betrayed no fear of the dangers of the Arabic Gulf, which the old historians always spoke of with horror, and upon which the ancient navigators never ventured without propitiating the gods by ample sacrifices. How did this eccentric personage pass his time on the Mongolia? He made his four hearty meals every day, regardless of the most persistent rolling and pitching on the part of the steamer; and he played whist indefatigably, for he had found partners as enthusiastic in the game as himself. A tax-collector, on the way to his post at Goa; the Rev. Decimus Smith, returning to his parish at Bombay; and a brigadier-general of the English army, who was about to rejoin his brigade at Benares, made up the party, and, with Mr. Fogg, played whist by the hour together in absorbing silence. As for Passepartout, he, too, had escaped sea-sickness, and took his meals conscientiously in the forward cabin. He rather enjoyed the voyage, for he was well fed and well lodged, took a great interest in the scenes through which they were passing, and consoled himself with the delusion that his master's whim would end at Bombay. He was pleased, on the day after leaving Suez, to find on deck the obliging person with whom he had walked and chatted on the quays. "If I am not mistaken," said he, approaching this person, with his most amiable smile, "you are the gentleman who so kindly volunteered to guide me at Suez?" "Ah! I quite recognise you. You are the servant of the strange Englishman--" "Just so, monsieur--" "Fix." "Monsieur Fix," resumed Passepartout, "I'm charmed to find you on board. Where are you bound?" "Like you, to Bombay." "That's capital! Have you made this trip before?" "Several times. I am one of the agents of the Peninsular Company." "Then you know India?" "Why yes," replied Fix, who spoke cautiously. "A curious place, this India?" "Oh, very curious. Mosques, minarets, temples, fakirs, pagodas, tigers, snakes, elephants! I hope you will have ample time to see the sights." "I hope so, Monsieur Fix. You see, a man of sound sense ought not to spend his life jumping from a steamer upon a railway train, and from a railway train upon a steamer again, pretending to make the tour of the world in eighty days! No; all these gymnastics, you may be sure, will cease at Bombay." "And Mr. Fogg is getting on well?" asked Fix, in the most natural tone in the world. "Quite well, and I too. I eat like a famished ogre; it's the sea air." "But I never see your master on deck." "Never; he hasn't the least curiosity." "Do you know, Mr. Passepartout, that this pretended tour in eighty days may conceal some secret errand--perhaps a diplomatic mission?" "Faith, Monsieur Fix, I assure you I know nothing about it, nor would I give half a crown to find out." After this meeting, Passepartout and Fix got into the habit of chatting together, the latter making it a point to gain the worthy man's confidence. He frequently offered him a glass of whiskey or pale ale in the steamer bar-room, which Passepartout never failed to accept with graceful alacrity, mentally pronouncing Fix the best of good fellows. Meanwhile the Mongolia was pushing forward rapidly; on the 13th, Mocha, surrounded by its ruined walls whereon date-trees were growing, was sighted, and on the mountains beyond were espied vast coffee-fields. Passepartout was ravished to behold this celebrated place, and thought that, with its circular walls and dismantled fort, it looked like an immense coffee-cup and saucer. The following night they passed through the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, which means in Arabic The Bridge of Tears, and the next day they put in at Steamer Point, north-west of Aden harbour, to take in coal. This matter of fuelling steamers is a serious one at such distances from the coal-mines; it costs the Peninsular Company some eight hundred thousand pounds a year. In these distant seas, coal is worth three or four pounds sterling a ton. The Mongolia had still sixteen hundred and fifty miles to traverse before reaching Bombay, and was obliged to remain four hours at Steamer Point to coal up. But this delay, as it was foreseen, did not affect Phileas Fogg's programme; besides, the Mongolia, instead of reaching Aden on the morning of the 15th, when she was due, arrived there on the evening of the 14th, a gain of fifteen hours. Mr. Fogg and his servant went ashore at Aden to have the passport again visaed; Fix, unobserved, followed them. The visa procured, Mr. Fogg returned on board to resume his former habits; while Passepartout, according to custom, sauntered about among the mixed population of Somalis, Banyans, Parsees, Jews, Arabs, and Europeans who comprise the twenty-five thousand inhabitants of Aden. He gazed with wonder upon the fortifications which make this place the Gibraltar of the Indian Ocean, and the vast cisterns where the English engineers were still at work, two thousand years after the engineers of Solomon. "Very curious, very curious," said Passepartout to himself, on returning to the steamer. "I see that it is by no means useless to travel, if a man wants to see something new." At six p.m. the Mongolia slowly moved out of the roadstead, and was soon once more on the Indian Ocean. She had a hundred and sixty-eight hours in which to reach Bombay, and the sea was favourable, the wind being in the north-west, and all sails aiding the engine. The steamer rolled but little, the ladies, in fresh toilets, reappeared on deck, and the singing and dancing were resumed. The trip was being accomplished most successfully, and Passepartout was enchanted with the congenial companion which chance had secured him in the person of the delightful Fix. On Sunday, October 20th, towards noon, they came in sight of the Indian coast: two hours later the pilot came on board. A range of hills lay against the sky in the horizon, and soon the rows of palms which adorn Bombay came distinctly into view. The steamer entered the road formed by the islands in the bay, and at half-past four she hauled up at the quays of Bombay. Phileas Fogg was in the act of finishing the thirty-third rubber of the voyage, and his partner and himself having, by a bold stroke, captured all thirteen of the tricks, concluded this fine campaign with a brilliant victory. The Mongolia was due at Bombay on the 22nd; she arrived on the 20th. This was a gain to Phileas Fogg of two days since his departure from London, and he calmly entered the fact in the itinerary, in the column of gains.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 10 with the given context.

chapter 10|chapter 11

Verne writes about the land that Fogg and Passepartout have arrived to - India. Verne explains that British India, properly so called, only embraces seven hundred thousand square miles. He writes in the present tense that a considerable portion of India is still free from British authority; and there are certain ferocious rajahs in the interior that are absolutely independent. Verne goes on to write how the means of transportation within the Indian subcontinent have changed and become more modern and reliable. Formerly one was obliged to travel in India by the old cumbrous methods of going on foot or on horseback, in palanquins or unwieldy coaches; now fast steamboats ply on the Indus and the Ganges, and a great railway, with branch lines joining the main line at many points on its route, traverses the peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta in three days. The passengers of the Mongolia went ashore at half past four p.m.; at exactly eight the train would start for Calcutta. Mr. Fogg bid goodbye to his whist partners, left the steamer, gave his servant several errands to do and himself went to the passport office. Having transacted his business at the passport office, Phileas Fogg repaired quietly to the railway station, where he ordered dinner. After which Mr. Fogg quietly continued his dinner. Fix too had gone on shore shortly after Mr. Fogg, and his first destination was the headquarters of the Bombay police. He found that the passport had not reached the office. Fix was disappointed, and tried to obtain an order of arrest from the director of the Bombay police but was refused as the matter concerned the London office. Fix decided then to keep Fogg in sight and he was sure that the latter would remain in Bombay only. Passepartout however, had no sooner heard his masters orders on leaving the Mongolia than he saw at once that they were to leave Bombay as they had done Suez and Paris, and that the journey would be extended at least as far as Calcutta, and perhaps beyond that place. Passepartout went around the city. It happened to be the day of a Parsee festival. He watched the ceremonies with staring eyes and gaping mouth. His curiosity drew him farther off than he intended to go. He espied the splendid pagoda on Malabar Hill. He was ignorant that it is forbidden for Christians to enter certain Indian temples, and that even the faithful must not go in without taking off their shoes. The wise policy of the British Government severely punishes a disregard of the practices of the native religions. Passepartout, however, went in like a simple tourist, and was soon lost in admiration of the splendid Brahmin ornamentation, which everywhere met his eyes. He suddenly found himself sprawling on the sacred flagging. He looked up to behold three enraged priests, who tore off his shoes, and began to beat him with savage exclamations. Somehow, he managed to escape. Five minutes before eight, Passepartout, hatless, shoeless, rushed breathlessly into the station. Fix by then had seen that Mr. Fogg was really going to leave Bombay. He had resolved to follow the supposed robber to Calcutta, and further, if necessary. Passepartout did not observe the detective, but Fix heard him relate his adventures to Mr. Fogg. Fix was on the point of entering another carriage, when an idea struck him, which induced him to alter his plan. "No, Ill stay," he muttered. "An offence has been committed on Indian soil. Ive got my man. Just then the locomotive started and the train passed out into the dark night.

----------CHAPTER 10--------- Everybody knows that the great reversed triangle of land, with its base in the north and its apex in the south, which is called India, embraces fourteen hundred thousand square miles, upon which is spread unequally a population of one hundred and eighty millions of souls. The British Crown exercises a real and despotic dominion over the larger portion of this vast country, and has a governor-general stationed at Calcutta, governors at Madras, Bombay, and in Bengal, and a lieutenant-governor at Agra. But British India, properly so called, only embraces seven hundred thousand square miles, and a population of from one hundred to one hundred and ten millions of inhabitants. A considerable portion of India is still free from British authority; and there are certain ferocious rajahs in the interior who are absolutely independent. The celebrated East India Company was all-powerful from 1756, when the English first gained a foothold on the spot where now stands the city of Madras, down to the time of the great Sepoy insurrection. It gradually annexed province after province, purchasing them of the native chiefs, whom it seldom paid, and appointed the governor-general and his subordinates, civil and military. But the East India Company has now passed away, leaving the British possessions in India directly under the control of the Crown. The aspect of the country, as well as the manners and distinctions of race, is daily changing. Formerly one was obliged to travel in India by the old cumbrous methods of going on foot or on horseback, in palanquins or unwieldy coaches; now fast steamboats ply on the Indus and the Ganges, and a great railway, with branch lines joining the main line at many points on its route, traverses the peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta in three days. This railway does not run in a direct line across India. The distance between Bombay and Calcutta, as the bird flies, is only from one thousand to eleven hundred miles; but the deflections of the road increase this distance by more than a third. The general route of the Great Indian Peninsula Railway is as follows: Leaving Bombay, it passes through Salcette, crossing to the continent opposite Tannah, goes over the chain of the Western Ghauts, runs thence north-east as far as Burhampoor, skirts the nearly independent territory of Bundelcund, ascends to Allahabad, turns thence eastwardly, meeting the Ganges at Benares, then departs from the river a little, and, descending south-eastward by Burdivan and the French town of Chandernagor, has its terminus at Calcutta. The passengers of the Mongolia went ashore at half-past four p.m.; at exactly eight the train would start for Calcutta. Mr. Fogg, after bidding good-bye to his whist partners, left the steamer, gave his servant several errands to do, urged it upon him to be at the station promptly at eight, and, with his regular step, which beat to the second, like an astronomical clock, directed his steps to the passport office. As for the wonders of Bombay--its famous city hall, its splendid library, its forts and docks, its bazaars, mosques, synagogues, its Armenian churches, and the noble pagoda on Malabar Hill, with its two polygonal towers--he cared not a straw to see them. He would not deign to examine even the masterpieces of Elephanta, or the mysterious hypogea, concealed south-east from the docks, or those fine remains of Buddhist architecture, the Kanherian grottoes of the island of Salcette. Having transacted his business at the passport office, Phileas Fogg repaired quietly to the railway station, where he ordered dinner. Among the dishes served up to him, the landlord especially recommended a certain giblet of "native rabbit," on which he prided himself. Mr. Fogg accordingly tasted the dish, but, despite its spiced sauce, found it far from palatable. He rang for the landlord, and, on his appearance, said, fixing his clear eyes upon him, "Is this rabbit, sir?" "Yes, my lord," the rogue boldly replied, "rabbit from the jungles." "And this rabbit did not mew when he was killed?" "Mew, my lord! What, a rabbit mew! I swear to you--" "Be so good, landlord, as not to swear, but remember this: cats were formerly considered, in India, as sacred animals. That was a good time." "For the cats, my lord?" "Perhaps for the travellers as well!" After which Mr. Fogg quietly continued his dinner. Fix had gone on shore shortly after Mr. Fogg, and his first destination was the headquarters of the Bombay police. He made himself known as a London detective, told his business at Bombay, and the position of affairs relative to the supposed robber, and nervously asked if a warrant had arrived from London. It had not reached the office; indeed, there had not yet been time for it to arrive. Fix was sorely disappointed, and tried to obtain an order of arrest from the director of the Bombay police. This the director refused, as the matter concerned the London office, which alone could legally deliver the warrant. Fix did not insist, and was fain to resign himself to await the arrival of the important document; but he was determined not to lose sight of the mysterious rogue as long as he stayed in Bombay. He did not doubt for a moment, any more than Passepartout, that Phileas Fogg would remain there, at least until it was time for the warrant to arrive. Passepartout, however, had no sooner heard his master's orders on leaving the Mongolia than he saw at once that they were to leave Bombay as they had done Suez and Paris, and that the journey would be extended at least as far as Calcutta, and perhaps beyond that place. He began to ask himself if this bet that Mr. Fogg talked about was not really in good earnest, and whether his fate was not in truth forcing him, despite his love of repose, around the world in eighty days! Having purchased the usual quota of shirts and shoes, he took a leisurely promenade about the streets, where crowds of people of many nationalities--Europeans, Persians with pointed caps, Banyas with round turbans, Sindes with square bonnets, Parsees with black mitres, and long-robed Armenians--were collected. It happened to be the day of a Parsee festival. These descendants of the sect of Zoroaster--the most thrifty, civilised, intelligent, and austere of the East Indians, among whom are counted the richest native merchants of Bombay--were celebrating a sort of religious carnival, with processions and shows, in the midst of which Indian dancing-girls, clothed in rose-coloured gauze, looped up with gold and silver, danced airily, but with perfect modesty, to the sound of viols and the clanging of tambourines. It is needless to say that Passepartout watched these curious ceremonies with staring eyes and gaping mouth, and that his countenance was that of the greenest booby imaginable. Unhappily for his master, as well as himself, his curiosity drew him unconsciously farther off than he intended to go. At last, having seen the Parsee carnival wind away in the distance, he was turning his steps towards the station, when he happened to espy the splendid pagoda on Malabar Hill, and was seized with an irresistible desire to see its interior. He was quite ignorant that it is forbidden to Christians to enter certain Indian temples, and that even the faithful must not go in without first leaving their shoes outside the door. It may be said here that the wise policy of the British Government severely punishes a disregard of the practices of the native religions. Passepartout, however, thinking no harm, went in like a simple tourist, and was soon lost in admiration of the splendid Brahmin ornamentation which everywhere met his eyes, when of a sudden he found himself sprawling on the sacred flagging. He looked up to behold three enraged priests, who forthwith fell upon him; tore off his shoes, and began to beat him with loud, savage exclamations. The agile Frenchman was soon upon his feet again, and lost no time in knocking down two of his long-gowned adversaries with his fists and a vigorous application of his toes; then, rushing out of the pagoda as fast as his legs could carry him, he soon escaped the third priest by mingling with the crowd in the streets. At five minutes before eight, Passepartout, hatless, shoeless, and having in the squabble lost his package of shirts and shoes, rushed breathlessly into the station. Fix, who had followed Mr. Fogg to the station, and saw that he was really going to leave Bombay, was there, upon the platform. He had resolved to follow the supposed robber to Calcutta, and farther, if necessary. Passepartout did not observe the detective, who stood in an obscure corner; but Fix heard him relate his adventures in a few words to Mr. Fogg. "I hope that this will not happen again," said Phileas Fogg coldly, as he got into the train. Poor Passepartout, quite crestfallen, followed his master without a word. Fix was on the point of entering another carriage, when an idea struck him which induced him to alter his plan. "No, I'll stay," muttered he. "An offence has been committed on Indian soil. I've got my man." Just then the locomotive gave a sharp screech, and the train passed out into the darkness of the night. ----------CHAPTER 11--------- The train had started punctually. Among the passengers were a number of officers, Government officials, and opium and indigo merchants, whose business called them to the eastern coast. Passepartout rode in the same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied a seat opposite to them. This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr. Fogg's whist partners on the Mongolia, now on his way to join his corps at Benares. Sir Francis was a tall, fair man of fifty, who had greatly distinguished himself in the last Sepoy revolt. He made India his home, only paying brief visits to England at rare intervals; and was almost as familiar as a native with the customs, history, and character of India and its people. But Phileas Fogg, who was not travelling, but only describing a circumference, took no pains to inquire into these subjects; he was a solid body, traversing an orbit around the terrestrial globe, according to the laws of rational mechanics. He was at this moment calculating in his mind the number of hours spent since his departure from London, and, had it been in his nature to make a useless demonstration, would have rubbed his hands for satisfaction. Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling companion--although the only opportunity he had for studying him had been while he was dealing the cards, and between two rubbers--and questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath this cold exterior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of nature. The brigadier-general was free to mentally confess that, of all the eccentric persons he had ever met, none was comparable to this product of the exact sciences. Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his design of going round the world, nor the circumstances under which he set out; and the general only saw in the wager a useless eccentricity and a lack of sound common sense. In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he would leave the world without having done any good to himself or anybody else. An hour after leaving Bombay the train had passed the viaducts and the Island of Salcette, and had got into the open country. At Callyan they reached the junction of the branch line which descends towards south-eastern India by Kandallah and Pounah; and, passing Pauwell, they entered the defiles of the mountains, with their basalt bases, and their summits crowned with thick and verdant forests. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time, and now Sir Francis, reviving the conversation, observed, "Some years ago, Mr. Fogg, you would have met with a delay at this point which would probably have lost you your wager." "How so, Sir Francis?" "Because the railway stopped at the base of these mountains, which the passengers were obliged to cross in palanquins or on ponies to Kandallah, on the other side." "Such a delay would not have deranged my plans in the least," said Mr. Fogg. "I have constantly foreseen the likelihood of certain obstacles." "But, Mr. Fogg," pursued Sir Francis, "you run the risk of having some difficulty about this worthy fellow's adventure at the pagoda." Passepartout, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling-blanket, was sound asleep and did not dream that anybody was talking about him. "The Government is very severe upon that kind of offence. It takes particular care that the religious customs of the Indians should be respected, and if your servant were caught--" "Very well, Sir Francis," replied Mr. Fogg; "if he had been caught he would have been condemned and punished, and then would have quietly returned to Europe. I don't see how this affair could have delayed his master." The conversation fell again. During the night the train left the mountains behind, and passed Nassik, and the next day proceeded over the flat, well-cultivated country of the Khandeish, with its straggling villages, above which rose the minarets of the pagodas. This fertile territory is watered by numerous small rivers and limpid streams, mostly tributaries of the Godavery. Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not realise that he was actually crossing India in a railway train. The locomotive, guided by an English engineer and fed with English coal, threw out its smoke upon cotton, coffee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations, while the steam curled in spirals around groups of palm-trees, in the midst of which were seen picturesque bungalows, viharis (sort of abandoned monasteries), and marvellous temples enriched by the exhaustless ornamentation of Indian architecture. Then they came upon vast tracts extending to the horizon, with jungles inhabited by snakes and tigers, which fled at the noise of the train; succeeded by forests penetrated by the railway, and still haunted by elephants which, with pensive eyes, gazed at the train as it passed. The travellers crossed, beyond Milligaum, the fatal country so often stained with blood by the sectaries of the goddess Kali. Not far off rose Ellora, with its graceful pagodas, and the famous Aurungabad, capital of the ferocious Aureng-Zeb, now the chief town of one of the detached provinces of the kingdom of the Nizam. It was thereabouts that Feringhea, the Thuggee chief, king of the stranglers, held his sway. These ruffians, united by a secret bond, strangled victims of every age in honour of the goddess Death, without ever shedding blood; there was a period when this part of the country could scarcely be travelled over without corpses being found in every direction. The English Government has succeeded in greatly diminishing these murders, though the Thuggees still exist, and pursue the exercise of their horrible rites. At half-past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor where Passepartout was able to purchase some Indian slippers, ornamented with false pearls, in which, with evident vanity, he proceeded to encase his feet. The travellers made a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur, after skirting for a little the banks of the small river Tapty, which empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat. Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing reverie. Up to his arrival at Bombay, he had entertained hopes that their journey would end there; but, now that they were plainly whirling across India at full speed, a sudden change had come over the spirit of his dreams. His old vagabond nature returned to him; the fantastic ideas of his youth once more took possession of him. He came to regard his master's project as intended in good earnest, believed in the reality of the bet, and therefore in the tour of the world and the necessity of making it without fail within the designated period. Already he began to worry about possible delays, and accidents which might happen on the way. He recognised himself as being personally interested in the wager, and trembled at the thought that he might have been the means of losing it by his unpardonable folly of the night before. Being much less cool-headed than Mr. Fogg, he was much more restless, counting and recounting the days passed over, uttering maledictions when the train stopped, and accusing it of sluggishness, and mentally blaming Mr. Fogg for not having bribed the engineer. The worthy fellow was ignorant that, while it was possible by such means to hasten the rate of a steamer, it could not be done on the railway. The train entered the defiles of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate the Khandeish from Bundelcund, towards evening. The next day Sir Francis Cromarty asked Passepartout what time it was; to which, on consulting his watch, he replied that it was three in the morning. This famous timepiece, always regulated on the Greenwich meridian, which was now some seventy-seven degrees westward, was at least four hours slow. Sir Francis corrected Passepartout's time, whereupon the latter made the same remark that he had done to Fix; and upon the general insisting that the watch should be regulated in each new meridian, since he was constantly going eastward, that is in the face of the sun, and therefore the days were shorter by four minutes for each degree gone over, Passepartout obstinately refused to alter his watch, which he kept at London time. It was an innocent delusion which could harm no one. The train stopped, at eight o'clock, in the midst of a glade some fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows, and workmen's cabins. The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted, "Passengers will get out here!" Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation; but the general could not tell what meant a halt in the midst of this forest of dates and acacias. Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out and speedily returned, crying: "Monsieur, no more railway!" "What do you mean?" asked Sir Francis. "I mean to say that the train isn't going on." The general at once stepped out, while Phileas Fogg calmly followed him, and they proceeded together to the conductor. "Where are we?" asked Sir Francis. "At the hamlet of Kholby." "Do we stop here?" "Certainly. The railway isn't finished." "What! not finished?" "No. There's still a matter of fifty miles to be laid from here to Allahabad, where the line begins again." "But the papers announced the opening of the railway throughout." "What would you have, officer? The papers were mistaken." "Yet you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta," retorted Sir Francis, who was growing warm. "No doubt," replied the conductor; "but the passengers know that they must provide means of transportation for themselves from Kholby to Allahabad." Sir Francis was furious. Passepartout would willingly have knocked the conductor down, and did not dare to look at his master. "Sir Francis," said Mr. Fogg quietly, "we will, if you please, look about for some means of conveyance to Allahabad." "Mr. Fogg, this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage." "No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen." "What! You knew that the way--" "Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or later arise on my route. Nothing, therefore, is lost. I have two days, which I have already gained, to sacrifice. A steamer leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th. This is the 22nd, and we shall reach Calcutta in time." There was nothing to say to so confident a response. It was but too true that the railway came to a termination at this point. The papers were like some watches, which have a way of getting too fast, and had been premature in their announcement of the completion of the line. The greater part of the travellers were aware of this interruption, and, leaving the train, they began to engage such vehicles as the village could provide four-wheeled palkigharis, waggons drawn by zebus, carriages that looked like perambulating pagodas, palanquins, ponies, and what not. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after searching the village from end to end, came back without having found anything. "I shall go afoot," said Phileas Fogg. Passepartout, who had now rejoined his master, made a wry grimace, as he thought of his magnificent, but too frail Indian shoes. Happily he too had been looking about him, and, after a moment's hesitation, said, "Monsieur, I think I have found a means of conveyance." "What?" "An elephant! An elephant that belongs to an Indian who lives but a hundred steps from here." "Let's go and see the elephant," replied Mr. Fogg. They soon reached a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high palings, was the animal in question. An Indian came out of the hut, and, at their request, conducted them within the enclosure. The elephant, which its owner had reared, not for a beast of burden, but for warlike purposes, was half domesticated. The Indian had begun already, by often irritating him, and feeding him every three months on sugar and butter, to impart to him a ferocity not in his nature, this method being often employed by those who train the Indian elephants for battle. Happily, however, for Mr. Fogg, the animal's instruction in this direction had not gone far, and the elephant still preserved his natural gentleness. Kiouni--this was the name of the beast--could doubtless travel rapidly for a long time, and, in default of any other means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him. But elephants are far from cheap in India, where they are becoming scarce, the males, which alone are suitable for circus shows, are much sought, especially as but few of them are domesticated. When therefore Mr. Fogg proposed to the Indian to hire Kiouni, he refused point-blank. Mr. Fogg persisted, offering the excessive sum of ten pounds an hour for the loan of the beast to Allahabad. Refused. Twenty pounds? Refused also. Forty pounds? Still refused. Passepartout jumped at each advance; but the Indian declined to be tempted. Yet the offer was an alluring one, for, supposing it took the elephant fifteen hours to reach Allahabad, his owner would receive no less than six hundred pounds sterling. Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to purchase the animal outright, and at first offered a thousand pounds for him. The Indian, perhaps thinking he was going to make a great bargain, still refused. Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside, and begged him to reflect before he went any further; to which that gentleman replied that he was not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds was at stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and that he would secure him if he had to pay twenty times his value. Returning to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes, glistening with avarice, betrayed that with him it was only a question of how great a price he could obtain. Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two thousand pounds. Passepartout, usually so rubicund, was fairly white with suspense. At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded. "What a price, good heavens!" cried Passepartout, "for an elephant." It only remained now to find a guide, which was comparatively easy. A young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr. Fogg accepted, promising so generous a reward as to materially stimulate his zeal. The elephant was led out and equipped. The Parsee, who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with a sort of saddle-cloth, and attached to each of his flanks some curiously uncomfortable howdahs. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with some banknotes which he extracted from the famous carpet-bag, a proceeding that seemed to deprive poor Passepartout of his vitals. Then he offered to carry Sir Francis to Allahabad, which the brigadier gratefully accepted, as one traveller the more would not be likely to fatigue the gigantic beast. Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and, while Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side, Passepartout got astride the saddle-cloth between them. The Parsee perched himself on the elephant's neck, and at nine o'clock they set out from the village, the animal marching off through the dense forest of palms by the shortest cut.

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Generate a succinct summary for chapter 12 with the given context.

chapter 12|chapter 13

In order to shorten the journey, the guide passed to the left of the railway line, which was still in process of being built. The Parsee declared that they would gain twenty miles by striking directly through the forest. The swift trotting of the elephant horribly jostled Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty. After two hours the guide stopped the elephant, and gave him an hour for rest. At noon, the Parsee gave the signal of departure. The country soon presented a very savage aspect. Verne writes a little about the area that they were passing through - All this portion of Bundelcund, is inhabited by a fanatical population, hardened in the most horrible practices of the Hindoo faith. The English have not been able to secure complete dominion over this territory, which is subject to the influence of rajahs, who are almost impossible to reach in their inaccessible mountain hideouts. The elephant is made to hurry away each time the mahout sees a band of people. Some thoughts troubled the worthy servant - Passepartout - What would Mr. Fogg do with the elephant when he got to Allahabad? As he deliberated on such issues, the principal chain of the Vindhias was crossed by eight in the evening, and another halt was made on the northern slope, in a ruined bungalow. They had gone nearly twenty-five miles that day, and an equal distance still separated them from the station of Allahabad. The group stops for the night. Nothing occurred during the night to disturb the slumberers, although occasional growls of panthers and chattering of monkeys broke the silence. The journey was resumed at six in the morning. Kiouni soon descended the lower spurs of the Vindhias, and towards noon they passed by the village of Kallenger, on the Cani, one of the branches of the Ganges. Allahabad was now only twelve miles away. They stopped under a clump of bananas. Then they entered a thick forest. They had not as yet had any unpleasant encounters, and the journey seemed on the point of being successfully accomplished, when the elephant suddenly stopped. They heard a confused murmur, which came through the thick branches. Passepartout was all eyes and ears. Mr. Fogg waited patiently without a word. The Parsee went to find out where the sounds came from. He soon returned, saying: "A procession of Brahmins is coming this way. We must prevent their seeing us, if possible." The guide unloosed the elephant and led him into a thicket, at the same time asking the travelers not to stir. He hoped that the procession would pass without having noticed them. The discordant tones of the voices and instruments drew nearer. The head of the procession soon appeared beneath the trees and here Verne describes the nature of the procession. Sir Francis Cromarty points out that the procession was that of goddess Kali. A group of old fakirs were making a wild ado round the statue; these were striped with ochre, and covered with cuts whence their blood issued drop by drop. Some Brahmins were leading a woman who faltered at every step. This woman was young, and as fair as a European. The procession also included the body of a dead man. Sir Francis watched the procession with a sad countenance, and, turning to the guide, said, "A suttee." Fogg had heard what Sir Francis said, and, as soon as the procession had disappeared, asked: "What is a suttee?" The general explained that a suttee is a human sacrifice, but a voluntary one. Passepartout is enraged by such an act. Fogg wonders aloud how come the British have not put an end to such practices. It is explained to him that areas such as this are out of the control of the British authorities. While Sir Francis was speaking, the guide shook his head several times, and now said: "The sacrifice which will take place tomorrow at dawn is not a voluntary one." He then goes on to talk about what he terms - the Bundelcund affair. He tells the others that this lady was being forced to commit suttee and that she had been doped on opium. The guide now led the elephant out of the thicket. Just at the moment that he was about to urge Kiouni forward, Mr. Fogg stopped him, and, turning to Sir Francis Cromarty, said, "Suppose we save this woman." Sir Francis is surprised and Fogg explains that he has twelve hours to spare and that they can devote that time to try and save her.

----------CHAPTER 12--------- In order to shorten the journey, the guide passed to the left of the line where the railway was still in process of being built. This line, owing to the capricious turnings of the Vindhia Mountains, did not pursue a straight course. The Parsee, who was quite familiar with the roads and paths in the district, declared that they would gain twenty miles by striking directly through the forest. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, plunged to the neck in the peculiar howdahs provided for them, were horribly jostled by the swift trotting of the elephant, spurred on as he was by the skilful Parsee; but they endured the discomfort with true British phlegm, talking little, and scarcely able to catch a glimpse of each other. As for Passepartout, who was mounted on the beast's back, and received the direct force of each concussion as he trod along, he was very careful, in accordance with his master's advice, to keep his tongue from between his teeth, as it would otherwise have been bitten off short. The worthy fellow bounced from the elephant's neck to his rump, and vaulted like a clown on a spring-board; yet he laughed in the midst of his bouncing, and from time to time took a piece of sugar out of his pocket, and inserted it in Kiouni's trunk, who received it without in the least slackening his regular trot. After two hours the guide stopped the elephant, and gave him an hour for rest, during which Kiouni, after quenching his thirst at a neighbouring spring, set to devouring the branches and shrubs round about him. Neither Sir Francis nor Mr. Fogg regretted the delay, and both descended with a feeling of relief. "Why, he's made of iron!" exclaimed the general, gazing admiringly on Kiouni. "Of forged iron," replied Passepartout, as he set about preparing a hasty breakfast. At noon the Parsee gave the signal of departure. The country soon presented a very savage aspect. Copses of dates and dwarf-palms succeeded the dense forests; then vast, dry plains, dotted with scanty shrubs, and sown with great blocks of syenite. All this portion of Bundelcund, which is little frequented by travellers, is inhabited by a fanatical population, hardened in the most horrible practices of the Hindoo faith. The English have not been able to secure complete dominion over this territory, which is subjected to the influence of rajahs, whom it is almost impossible to reach in their inaccessible mountain fastnesses. The travellers several times saw bands of ferocious Indians, who, when they perceived the elephant striding across-country, made angry and threatening motions. The Parsee avoided them as much as possible. Few animals were observed on the route; even the monkeys hurried from their path with contortions and grimaces which convulsed Passepartout with laughter. In the midst of his gaiety, however, one thought troubled the worthy servant. What would Mr. Fogg do with the elephant when he got to Allahabad? Would he carry him on with him? Impossible! The cost of transporting him would make him ruinously expensive. Would he sell him, or set him free? The estimable beast certainly deserved some consideration. Should Mr. Fogg choose to make him, Passepartout, a present of Kiouni, he would be very much embarrassed; and these thoughts did not cease worrying him for a long time. The principal chain of the Vindhias was crossed by eight in the evening, and another halt was made on the northern slope, in a ruined bungalow. They had gone nearly twenty-five miles that day, and an equal distance still separated them from the station of Allahabad. The night was cold. The Parsee lit a fire in the bungalow with a few dry branches, and the warmth was very grateful, provisions purchased at Kholby sufficed for supper, and the travellers ate ravenously. The conversation, beginning with a few disconnected phrases, soon gave place to loud and steady snores. The guide watched Kiouni, who slept standing, bolstering himself against the trunk of a large tree. Nothing occurred during the night to disturb the slumberers, although occasional growls from panthers and chatterings of monkeys broke the silence; the more formidable beasts made no cries or hostile demonstration against the occupants of the bungalow. Sir Francis slept heavily, like an honest soldier overcome with fatigue. Passepartout was wrapped in uneasy dreams of the bouncing of the day before. As for Mr. Fogg, he slumbered as peacefully as if he had been in his serene mansion in Saville Row. The journey was resumed at six in the morning; the guide hoped to reach Allahabad by evening. In that case, Mr. Fogg would only lose a part of the forty-eight hours saved since the beginning of the tour. Kiouni, resuming his rapid gait, soon descended the lower spurs of the Vindhias, and towards noon they passed by the village of Kallenger, on the Cani, one of the branches of the Ganges. The guide avoided inhabited places, thinking it safer to keep the open country, which lies along the first depressions of the basin of the great river. Allahabad was now only twelve miles to the north-east. They stopped under a clump of bananas, the fruit of which, as healthy as bread and as succulent as cream, was amply partaken of and appreciated. At two o'clock the guide entered a thick forest which extended several miles; he preferred to travel under cover of the woods. They had not as yet had any unpleasant encounters, and the journey seemed on the point of being successfully accomplished, when the elephant, becoming restless, suddenly stopped. It was then four o'clock. "What's the matter?" asked Sir Francis, putting out his head. "I don't know, officer," replied the Parsee, listening attentively to a confused murmur which came through the thick branches. The murmur soon became more distinct; it now seemed like a distant concert of human voices accompanied by brass instruments. Passepartout was all eyes and ears. Mr. Fogg patiently waited without a word. The Parsee jumped to the ground, fastened the elephant to a tree, and plunged into the thicket. He soon returned, saying: "A procession of Brahmins is coming this way. We must prevent their seeing us, if possible." The guide unloosed the elephant and led him into a thicket, at the same time asking the travellers not to stir. He held himself ready to bestride the animal at a moment's notice, should flight become necessary; but he evidently thought that the procession of the faithful would pass without perceiving them amid the thick foliage, in which they were wholly concealed. The discordant tones of the voices and instruments drew nearer, and now droning songs mingled with the sound of the tambourines and cymbals. The head of the procession soon appeared beneath the trees, a hundred paces away; and the strange figures who performed the religious ceremony were easily distinguished through the branches. First came the priests, with mitres on their heads, and clothed in long lace robes. They were surrounded by men, women, and children, who sang a kind of lugubrious psalm, interrupted at regular intervals by the tambourines and cymbals; while behind them was drawn a car with large wheels, the spokes of which represented serpents entwined with each other. Upon the car, which was drawn by four richly caparisoned zebus, stood a hideous statue with four arms, the body coloured a dull red, with haggard eyes, dishevelled hair, protruding tongue, and lips tinted with betel. It stood upright upon the figure of a prostrate and headless giant. Sir Francis, recognising the statue, whispered, "The goddess Kali; the goddess of love and death." "Of death, perhaps," muttered back Passepartout, "but of love--that ugly old hag? Never!" The Parsee made a motion to keep silence. A group of old fakirs were capering and making a wild ado round the statue; these were striped with ochre, and covered with cuts whence their blood issued drop by drop--stupid fanatics, who, in the great Indian ceremonies, still throw themselves under the wheels of Juggernaut. Some Brahmins, clad in all the sumptuousness of Oriental apparel, and leading a woman who faltered at every step, followed. This woman was young, and as fair as a European. Her head and neck, shoulders, ears, arms, hands, and toes were loaded down with jewels and gems with bracelets, earrings, and rings; while a tunic bordered with gold, and covered with a light muslin robe, betrayed the outline of her form. The guards who followed the young woman presented a violent contrast to her, armed as they were with naked sabres hung at their waists, and long damascened pistols, and bearing a corpse on a palanquin. It was the body of an old man, gorgeously arrayed in the habiliments of a rajah, wearing, as in life, a turban embroidered with pearls, a robe of tissue of silk and gold, a scarf of cashmere sewed with diamonds, and the magnificent weapons of a Hindoo prince. Next came the musicians and a rearguard of capering fakirs, whose cries sometimes drowned the noise of the instruments; these closed the procession. Sir Francis watched the procession with a sad countenance, and, turning to the guide, said, "A suttee." The Parsee nodded, and put his finger to his lips. The procession slowly wound under the trees, and soon its last ranks disappeared in the depths of the wood. The songs gradually died away; occasionally cries were heard in the distance, until at last all was silence again. Phileas Fogg had heard what Sir Francis said, and, as soon as the procession had disappeared, asked: "What is a suttee?" "A suttee," returned the general, "is a human sacrifice, but a voluntary one. The woman you have just seen will be burned to-morrow at the dawn of day." "Oh, the scoundrels!" cried Passepartout, who could not repress his indignation. "And the corpse?" asked Mr. Fogg. "Is that of the prince, her husband," said the guide; "an independent rajah of Bundelcund." "Is it possible," resumed Phileas Fogg, his voice betraying not the least emotion, "that these barbarous customs still exist in India, and that the English have been unable to put a stop to them?" "These sacrifices do not occur in the larger portion of India," replied Sir Francis; "but we have no power over these savage territories, and especially here in Bundelcund. The whole district north of the Vindhias is the theatre of incessant murders and pillage." "The poor wretch!" exclaimed Passepartout, "to be burned alive!" "Yes," returned Sir Francis, "burned alive. And, if she were not, you cannot conceive what treatment she would be obliged to submit to from her relatives. They would shave off her hair, feed her on a scanty allowance of rice, treat her with contempt; she would be looked upon as an unclean creature, and would die in some corner, like a scurvy dog. The prospect of so frightful an existence drives these poor creatures to the sacrifice much more than love or religious fanaticism. Sometimes, however, the sacrifice is really voluntary, and it requires the active interference of the Government to prevent it. Several years ago, when I was living at Bombay, a young widow asked permission of the governor to be burned along with her husband's body; but, as you may imagine, he refused. The woman left the town, took refuge with an independent rajah, and there carried out her self-devoted purpose." While Sir Francis was speaking, the guide shook his head several times, and now said: "The sacrifice which will take place to-morrow at dawn is not a voluntary one." "How do you know?" "Everybody knows about this affair in Bundelcund." "But the wretched creature did not seem to be making any resistance," observed Sir Francis. "That was because they had intoxicated her with fumes of hemp and opium." "But where are they taking her?" "To the pagoda of Pillaji, two miles from here; she will pass the night there." "And the sacrifice will take place--" "To-morrow, at the first light of dawn." The guide now led the elephant out of the thicket, and leaped upon his neck. Just at the moment that he was about to urge Kiouni forward with a peculiar whistle, Mr. Fogg stopped him, and, turning to Sir Francis Cromarty, said, "Suppose we save this woman." "Save the woman, Mr. Fogg!" "I have yet twelve hours to spare; I can devote them to that." "Why, you are a man of heart!" "Sometimes," replied Phileas Fogg, quietly; "when I have the time." ----------CHAPTER 13--------- The project was a bold one, full of difficulty, perhaps impracticable. Mr. Fogg was going to risk life, or at least liberty, and therefore the success of his tour. But he did not hesitate, and he found in Sir Francis Cromarty an enthusiastic ally. As for Passepartout, he was ready for anything that might be proposed. His master's idea charmed him; he perceived a heart, a soul, under that icy exterior. He began to love Phileas Fogg. There remained the guide: what course would he adopt? Would he not take part with the Indians? In default of his assistance, it was necessary to be assured of his neutrality. Sir Francis frankly put the question to him. "Officers," replied the guide, "I am a Parsee, and this woman is a Parsee. Command me as you will." "Excellent!" said Mr. Fogg. "However," resumed the guide, "it is certain, not only that we shall risk our lives, but horrible tortures, if we are taken." "That is foreseen," replied Mr. Fogg. "I think we must wait till night before acting." "I think so," said the guide. The worthy Indian then gave some account of the victim, who, he said, was a celebrated beauty of the Parsee race, and the daughter of a wealthy Bombay merchant. She had received a thoroughly English education in that city, and, from her manners and intelligence, would be thought an European. Her name was Aouda. Left an orphan, she was married against her will to the old rajah of Bundelcund; and, knowing the fate that awaited her, she escaped, was retaken, and devoted by the rajah's relatives, who had an interest in her death, to the sacrifice from which it seemed she could not escape. The Parsee's narrative only confirmed Mr. Fogg and his companions in their generous design. It was decided that the guide should direct the elephant towards the pagoda of Pillaji, which he accordingly approached as quickly as possible. They halted, half an hour afterwards, in a copse, some five hundred feet from the pagoda, where they were well concealed; but they could hear the groans and cries of the fakirs distinctly. They then discussed the means of getting at the victim. The guide was familiar with the pagoda of Pillaji, in which, as he declared, the young woman was imprisoned. Could they enter any of its doors while the whole party of Indians was plunged in a drunken sleep, or was it safer to attempt to make a hole in the walls? This could only be determined at the moment and the place themselves; but it was certain that the abduction must be made that night, and not when, at break of day, the victim was led to her funeral pyre. Then no human intervention could save her. As soon as night fell, about six o'clock, they decided to make a reconnaissance around the pagoda. The cries of the fakirs were just ceasing; the Indians were in the act of plunging themselves into the drunkenness caused by liquid opium mingled with hemp, and it might be possible to slip between them to the temple itself. The Parsee, leading the others, noiselessly crept through the wood, and in ten minutes they found themselves on the banks of a small stream, whence, by the light of the rosin torches, they perceived a pyre of wood, on the top of which lay the embalmed body of the rajah, which was to be burned with his wife. The pagoda, whose minarets loomed above the trees in the deepening dusk, stood a hundred steps away. "Come!" whispered the guide. He slipped more cautiously than ever through the brush, followed by his companions; the silence around was only broken by the low murmuring of the wind among the branches. Soon the Parsee stopped on the borders of the glade, which was lit up by the torches. The ground was covered by groups of the Indians, motionless in their drunken sleep; it seemed a battlefield strewn with the dead. Men, women, and children lay together. In the background, among the trees, the pagoda of Pillaji loomed distinctly. Much to the guide's disappointment, the guards of the rajah, lighted by torches, were watching at the doors and marching to and fro with naked sabres; probably the priests, too, were watching within. The Parsee, now convinced that it was impossible to force an entrance to the temple, advanced no farther, but led his companions back again. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty also saw that nothing could be attempted in that direction. They stopped, and engaged in a whispered colloquy. "It is only eight now," said the brigadier, "and these guards may also go to sleep." "It is not impossible," returned the Parsee. They lay down at the foot of a tree, and waited. The time seemed long; the guide ever and anon left them to take an observation on the edge of the wood, but the guards watched steadily by the glare of the torches, and a dim light crept through the windows of the pagoda. They waited till midnight; but no change took place among the guards, and it became apparent that their yielding to sleep could not be counted on. The other plan must be carried out; an opening in the walls of the pagoda must be made. It remained to ascertain whether the priests were watching by the side of their victim as assiduously as were the soldiers at the door. After a last consultation, the guide announced that he was ready for the attempt, and advanced, followed by the others. They took a roundabout way, so as to get at the pagoda on the rear. They reached the walls about half-past twelve, without having met anyone; here there was no guard, nor were there either windows or doors. The night was dark. The moon, on the wane, scarcely left the horizon, and was covered with heavy clouds; the height of the trees deepened the darkness. It was not enough to reach the walls; an opening in them must be accomplished, and to attain this purpose the party only had their pocket-knives. Happily the temple walls were built of brick and wood, which could be penetrated with little difficulty; after one brick had been taken out, the rest would yield easily. They set noiselessly to work, and the Parsee on one side and Passepartout on the other began to loosen the bricks so as to make an aperture two feet wide. They were getting on rapidly, when suddenly a cry was heard in the interior of the temple, followed almost instantly by other cries replying from the outside. Passepartout and the guide stopped. Had they been heard? Was the alarm being given? Common prudence urged them to retire, and they did so, followed by Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis. They again hid themselves in the wood, and waited till the disturbance, whatever it might be, ceased, holding themselves ready to resume their attempt without delay. But, awkwardly enough, the guards now appeared at the rear of the temple, and there installed themselves, in readiness to prevent a surprise. It would be difficult to describe the disappointment of the party, thus interrupted in their work. They could not now reach the victim; how, then, could they save her? Sir Francis shook his fists, Passepartout was beside himself, and the guide gnashed his teeth with rage. The tranquil Fogg waited, without betraying any emotion. "We have nothing to do but to go away," whispered Sir Francis. "Nothing but to go away," echoed the guide. "Stop," said Fogg. "I am only due at Allahabad tomorrow before noon." "But what can you hope to do?" asked Sir Francis. "In a few hours it will be daylight, and--" "The chance which now seems lost may present itself at the last moment." Sir Francis would have liked to read Phileas Fogg's eyes. What was this cool Englishman thinking of? Was he planning to make a rush for the young woman at the very moment of the sacrifice, and boldly snatch her from her executioners? This would be utter folly, and it was hard to admit that Fogg was such a fool. Sir Francis consented, however, to remain to the end of this terrible drama. The guide led them to the rear of the glade, where they were able to observe the sleeping groups. Meanwhile Passepartout, who had perched himself on the lower branches of a tree, was resolving an idea which had at first struck him like a flash, and which was now firmly lodged in his brain. He had commenced by saying to himself, "What folly!" and then he repeated, "Why not, after all? It's a chance,--perhaps the only one; and with such sots!" Thinking thus, he slipped, with the suppleness of a serpent, to the lowest branches, the ends of which bent almost to the ground. The hours passed, and the lighter shades now announced the approach of day, though it was not yet light. This was the moment. The slumbering multitude became animated, the tambourines sounded, songs and cries arose; the hour of the sacrifice had come. The doors of the pagoda swung open, and a bright light escaped from its interior, in the midst of which Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis espied the victim. She seemed, having shaken off the stupor of intoxication, to be striving to escape from her executioner. Sir Francis's heart throbbed; and, convulsively seizing Mr. Fogg's hand, found in it an open knife. Just at this moment the crowd began to move. The young woman had again fallen into a stupor caused by the fumes of hemp, and passed among the fakirs, who escorted her with their wild, religious cries. Phileas Fogg and his companions, mingling in the rear ranks of the crowd, followed; and in two minutes they reached the banks of the stream, and stopped fifty paces from the pyre, upon which still lay the rajah's corpse. In the semi-obscurity they saw the victim, quite senseless, stretched out beside her husband's body. Then a torch was brought, and the wood, heavily soaked with oil, instantly took fire. At this moment Sir Francis and the guide seized Phileas Fogg, who, in an instant of mad generosity, was about to rush upon the pyre. But he had quickly pushed them aside, when the whole scene suddenly changed. A cry of terror arose. The whole multitude prostrated themselves, terror-stricken, on the ground. The old rajah was not dead, then, since he rose of a sudden, like a spectre, took up his wife in his arms, and descended from the pyre in the midst of the clouds of smoke, which only heightened his ghostly appearance. Fakirs and soldiers and priests, seized with instant terror, lay there, with their faces on the ground, not daring to lift their eyes and behold such a prodigy. The inanimate victim was borne along by the vigorous arms which supported her, and which she did not seem in the least to burden. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis stood erect, the Parsee bowed his head, and Passepartout was, no doubt, scarcely less stupefied. The resuscitated rajah approached Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg, and, in an abrupt tone, said, "Let us be off!" It was Passepartout himself, who had slipped upon the pyre in the midst of the smoke and, profiting by the still overhanging darkness, had delivered the young woman from death! It was Passepartout who, playing his part with a happy audacity, had passed through the crowd amid the general terror. A moment after all four of the party had disappeared in the woods, and the elephant was bearing them away at a rapid pace. But the cries and noise, and a ball which whizzed through Phileas Fogg's hat, apprised them that the trick had been discovered. The old rajah's body, indeed, now appeared upon the burning pyre; and the priests, recovered from their terror, perceived that an abduction had taken place. They hastened into the forest, followed by the soldiers, who fired a volley after the fugitives; but the latter rapidly increased the distance between them, and ere long found themselves beyond the reach of the bullets and arrows.

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Generate a succinct summary for chapter 14 with the given context.

chapter 14|chapter 15

The rash exploit had been accomplished; and for an hour Passepartout laughed gaily at his success. Sir Francis pressed the worthy fellows hand, and Fogg said, "Well done!" which, from him, was high commendation; to which Passepartout replied that all the credit of the affair belonged to Mr. Fogg. Meanwhile, the lady reposed in a howdah on the elephant. The elephant was advancing rapidly through the still dark forest, and, an hour after leaving the pagoda had crossed a vast plain. Sir Francis was not worried about the effects of intoxication on Aouda, which he knew would subsequently subside but he was more disturbed at the prospect of her future fate. He told Phileas Fogg that, should Aouda remain in India, she would inevitably fall again into the hands of her executioners and that it would be better to get her out of the country. Phileas Fogg replied that he would reflect upon the matter. The station at Allahabad was reached about ten oclock, and, the interrupted line of railway being resumed, would enable them to reach Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours. While the young woman waited at the station, Passepartout was charged with purchasing for her various articles of toilet, for which his master gave him unlimited credit. Passepartout made it a point, as he made his purchases, to take a good look at the city. The sacred city of Allahabad is described. By the time Passepartout returns to Aouda, the influence to which the priests of Pillaji had subjected Aouda began gradually to yield, and she became more herself, so that her fine eyes resumed all their soft Indian expression. It is enough to say, without applying poetical rhapsody to Aouda, that she was a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the phrase. She spoke English with great purity, and the guide had not exaggerated in saying that the young Parsee had been transformed by her bringing up. The train was about to start from Allahabad, and Mr. Fogg proceeded to pay the guide, the price agreed upon for his service. The guide had, indeed, risked his life in the adventure at Pillaji, and, if the Indians should catch him afterwards, he would with difficulty escape their vengeance. Phileas Fogg had already determined the answer to the question of how to dispose off Kiouni, the elephant. He asks the Parsee whether he would like to keep the elephant. Passepartout encourages the giving of the elephant to the worthy guide, who is very happy. Soon after, Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout, installed in a carriage with Aouda, who had the best seat, were whirling at full speed towards Benares. During the journey, the young woman fully recovered her senses. Her companions revived her with a little liquor, and then Sir Francis narrated to her what had passed, dwelling upon the courage with which Phileas Fogg had not hesitated to risk his life to save her, and recounting the happy sequel of the venture, the result of Passepartouts rash idea. Aouda pathetically thanked her deliverers, her fine eyes interpreted her gratitude better than her lips. Fogg reassures her fears of the natives by offering to take her to Hong Kong where she has a relative too. At Benares, Sir Francis gets off after bidding a warm farewell to his companions. The areas that they are passing through are described beautifully by the author. The panorama passed before their eyes like a flash, save when the steam concealed it fitfully from the view. Calcutta was reached at seven in the morning, and they left for Hong Kong at noon; so that Phileas Fogg had five hours before him. According to his journal, he was due at Calcutta on the 25 th of October, and that was the exact date of his actual arrival. He was therefore neither behind-hand nor ahead of time. The two days gained between London and Bombay had been lost in the journey across India. But it is not to be supposed that Phileas Fogg regretted them.

----------CHAPTER 14--------- The rash exploit had been accomplished; and for an hour Passepartout laughed gaily at his success. Sir Francis pressed the worthy fellow's hand, and his master said, "Well done!" which, from him, was high commendation; to which Passepartout replied that all the credit of the affair belonged to Mr. Fogg. As for him, he had only been struck with a "queer" idea; and he laughed to think that for a few moments he, Passepartout, the ex-gymnast, ex-sergeant fireman, had been the spouse of a charming woman, a venerable, embalmed rajah! As for the young Indian woman, she had been unconscious throughout of what was passing, and now, wrapped up in a travelling-blanket, was reposing in one of the howdahs. The elephant, thanks to the skilful guidance of the Parsee, was advancing rapidly through the still darksome forest, and, an hour after leaving the pagoda, had crossed a vast plain. They made a halt at seven o'clock, the young woman being still in a state of complete prostration. The guide made her drink a little brandy and water, but the drowsiness which stupefied her could not yet be shaken off. Sir Francis, who was familiar with the effects of the intoxication produced by the fumes of hemp, reassured his companions on her account. But he was more disturbed at the prospect of her future fate. He told Phileas Fogg that, should Aouda remain in India, she would inevitably fall again into the hands of her executioners. These fanatics were scattered throughout the county, and would, despite the English police, recover their victim at Madras, Bombay, or Calcutta. She would only be safe by quitting India for ever. Phileas Fogg replied that he would reflect upon the matter. The station at Allahabad was reached about ten o'clock, and, the interrupted line of railway being resumed, would enable them to reach Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours. Phileas Fogg would thus be able to arrive in time to take the steamer which left Calcutta the next day, October 25th, at noon, for Hong Kong. The young woman was placed in one of the waiting-rooms of the station, whilst Passepartout was charged with purchasing for her various articles of toilet, a dress, shawl, and some furs; for which his master gave him unlimited credit. Passepartout started off forthwith, and found himself in the streets of Allahabad, that is, the City of God, one of the most venerated in India, being built at the junction of the two sacred rivers, Ganges and Jumna, the waters of which attract pilgrims from every part of the peninsula. The Ganges, according to the legends of the Ramayana, rises in heaven, whence, owing to Brahma's agency, it descends to the earth. Passepartout made it a point, as he made his purchases, to take a good look at the city. It was formerly defended by a noble fort, which has since become a state prison; its commerce has dwindled away, and Passepartout in vain looked about him for such a bazaar as he used to frequent in Regent Street. At last he came upon an elderly, crusty Jew, who sold second-hand articles, and from whom he purchased a dress of Scotch stuff, a large mantle, and a fine otter-skin pelisse, for which he did not hesitate to pay seventy-five pounds. He then returned triumphantly to the station. The influence to which the priests of Pillaji had subjected Aouda began gradually to yield, and she became more herself, so that her fine eyes resumed all their soft Indian expression. When the poet-king, Ucaf Uddaul, celebrates the charms of the queen of Ahmehnagara, he speaks thus: "Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a passion-flower's half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor." It is enough to say, without applying this poetical rhapsody to Aouda, that she was a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the phrase. She spoke English with great purity, and the guide had not exaggerated in saying that the young Parsee had been transformed by her bringing up. The train was about to start from Allahabad, and Mr. Fogg proceeded to pay the guide the price agreed upon for his service, and not a farthing more; which astonished Passepartout, who remembered all that his master owed to the guide's devotion. He had, indeed, risked his life in the adventure at Pillaji, and, if he should be caught afterwards by the Indians, he would with difficulty escape their vengeance. Kiouni, also, must be disposed of. What should be done with the elephant, which had been so dearly purchased? Phileas Fogg had already determined this question. "Parsee," said he to the guide, "you have been serviceable and devoted. I have paid for your service, but not for your devotion. Would you like to have this elephant? He is yours." The guide's eyes glistened. "Your honour is giving me a fortune!" cried he. "Take him, guide," returned Mr. Fogg, "and I shall still be your debtor." "Good!" exclaimed Passepartout. "Take him, friend. Kiouni is a brave and faithful beast." And, going up to the elephant, he gave him several lumps of sugar, saying, "Here, Kiouni, here, here." The elephant grunted out his satisfaction, and, clasping Passepartout around the waist with his trunk, lifted him as high as his head. Passepartout, not in the least alarmed, caressed the animal, which replaced him gently on the ground. Soon after, Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout, installed in a carriage with Aouda, who had the best seat, were whirling at full speed towards Benares. It was a run of eighty miles, and was accomplished in two hours. During the journey, the young woman fully recovered her senses. What was her astonishment to find herself in this carriage, on the railway, dressed in European habiliments, and with travellers who were quite strangers to her! Her companions first set about fully reviving her with a little liquor, and then Sir Francis narrated to her what had passed, dwelling upon the courage with which Phileas Fogg had not hesitated to risk his life to save her, and recounting the happy sequel of the venture, the result of Passepartout's rash idea. Mr. Fogg said nothing; while Passepartout, abashed, kept repeating that "it wasn't worth telling." Aouda pathetically thanked her deliverers, rather with tears than words; her fine eyes interpreted her gratitude better than her lips. Then, as her thoughts strayed back to the scene of the sacrifice, and recalled the dangers which still menaced her, she shuddered with terror. Phileas Fogg understood what was passing in Aouda's mind, and offered, in order to reassure her, to escort her to Hong Kong, where she might remain safely until the affair was hushed up--an offer which she eagerly and gratefully accepted. She had, it seems, a Parsee relation, who was one of the principal merchants of Hong Kong, which is wholly an English city, though on an island on the Chinese coast. At half-past twelve the train stopped at Benares. The Brahmin legends assert that this city is built on the site of the ancient Casi, which, like Mahomet's tomb, was once suspended between heaven and earth; though the Benares of to-day, which the Orientalists call the Athens of India, stands quite unpoetically on the solid earth, Passepartout caught glimpses of its brick houses and clay huts, giving an aspect of desolation to the place, as the train entered it. Benares was Sir Francis Cromarty's destination, the troops he was rejoining being encamped some miles northward of the city. He bade adieu to Phileas Fogg, wishing him all success, and expressing the hope that he would come that way again in a less original but more profitable fashion. Mr. Fogg lightly pressed him by the hand. The parting of Aouda, who did not forget what she owed to Sir Francis, betrayed more warmth; and, as for Passepartout, he received a hearty shake of the hand from the gallant general. The railway, on leaving Benares, passed for a while along the valley of the Ganges. Through the windows of their carriage the travellers had glimpses of the diversified landscape of Behar, with its mountains clothed in verdure, its fields of barley, wheat, and corn, its jungles peopled with green alligators, its neat villages, and its still thickly-leaved forests. Elephants were bathing in the waters of the sacred river, and groups of Indians, despite the advanced season and chilly air, were performing solemnly their pious ablutions. These were fervent Brahmins, the bitterest foes of Buddhism, their deities being Vishnu, the solar god, Shiva, the divine impersonation of natural forces, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and legislators. What would these divinities think of India, anglicised as it is to-day, with steamers whistling and scudding along the Ganges, frightening the gulls which float upon its surface, the turtles swarming along its banks, and the faithful dwelling upon its borders? The panorama passed before their eyes like a flash, save when the steam concealed it fitfully from the view; the travellers could scarcely discern the fort of Chupenie, twenty miles south-westward from Benares, the ancient stronghold of the rajahs of Behar; or Ghazipur and its famous rose-water factories; or the tomb of Lord Cornwallis, rising on the left bank of the Ganges; the fortified town of Buxar, or Patna, a large manufacturing and trading-place, where is held the principal opium market of India; or Monghir, a more than European town, for it is as English as Manchester or Birmingham, with its iron foundries, edgetool factories, and high chimneys puffing clouds of black smoke heavenward. Night came on; the train passed on at full speed, in the midst of the roaring of the tigers, bears, and wolves which fled before the locomotive; and the marvels of Bengal, Golconda ruined Gour, Murshedabad, the ancient capital, Burdwan, Hugly, and the French town of Chandernagor, where Passepartout would have been proud to see his country's flag flying, were hidden from their view in the darkness. Calcutta was reached at seven in the morning, and the packet left for Hong Kong at noon; so that Phileas Fogg had five hours before him. According to his journal, he was due at Calcutta on the 25th of October, and that was the exact date of his actual arrival. He was therefore neither behind-hand nor ahead of time. The two days gained between London and Bombay had been lost, as has been seen, in the journey across India. But it is not to be supposed that Phileas Fogg regretted them. ----------CHAPTER 15--------- The train entered the station, and Passepartout jumping out first, was followed by Mr. Fogg, who assisted his fair companion to descend. Phileas Fogg intended to proceed at once to the Hong Kong steamer, in order to get Aouda comfortably settled for the voyage. He was unwilling to leave her while they were still on dangerous ground. Just as he was leaving the station a policeman came up to him, and said, "Mr. Phileas Fogg?" "I am he." "Is this man your servant?" added the policeman, pointing to Passepartout. "Yes." "Be so good, both of you, as to follow me." Mr. Fogg betrayed no surprise whatever. The policeman was a representative of the law, and law is sacred to an Englishman. Passepartout tried to reason about the matter, but the policeman tapped him with his stick, and Mr. Fogg made him a signal to obey. "May this young lady go with us?" asked he. "She may," replied the policeman. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout were conducted to a palkigahri, a sort of four-wheeled carriage, drawn by two horses, in which they took their places and were driven away. No one spoke during the twenty minutes which elapsed before they reached their destination. They first passed through the "black town," with its narrow streets, its miserable, dirty huts, and squalid population; then through the "European town," which presented a relief in its bright brick mansions, shaded by coconut-trees and bristling with masts, where, although it was early morning, elegantly dressed horsemen and handsome equipages were passing back and forth. The carriage stopped before a modest-looking house, which, however, did not have the appearance of a private mansion. The policeman having requested his prisoners--for so, truly, they might be called--to descend, conducted them into a room with barred windows, and said: "You will appear before Judge Obadiah at half-past eight." He then retired, and closed the door. "Why, we are prisoners!" exclaimed Passepartout, falling into a chair. Aouda, with an emotion she tried to conceal, said to Mr. Fogg: "Sir, you must leave me to my fate! It is on my account that you receive this treatment, it is for having saved me!" Phileas Fogg contented himself with saying that it was impossible. It was quite unlikely that he should be arrested for preventing a suttee. The complainants would not dare present themselves with such a charge. There was some mistake. Moreover, he would not, in any event, abandon Aouda, but would escort her to Hong Kong. "But the steamer leaves at noon!" observed Passepartout, nervously. "We shall be on board by noon," replied his master, placidly. It was said so positively that Passepartout could not help muttering to himself, "Parbleu that's certain! Before noon we shall be on board." But he was by no means reassured. At half-past eight the door opened, the policeman appeared, and, requesting them to follow him, led the way to an adjoining hall. It was evidently a court-room, and a crowd of Europeans and natives already occupied the rear of the apartment. Mr. Fogg and his two companions took their places on a bench opposite the desks of the magistrate and his clerk. Immediately after, Judge Obadiah, a fat, round man, followed by the clerk, entered. He proceeded to take down a wig which was hanging on a nail, and put it hurriedly on his head. "The first case," said he. Then, putting his hand to his head, he exclaimed, "Heh! This is not my wig!" "No, your worship," returned the clerk, "it is mine." "My dear Mr. Oysterpuff, how can a judge give a wise sentence in a clerk's wig?" The wigs were exchanged. Passepartout was getting nervous, for the hands on the face of the big clock over the judge seemed to go around with terrible rapidity. "The first case," repeated Judge Obadiah. "Phileas Fogg?" demanded Oysterpuff. "I am here," replied Mr. Fogg. "Passepartout?" "Present," responded Passepartout. "Good," said the judge. "You have been looked for, prisoners, for two days on the trains from Bombay." "But of what are we accused?" asked Passepartout, impatiently. "You are about to be informed." "I am an English subject, sir," said Mr. Fogg, "and I have the right--" "Have you been ill-treated?" "Not at all." "Very well; let the complainants come in." A door was swung open by order of the judge, and three Indian priests entered. "That's it," muttered Passepartout; "these are the rogues who were going to burn our young lady." The priests took their places in front of the judge, and the clerk proceeded to read in a loud voice a complaint of sacrilege against Phileas Fogg and his servant, who were accused of having violated a place held consecrated by the Brahmin religion. "You hear the charge?" asked the judge. "Yes, sir," replied Mr. Fogg, consulting his watch, "and I admit it." "You admit it?" "I admit it, and I wish to hear these priests admit, in their turn, what they were going to do at the pagoda of Pillaji." The priests looked at each other; they did not seem to understand what was said. "Yes," cried Passepartout, warmly; "at the pagoda of Pillaji, where they were on the point of burning their victim." The judge stared with astonishment, and the priests were stupefied. "What victim?" said Judge Obadiah. "Burn whom? In Bombay itself?" "Bombay?" cried Passepartout. "Certainly. We are not talking of the pagoda of Pillaji, but of the pagoda of Malabar Hill, at Bombay." "And as a proof," added the clerk, "here are the desecrator's very shoes, which he left behind him." Whereupon he placed a pair of shoes on his desk. "My shoes!" cried Passepartout, in his surprise permitting this imprudent exclamation to escape him. The confusion of master and man, who had quite forgotten the affair at Bombay, for which they were now detained at Calcutta, may be imagined. Fix the detective, had foreseen the advantage which Passepartout's escapade gave him, and, delaying his departure for twelve hours, had consulted the priests of Malabar Hill. Knowing that the English authorities dealt very severely with this kind of misdemeanour, he promised them a goodly sum in damages, and sent them forward to Calcutta by the next train. Owing to the delay caused by the rescue of the young widow, Fix and the priests reached the Indian capital before Mr. Fogg and his servant, the magistrates having been already warned by a dispatch to arrest them should they arrive. Fix's disappointment when he learned that Phileas Fogg had not made his appearance in Calcutta may be imagined. He made up his mind that the robber had stopped somewhere on the route and taken refuge in the southern provinces. For twenty-four hours Fix watched the station with feverish anxiety; at last he was rewarded by seeing Mr. Fogg and Passepartout arrive, accompanied by a young woman, whose presence he was wholly at a loss to explain. He hastened for a policeman; and this was how the party came to be arrested and brought before Judge Obadiah. Had Passepartout been a little less preoccupied, he would have espied the detective ensconced in a corner of the court-room, watching the proceedings with an interest easily understood; for the warrant had failed to reach him at Calcutta, as it had done at Bombay and Suez. Judge Obadiah had unfortunately caught Passepartout's rash exclamation, which the poor fellow would have given the world to recall. "The facts are admitted?" asked the judge. "Admitted," replied Mr. Fogg, coldly. "Inasmuch," resumed the judge, "as the English law protects equally and sternly the religions of the Indian people, and as the man Passepartout has admitted that he violated the sacred pagoda of Malabar Hill, at Bombay, on the 20th of October, I condemn the said Passepartout to imprisonment for fifteen days and a fine of three hundred pounds." "Three hundred pounds!" cried Passepartout, startled at the largeness of the sum. "Silence!" shouted the constable. "And inasmuch," continued the judge, "as it is not proved that the act was not done by the connivance of the master with the servant, and as the master in any case must be held responsible for the acts of his paid servant, I condemn Phileas Fogg to a week's imprisonment and a fine of one hundred and fifty pounds." Fix rubbed his hands softly with satisfaction; if Phileas Fogg could be detained in Calcutta a week, it would be more than time for the warrant to arrive. Passepartout was stupefied. This sentence ruined his master. A wager of twenty thousand pounds lost, because he, like a precious fool, had gone into that abominable pagoda! Phileas Fogg, as self-composed as if the judgment did not in the least concern him, did not even lift his eyebrows while it was being pronounced. Just as the clerk was calling the next case, he rose, and said, "I offer bail." "You have that right," returned the judge. Fix's blood ran cold, but he resumed his composure when he heard the judge announce that the bail required for each prisoner would be one thousand pounds. "I will pay it at once," said Mr. Fogg, taking a roll of bank-bills from the carpet-bag, which Passepartout had by him, and placing them on the clerk's desk. "This sum will be restored to you upon your release from prison," said the judge. "Meanwhile, you are liberated on bail." "Come!" said Phileas Fogg to his servant. "But let them at least give me back my shoes!" cried Passepartout angrily. "Ah, these are pretty dear shoes!" he muttered, as they were handed to him. "More than a thousand pounds apiece; besides, they pinch my feet." Mr. Fogg, offering his arm to Aouda, then departed, followed by the crestfallen Passepartout. Fix still nourished hopes that the robber would not, after all, leave the two thousand pounds behind him, but would decide to serve out his week in jail, and issued forth on Mr. Fogg's traces. That gentleman took a carriage, and the party were soon landed on one of the quays. The Rangoon was moored half a mile off in the harbour, its signal of departure hoisted at the mast-head. Eleven o'clock was striking; Mr. Fogg was an hour in advance of time. Fix saw them leave the carriage and push off in a boat for the steamer, and stamped his feet with disappointment. "The rascal is off, after all!" he exclaimed. "Two thousand pounds sacrificed! He's as prodigal as a thief! I'll follow him to the end of the world if necessary; but, at the rate he is going on, the stolen money will soon be exhausted." The detective was not far wrong in making this conjecture. Since leaving London, what with travelling expenses, bribes, the purchase of the elephant, bails, and fines, Mr. Fogg had already spent more than five thousand pounds on the way, and the percentage of the sum recovered from the bank robber promised to the detectives, was rapidly diminishing.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 16 with the given context.

chapter 16|chapter 17|chapter 18

The travelers board the Rangoon. They have to travel three thousand five hundred miles on this ship. Aouda becomes better acquainted with Fogg and is amazed by his attitude. While he is very particular about catering to her needs he behaves like automation. Fogg assures Aouda that he will find her cousin for her in Hong Kong. The first part of the voyage passed in excellent weather then they pass the Great Andaman and later the Straits of Malacca. Fix is on the boat too and his aim is to arrest Fogg in Hong Kong. He keeps thinking about that. He also thinks of telling Passepartout, that his master may be a robber. Hr goes to the deck and strikes up a conversation with Passepartout. Passepartout is a little surprised to see Fix. But, he nevertheless tells Fix about his adventures in India. Fix learns that the young woman, Aouda, will be accompanying Fogg till Hong Kong and no further.

----------CHAPTER 16--------- The Rangoon--one of the Peninsular and Oriental Company's boats plying in the Chinese and Japanese seas--was a screw steamer, built of iron, weighing about seventeen hundred and seventy tons, and with engines of four hundred horse-power. She was as fast, but not as well fitted up, as the Mongolia, and Aouda was not as comfortably provided for on board of her as Phileas Fogg could have wished. However, the trip from Calcutta to Hong Kong only comprised some three thousand five hundred miles, occupying from ten to twelve days, and the young woman was not difficult to please. During the first days of the journey Aouda became better acquainted with her protector, and constantly gave evidence of her deep gratitude for what he had done. The phlegmatic gentleman listened to her, apparently at least, with coldness, neither his voice nor his manner betraying the slightest emotion; but he seemed to be always on the watch that nothing should be wanting to Aouda's comfort. He visited her regularly each day at certain hours, not so much to talk himself, as to sit and hear her talk. He treated her with the strictest politeness, but with the precision of an automaton, the movements of which had been arranged for this purpose. Aouda did not quite know what to make of him, though Passepartout had given her some hints of his master's eccentricity, and made her smile by telling her of the wager which was sending him round the world. After all, she owed Phileas Fogg her life, and she always regarded him through the exalting medium of her gratitude. Aouda confirmed the Parsee guide's narrative of her touching history. She did, indeed, belong to the highest of the native races of India. Many of the Parsee merchants have made great fortunes there by dealing in cotton; and one of them, Sir Jametsee Jeejeebhoy, was made a baronet by the English government. Aouda was a relative of this great man, and it was his cousin, Jeejeeh, whom she hoped to join at Hong Kong. Whether she would find a protector in him she could not tell; but Mr. Fogg essayed to calm her anxieties, and to assure her that everything would be mathematically--he used the very word--arranged. Aouda fastened her great eyes, "clear as the sacred lakes of the Himalaya," upon him; but the intractable Fogg, as reserved as ever, did not seem at all inclined to throw himself into this lake. The first few days of the voyage passed prosperously, amid favourable weather and propitious winds, and they soon came in sight of the great Andaman, the principal of the islands in the Bay of Bengal, with its picturesque Saddle Peak, two thousand four hundred feet high, looming above the waters. The steamer passed along near the shores, but the savage Papuans, who are in the lowest scale of humanity, but are not, as has been asserted, cannibals, did not make their appearance. The panorama of the islands, as they steamed by them, was superb. Vast forests of palms, arecs, bamboo, teakwood, of the gigantic mimosa, and tree-like ferns covered the foreground, while behind, the graceful outlines of the mountains were traced against the sky; and along the coasts swarmed by thousands the precious swallows whose nests furnish a luxurious dish to the tables of the Celestial Empire. The varied landscape afforded by the Andaman Islands was soon passed, however, and the Rangoon rapidly approached the Straits of Malacca, which gave access to the China seas. What was detective Fix, so unluckily drawn on from country to country, doing all this while? He had managed to embark on the Rangoon at Calcutta without being seen by Passepartout, after leaving orders that, if the warrant should arrive, it should be forwarded to him at Hong Kong; and he hoped to conceal his presence to the end of the voyage. It would have been difficult to explain why he was on board without awakening Passepartout's suspicions, who thought him still at Bombay. But necessity impelled him, nevertheless, to renew his acquaintance with the worthy servant, as will be seen. All the detective's hopes and wishes were now centred on Hong Kong; for the steamer's stay at Singapore would be too brief to enable him to take any steps there. The arrest must be made at Hong Kong, or the robber would probably escape him for ever. Hong Kong was the last English ground on which he would set foot; beyond, China, Japan, America offered to Fogg an almost certain refuge. If the warrant should at last make its appearance at Hong Kong, Fix could arrest him and give him into the hands of the local police, and there would be no further trouble. But beyond Hong Kong, a simple warrant would be of no avail; an extradition warrant would be necessary, and that would result in delays and obstacles, of which the rascal would take advantage to elude justice. Fix thought over these probabilities during the long hours which he spent in his cabin, and kept repeating to himself, "Now, either the warrant will be at Hong Kong, in which case I shall arrest my man, or it will not be there; and this time it is absolutely necessary that I should delay his departure. I have failed at Bombay, and I have failed at Calcutta; if I fail at Hong Kong, my reputation is lost: Cost what it may, I must succeed! But how shall I prevent his departure, if that should turn out to be my last resource?" Fix made up his mind that, if worst came to worst, he would make a confidant of Passepartout, and tell him what kind of a fellow his master really was. That Passepartout was not Fogg's accomplice, he was very certain. The servant, enlightened by his disclosure, and afraid of being himself implicated in the crime, would doubtless become an ally of the detective. But this method was a dangerous one, only to be employed when everything else had failed. A word from Passepartout to his master would ruin all. The detective was therefore in a sore strait. But suddenly a new idea struck him. The presence of Aouda on the Rangoon, in company with Phileas Fogg, gave him new material for reflection. Who was this woman? What combination of events had made her Fogg's travelling companion? They had evidently met somewhere between Bombay and Calcutta; but where? Had they met accidentally, or had Fogg gone into the interior purposely in quest of this charming damsel? Fix was fairly puzzled. He asked himself whether there had not been a wicked elopement; and this idea so impressed itself upon his mind that he determined to make use of the supposed intrigue. Whether the young woman were married or not, he would be able to create such difficulties for Mr. Fogg at Hong Kong that he could not escape by paying any amount of money. But could he even wait till they reached Hong Kong? Fogg had an abominable way of jumping from one boat to another, and, before anything could be effected, might get full under way again for Yokohama. Fix decided that he must warn the English authorities, and signal the Rangoon before her arrival. This was easy to do, since the steamer stopped at Singapore, whence there is a telegraphic wire to Hong Kong. He finally resolved, moreover, before acting more positively, to question Passepartout. It would not be difficult to make him talk; and, as there was no time to lose, Fix prepared to make himself known. It was now the 30th of October, and on the following day the Rangoon was due at Singapore. Fix emerged from his cabin and went on deck. Passepartout was promenading up and down in the forward part of the steamer. The detective rushed forward with every appearance of extreme surprise, and exclaimed, "You here, on the Rangoon?" "What, Monsieur Fix, are you on board?" returned the really astonished Passepartout, recognising his crony of the Mongolia. "Why, I left you at Bombay, and here you are, on the way to Hong Kong! Are you going round the world too?" "No, no," replied Fix; "I shall stop at Hong Kong--at least for some days." "Hum!" said Passepartout, who seemed for an instant perplexed. "But how is it I have not seen you on board since we left Calcutta?" "Oh, a trifle of sea-sickness--I've been staying in my berth. The Gulf of Bengal does not agree with me as well as the Indian Ocean. And how is Mr. Fogg?" "As well and as punctual as ever, not a day behind time! But, Monsieur Fix, you don't know that we have a young lady with us." "A young lady?" replied the detective, not seeming to comprehend what was said. Passepartout thereupon recounted Aouda's history, the affair at the Bombay pagoda, the purchase of the elephant for two thousand pounds, the rescue, the arrest, and sentence of the Calcutta court, and the restoration of Mr. Fogg and himself to liberty on bail. Fix, who was familiar with the last events, seemed to be equally ignorant of all that Passepartout related; and the later was charmed to find so interested a listener. "But does your master propose to carry this young woman to Europe?" "Not at all. We are simply going to place her under the protection of one of her relatives, a rich merchant at Hong Kong." "Nothing to be done there," said Fix to himself, concealing his disappointment. "A glass of gin, Mr. Passepartout?" "Willingly, Monsieur Fix. We must at least have a friendly glass on board the Rangoon." ----------CHAPTER 17--------- The detective and Passepartout met often on deck after this interview, though Fix was reserved, and did not attempt to induce his companion to divulge any more facts concerning Mr. Fogg. He caught a glimpse of that mysterious gentleman once or twice; but Mr. Fogg usually confined himself to the cabin, where he kept Aouda company, or, according to his inveterate habit, took a hand at whist. Passepartout began very seriously to conjecture what strange chance kept Fix still on the route that his master was pursuing. It was really worth considering why this certainly very amiable and complacent person, whom he had first met at Suez, had then encountered on board the Mongolia, who disembarked at Bombay, which he announced as his destination, and now turned up so unexpectedly on the Rangoon, was following Mr. Fogg's tracks step by step. What was Fix's object? Passepartout was ready to wager his Indian shoes--which he religiously preserved--that Fix would also leave Hong Kong at the same time with them, and probably on the same steamer. Passepartout might have cudgelled his brain for a century without hitting upon the real object which the detective had in view. He never could have imagined that Phileas Fogg was being tracked as a robber around the globe. But, as it is in human nature to attempt the solution of every mystery, Passepartout suddenly discovered an explanation of Fix's movements, which was in truth far from unreasonable. Fix, he thought, could only be an agent of Mr. Fogg's friends at the Reform Club, sent to follow him up, and to ascertain that he really went round the world as had been agreed upon. "It's clear!" repeated the worthy servant to himself, proud of his shrewdness. "He's a spy sent to keep us in view! That isn't quite the thing, either, to be spying Mr. Fogg, who is so honourable a man! Ah, gentlemen of the Reform, this shall cost you dear!" Passepartout, enchanted with his discovery, resolved to say nothing to his master, lest he should be justly offended at this mistrust on the part of his adversaries. But he determined to chaff Fix, when he had the chance, with mysterious allusions, which, however, need not betray his real suspicions. During the afternoon of Wednesday, 30th October, the Rangoon entered the Strait of Malacca, which separates the peninsula of that name from Sumatra. The mountainous and craggy islets intercepted the beauties of this noble island from the view of the travellers. The Rangoon weighed anchor at Singapore the next day at four a.m., to receive coal, having gained half a day on the prescribed time of her arrival. Phileas Fogg noted this gain in his journal, and then, accompanied by Aouda, who betrayed a desire for a walk on shore, disembarked. Fix, who suspected Mr. Fogg's every movement, followed them cautiously, without being himself perceived; while Passepartout, laughing in his sleeve at Fix's manoeuvres, went about his usual errands. The island of Singapore is not imposing in aspect, for there are no mountains; yet its appearance is not without attractions. It is a park checkered by pleasant highways and avenues. A handsome carriage, drawn by a sleek pair of New Holland horses, carried Phileas Fogg and Aouda into the midst of rows of palms with brilliant foliage, and of clove-trees, whereof the cloves form the heart of a half-open flower. Pepper plants replaced the prickly hedges of European fields; sago-bushes, large ferns with gorgeous branches, varied the aspect of this tropical clime; while nutmeg-trees in full foliage filled the air with a penetrating perfume. Agile and grinning bands of monkeys skipped about in the trees, nor were tigers wanting in the jungles. After a drive of two hours through the country, Aouda and Mr. Fogg returned to the town, which is a vast collection of heavy-looking, irregular houses, surrounded by charming gardens rich in tropical fruits and plants; and at ten o'clock they re-embarked, closely followed by the detective, who had kept them constantly in sight. Passepartout, who had been purchasing several dozen mangoes--a fruit as large as good-sized apples, of a dark-brown colour outside and a bright red within, and whose white pulp, melting in the mouth, affords gourmands a delicious sensation--was waiting for them on deck. He was only too glad to offer some mangoes to Aouda, who thanked him very gracefully for them. At eleven o'clock the Rangoon rode out of Singapore harbour, and in a few hours the high mountains of Malacca, with their forests, inhabited by the most beautifully-furred tigers in the world, were lost to view. Singapore is distant some thirteen hundred miles from the island of Hong Kong, which is a little English colony near the Chinese coast. Phileas Fogg hoped to accomplish the journey in six days, so as to be in time for the steamer which would leave on the 6th of November for Yokohama, the principal Japanese port. The Rangoon had a large quota of passengers, many of whom disembarked at Singapore, among them a number of Indians, Ceylonese, Chinamen, Malays, and Portuguese, mostly second-class travellers. The weather, which had hitherto been fine, changed with the last quarter of the moon. The sea rolled heavily, and the wind at intervals rose almost to a storm, but happily blew from the south-west, and thus aided the steamer's progress. The captain as often as possible put up his sails, and under the double action of steam and sail the vessel made rapid progress along the coasts of Anam and Cochin China. Owing to the defective construction of the Rangoon, however, unusual precautions became necessary in unfavourable weather; but the loss of time which resulted from this cause, while it nearly drove Passepartout out of his senses, did not seem to affect his master in the least. Passepartout blamed the captain, the engineer, and the crew, and consigned all who were connected with the ship to the land where the pepper grows. Perhaps the thought of the gas, which was remorselessly burning at his expense in Saville Row, had something to do with his hot impatience. "You are in a great hurry, then," said Fix to him one day, "to reach Hong Kong?" "A very great hurry!" "Mr. Fogg, I suppose, is anxious to catch the steamer for Yokohama?" "Terribly anxious." "You believe in this journey around the world, then?" "Absolutely. Don't you, Mr. Fix?" "I? I don't believe a word of it." "You're a sly dog!" said Passepartout, winking at him. This expression rather disturbed Fix, without his knowing why. Had the Frenchman guessed his real purpose? He knew not what to think. But how could Passepartout have discovered that he was a detective? Yet, in speaking as he did, the man evidently meant more than he expressed. Passepartout went still further the next day; he could not hold his tongue. "Mr. Fix," said he, in a bantering tone, "shall we be so unfortunate as to lose you when we get to Hong Kong?" "Why," responded Fix, a little embarrassed, "I don't know; perhaps--" "Ah, if you would only go on with us! An agent of the Peninsular Company, you know, can't stop on the way! You were only going to Bombay, and here you are in China. America is not far off, and from America to Europe is only a step." Fix looked intently at his companion, whose countenance was as serene as possible, and laughed with him. But Passepartout persisted in chaffing him by asking him if he made much by his present occupation. "Yes, and no," returned Fix; "there is good and bad luck in such things. But you must understand that I don't travel at my own expense." "Oh, I am quite sure of that!" cried Passepartout, laughing heartily. Fix, fairly puzzled, descended to his cabin and gave himself up to his reflections. He was evidently suspected; somehow or other the Frenchman had found out that he was a detective. But had he told his master? What part was he playing in all this: was he an accomplice or not? Was the game, then, up? Fix spent several hours turning these things over in his mind, sometimes thinking that all was lost, then persuading himself that Fogg was ignorant of his presence, and then undecided what course it was best to take. Nevertheless, he preserved his coolness of mind, and at last resolved to deal plainly with Passepartout. If he did not find it practicable to arrest Fogg at Hong Kong, and if Fogg made preparations to leave that last foothold of English territory, he, Fix, would tell Passepartout all. Either the servant was the accomplice of his master, and in this case the master knew of his operations, and he should fail; or else the servant knew nothing about the robbery, and then his interest would be to abandon the robber. Such was the situation between Fix and Passepartout. Meanwhile Phileas Fogg moved about above them in the most majestic and unconscious indifference. He was passing methodically in his orbit around the world, regardless of the lesser stars which gravitated around him. Yet there was near by what the astronomers would call a disturbing star, which might have produced an agitation in this gentleman's heart. But no! the charms of Aouda failed to act, to Passepartout's great surprise; and the disturbances, if they existed, would have been more difficult to calculate than those of Uranus which led to the discovery of Neptune. It was every day an increasing wonder to Passepartout, who read in Aouda's eyes the depths of her gratitude to his master. Phileas Fogg, though brave and gallant, must be, he thought, quite heartless. As to the sentiment which this journey might have awakened in him, there was clearly no trace of such a thing; while poor Passepartout existed in perpetual reveries. One day he was leaning on the railing of the engine-room, and was observing the engine, when a sudden pitch of the steamer threw the screw out of the water. The steam came hissing out of the valves; and this made Passepartout indignant. "The valves are not sufficiently charged!" he exclaimed. "We are not going. Oh, these English! If this was an American craft, we should blow up, perhaps, but we should at all events go faster!" ----------CHAPTER 18--------- The weather was bad during the latter days of the voyage. The wind, obstinately remaining in the north-west, blew a gale, and retarded the steamer. The Rangoon rolled heavily and the passengers became impatient of the long, monstrous waves which the wind raised before their path. A sort of tempest arose on the 3rd of November, the squall knocking the vessel about with fury, and the waves running high. The Rangoon reefed all her sails, and even the rigging proved too much, whistling and shaking amid the squall. The steamer was forced to proceed slowly, and the captain estimated that she would reach Hong Kong twenty hours behind time, and more if the storm lasted. Phileas Fogg gazed at the tempestuous sea, which seemed to be struggling especially to delay him, with his habitual tranquillity. He never changed countenance for an instant, though a delay of twenty hours, by making him too late for the Yokohama boat, would almost inevitably cause the loss of the wager. But this man of nerve manifested neither impatience nor annoyance; it seemed as if the storm were a part of his programme, and had been foreseen. Aouda was amazed to find him as calm as he had been from the first time she saw him. Fix did not look at the state of things in the same light. The storm greatly pleased him. His satisfaction would have been complete had the Rangoon been forced to retreat before the violence of wind and waves. Each delay filled him with hope, for it became more and more probable that Fogg would be obliged to remain some days at Hong Kong; and now the heavens themselves became his allies, with the gusts and squalls. It mattered not that they made him sea-sick--he made no account of this inconvenience; and, whilst his body was writhing under their effects, his spirit bounded with hopeful exultation. Passepartout was enraged beyond expression by the unpropitious weather. Everything had gone so well till now! Earth and sea had seemed to be at his master's service; steamers and railways obeyed him; wind and steam united to speed his journey. Had the hour of adversity come? Passepartout was as much excited as if the twenty thousand pounds were to come from his own pocket. The storm exasperated him, the gale made him furious, and he longed to lash the obstinate sea into obedience. Poor fellow! Fix carefully concealed from him his own satisfaction, for, had he betrayed it, Passepartout could scarcely have restrained himself from personal violence. Passepartout remained on deck as long as the tempest lasted, being unable to remain quiet below, and taking it into his head to aid the progress of the ship by lending a hand with the crew. He overwhelmed the captain, officers, and sailors, who could not help laughing at his impatience, with all sorts of questions. He wanted to know exactly how long the storm was going to last; whereupon he was referred to the barometer, which seemed to have no intention of rising. Passepartout shook it, but with no perceptible effect; for neither shaking nor maledictions could prevail upon it to change its mind. On the 4th, however, the sea became more calm, and the storm lessened its violence; the wind veered southward, and was once more favourable. Passepartout cleared up with the weather. Some of the sails were unfurled, and the Rangoon resumed its most rapid speed. The time lost could not, however, be regained. Land was not signalled until five o'clock on the morning of the 6th; the steamer was due on the 5th. Phileas Fogg was twenty-four hours behind-hand, and the Yokohama steamer would, of course, be missed. The pilot went on board at six, and took his place on the bridge, to guide the Rangoon through the channels to the port of Hong Kong. Passepartout longed to ask him if the steamer had left for Yokohama; but he dared not, for he wished to preserve the spark of hope, which still remained till the last moment. He had confided his anxiety to Fix who--the sly rascal!--tried to console him by saying that Mr. Fogg would be in time if he took the next boat; but this only put Passepartout in a passion. Mr. Fogg, bolder than his servant, did not hesitate to approach the pilot, and tranquilly ask him if he knew when a steamer would leave Hong Kong for Yokohama. "At high tide to-morrow morning," answered the pilot. "Ah!" said Mr. Fogg, without betraying any astonishment. Passepartout, who heard what passed, would willingly have embraced the pilot, while Fix would have been glad to twist his neck. "What is the steamer's name?" asked Mr. Fogg. "The Carnatic." "Ought she not to have gone yesterday?" "Yes, sir; but they had to repair one of her boilers, and so her departure was postponed till to-morrow." "Thank you," returned Mr. Fogg, descending mathematically to the saloon. Passepartout clasped the pilot's hand and shook it heartily in his delight, exclaiming, "Pilot, you are the best of good fellows!" The pilot probably does not know to this day why his responses won him this enthusiastic greeting. He remounted the bridge, and guided the steamer through the flotilla of junks, tankas, and fishing boats which crowd the harbour of Hong Kong. At one o'clock the Rangoon was at the quay, and the passengers were going ashore. Chance had strangely favoured Phileas Fogg, for had not the Carnatic been forced to lie over for repairing her boilers, she would have left on the 6th of November, and the passengers for Japan would have been obliged to await for a week the sailing of the next steamer. Mr. Fogg was, it is true, twenty-four hours behind his time; but this could not seriously imperil the remainder of his tour. The steamer which crossed the Pacific from Yokohama to San Francisco made a direct connection with that from Hong Kong, and it could not sail until the latter reached Yokohama; and if Mr. Fogg was twenty-four hours late on reaching Yokohama, this time would no doubt be easily regained in the voyage of twenty-two days across the Pacific. He found himself, then, about twenty-four hours behind-hand, thirty-five days after leaving London. The Carnatic was announced to leave Hong Kong at five the next morning. Mr. Fogg had sixteen hours in which to attend to his business there, which was to deposit Aouda safely with her wealthy relative. On landing, he conducted her to a palanquin, in which they repaired to the Club Hotel. A room was engaged for the young woman, and Mr. Fogg, after seeing that she wanted for nothing, set out in search of her cousin Jeejeeh. He instructed Passepartout to remain at the hotel until his return, that Aouda might not be left entirely alone. Mr. Fogg repaired to the Exchange, where, he did not doubt, every one would know so wealthy and considerable a personage as the Parsee merchant. Meeting a broker, he made the inquiry, to learn that Jeejeeh had left China two years before, and, retiring from business with an immense fortune, had taken up his residence in Europe--in Holland the broker thought, with the merchants of which country he had principally traded. Phileas Fogg returned to the hotel, begged a moment's conversation with Aouda, and without more ado, apprised her that Jeejeeh was no longer at Hong Kong, but probably in Holland. Aouda at first said nothing. She passed her hand across her forehead, and reflected a few moments. Then, in her sweet, soft voice, she said: "What ought I to do, Mr. Fogg?" "It is very simple," responded the gentleman. "Go on to Europe." "But I cannot intrude--" "You do not intrude, nor do you in the least embarrass my project. Passepartout!" "Monsieur." "Go to the Carnatic, and engage three cabins." Passepartout, delighted that the young woman, who was very gracious to him, was going to continue the journey with them, went off at a brisk gait to obey his master's order.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 20 using the context provided.

chapter 19|chapter 20

After describing Passepartout's activities in Hong Kong, in this chapter, the fate of Fogg and Aouda is delineated. As Aouda was to travel with Fogg to Europe, many purchases had to be made for her. Fogg accompanies her for shopping at Hong Kong and Aouda is grateful. Then they retire comfortably to their hotel rooms and the next day they reach the dockyard in order to board the Carnatic. But, to their disappointment they learn that the ship has already left. Fix meets them and inquires about their servant as well as about the fact that they have missed the ship. He is happy that Fogg is delayed but Fogg being the determined man he is, he manages to find a ship called Tankadere that can take them to Shanghai. The trustworthy John Bunsby pilots the ship and Fogg is kind enough to ask detective Fix to take a seat in this hired ship as well. Fix agrees and the group leaves Hong Kong on the ship, with the destination of Shanghai in mind.

----------CHAPTER 19--------- Hong Kong is an island which came into the possession of the English by the Treaty of Nankin, after the war of 1842; and the colonising genius of the English has created upon it an important city and an excellent port. The island is situated at the mouth of the Canton River, and is separated by about sixty miles from the Portuguese town of Macao, on the opposite coast. Hong Kong has beaten Macao in the struggle for the Chinese trade, and now the greater part of the transportation of Chinese goods finds its depot at the former place. Docks, hospitals, wharves, a Gothic cathedral, a government house, macadamised streets, give to Hong Kong the appearance of a town in Kent or Surrey transferred by some strange magic to the antipodes. Passepartout wandered, with his hands in his pockets, towards the Victoria port, gazing as he went at the curious palanquins and other modes of conveyance, and the groups of Chinese, Japanese, and Europeans who passed to and fro in the streets. Hong Kong seemed to him not unlike Bombay, Calcutta, and Singapore, since, like them, it betrayed everywhere the evidence of English supremacy. At the Victoria port he found a confused mass of ships of all nations: English, French, American, and Dutch, men-of-war and trading vessels, Japanese and Chinese junks, sempas, tankas, and flower-boats, which formed so many floating parterres. Passepartout noticed in the crowd a number of the natives who seemed very old and were dressed in yellow. On going into a barber's to get shaved he learned that these ancient men were all at least eighty years old, at which age they are permitted to wear yellow, which is the Imperial colour. Passepartout, without exactly knowing why, thought this very funny. On reaching the quay where they were to embark on the Carnatic, he was not astonished to find Fix walking up and down. The detective seemed very much disturbed and disappointed. "This is bad," muttered Passepartout, "for the gentlemen of the Reform Club!" He accosted Fix with a merry smile, as if he had not perceived that gentleman's chagrin. The detective had, indeed, good reasons to inveigh against the bad luck which pursued him. The warrant had not come! It was certainly on the way, but as certainly it could not now reach Hong Kong for several days; and, this being the last English territory on Mr. Fogg's route, the robber would escape, unless he could manage to detain him. "Well, Monsieur Fix," said Passepartout, "have you decided to go with us so far as America?" "Yes," returned Fix, through his set teeth. "Good!" exclaimed Passepartout, laughing heartily. "I knew you could not persuade yourself to separate from us. Come and engage your berth." They entered the steamer office and secured cabins for four persons. The clerk, as he gave them the tickets, informed them that, the repairs on the Carnatic having been completed, the steamer would leave that very evening, and not next morning, as had been announced. "That will suit my master all the better," said Passepartout. "I will go and let him know." Fix now decided to make a bold move; he resolved to tell Passepartout all. It seemed to be the only possible means of keeping Phileas Fogg several days longer at Hong Kong. He accordingly invited his companion into a tavern which caught his eye on the quay. On entering, they found themselves in a large room handsomely decorated, at the end of which was a large camp-bed furnished with cushions. Several persons lay upon this bed in a deep sleep. At the small tables which were arranged about the room some thirty customers were drinking English beer, porter, gin, and brandy; smoking, the while, long red clay pipes stuffed with little balls of opium mingled with essence of rose. From time to time one of the smokers, overcome with the narcotic, would slip under the table, whereupon the waiters, taking him by the head and feet, carried and laid him upon the bed. The bed already supported twenty of these stupefied sots. Fix and Passepartout saw that they were in a smoking-house haunted by those wretched, cadaverous, idiotic creatures to whom the English merchants sell every year the miserable drug called opium, to the amount of one million four hundred thousand pounds--thousands devoted to one of the most despicable vices which afflict humanity! The Chinese government has in vain attempted to deal with the evil by stringent laws. It passed gradually from the rich, to whom it was at first exclusively reserved, to the lower classes, and then its ravages could not be arrested. Opium is smoked everywhere, at all times, by men and women, in the Celestial Empire; and, once accustomed to it, the victims cannot dispense with it, except by suffering horrible bodily contortions and agonies. A great smoker can smoke as many as eight pipes a day; but he dies in five years. It was in one of these dens that Fix and Passepartout, in search of a friendly glass, found themselves. Passepartout had no money, but willingly accepted Fix's invitation in the hope of returning the obligation at some future time. They ordered two bottles of port, to which the Frenchman did ample justice, whilst Fix observed him with close attention. They chatted about the journey, and Passepartout was especially merry at the idea that Fix was going to continue it with them. When the bottles were empty, however, he rose to go and tell his master of the change in the time of the sailing of the Carnatic. Fix caught him by the arm, and said, "Wait a moment." "What for, Mr. Fix?" "I want to have a serious talk with you." "A serious talk!" cried Passepartout, drinking up the little wine that was left in the bottom of his glass. "Well, we'll talk about it to-morrow; I haven't time now." "Stay! What I have to say concerns your master." Passepartout, at this, looked attentively at his companion. Fix's face seemed to have a singular expression. He resumed his seat. "What is it that you have to say?" Fix placed his hand upon Passepartout's arm, and, lowering his voice, said, "You have guessed who I am?" "Parbleu!" said Passepartout, smiling. "Then I'm going to tell you everything--" "Now that I know everything, my friend! Ah! that's very good. But go on, go on. First, though, let me tell you that those gentlemen have put themselves to a useless expense." "Useless!" said Fix. "You speak confidently. It's clear that you don't know how large the sum is." "Of course I do," returned Passepartout. "Twenty thousand pounds." "Fifty-five thousand!" answered Fix, pressing his companion's hand. "What!" cried the Frenchman. "Has Monsieur Fogg dared--fifty-five thousand pounds! Well, there's all the more reason for not losing an instant," he continued, getting up hastily. Fix pushed Passepartout back in his chair, and resumed: "Fifty-five thousand pounds; and if I succeed, I get two thousand pounds. If you'll help me, I'll let you have five hundred of them." "Help you?" cried Passepartout, whose eyes were standing wide open. "Yes; help me keep Mr. Fogg here for two or three days." "Why, what are you saying? Those gentlemen are not satisfied with following my master and suspecting his honour, but they must try to put obstacles in his way! I blush for them!" "What do you mean?" "I mean that it is a piece of shameful trickery. They might as well waylay Mr. Fogg and put his money in their pockets!" "That's just what we count on doing." "It's a conspiracy, then," cried Passepartout, who became more and more excited as the liquor mounted in his head, for he drank without perceiving it. "A real conspiracy! And gentlemen, too. Bah!" Fix began to be puzzled. "Members of the Reform Club!" continued Passepartout. "You must know, Monsieur Fix, that my master is an honest man, and that, when he makes a wager, he tries to win it fairly!" "But who do you think I am?" asked Fix, looking at him intently. "Parbleu! An agent of the members of the Reform Club, sent out here to interrupt my master's journey. But, though I found you out some time ago, I've taken good care to say nothing about it to Mr. Fogg." "He knows nothing, then?" "Nothing," replied Passepartout, again emptying his glass. The detective passed his hand across his forehead, hesitating before he spoke again. What should he do? Passepartout's mistake seemed sincere, but it made his design more difficult. It was evident that the servant was not the master's accomplice, as Fix had been inclined to suspect. "Well," said the detective to himself, "as he is not an accomplice, he will help me." He had no time to lose: Fogg must be detained at Hong Kong, so he resolved to make a clean breast of it. "Listen to me," said Fix abruptly. "I am not, as you think, an agent of the members of the Reform Club--" "Bah!" retorted Passepartout, with an air of raillery. "I am a police detective, sent out here by the London office." "You, a detective?" "I will prove it. Here is my commission." Passepartout was speechless with astonishment when Fix displayed this document, the genuineness of which could not be doubted. "Mr. Fogg's wager," resumed Fix, "is only a pretext, of which you and the gentlemen of the Reform are dupes. He had a motive for securing your innocent complicity." "But why?" "Listen. On the 28th of last September a robbery of fifty-five thousand pounds was committed at the Bank of England by a person whose description was fortunately secured. Here is his description; it answers exactly to that of Mr. Phileas Fogg." "What nonsense!" cried Passepartout, striking the table with his fist. "My master is the most honourable of men!" "How can you tell? You know scarcely anything about him. You went into his service the day he came away; and he came away on a foolish pretext, without trunks, and carrying a large amount in banknotes. And yet you are bold enough to assert that he is an honest man!" "Yes, yes," repeated the poor fellow, mechanically. "Would you like to be arrested as his accomplice?" Passepartout, overcome by what he had heard, held his head between his hands, and did not dare to look at the detective. Phileas Fogg, the saviour of Aouda, that brave and generous man, a robber! And yet how many presumptions there were against him! Passepartout essayed to reject the suspicions which forced themselves upon his mind; he did not wish to believe that his master was guilty. "Well, what do you want of me?" said he, at last, with an effort. "See here," replied Fix; "I have tracked Mr. Fogg to this place, but as yet I have failed to receive the warrant of arrest for which I sent to London. You must help me to keep him here in Hong Kong--" "I! But I--" "I will share with you the two thousand pounds reward offered by the Bank of England." "Never!" replied Passepartout, who tried to rise, but fell back, exhausted in mind and body. "Mr. Fix," he stammered, "even should what you say be true--if my master is really the robber you are seeking for--which I deny--I have been, am, in his service; I have seen his generosity and goodness; and I will never betray him--not for all the gold in the world. I come from a village where they don't eat that kind of bread!" "You refuse?" "I refuse." "Consider that I've said nothing," said Fix; "and let us drink." "Yes; let us drink!" Passepartout felt himself yielding more and more to the effects of the liquor. Fix, seeing that he must, at all hazards, be separated from his master, wished to entirely overcome him. Some pipes full of opium lay upon the table. Fix slipped one into Passepartout's hand. He took it, put it between his lips, lit it, drew several puffs, and his head, becoming heavy under the influence of the narcotic, fell upon the table. "At last!" said Fix, seeing Passepartout unconscious. "Mr. Fogg will not be informed of the Carnatic's departure; and, if he is, he will have to go without this cursed Frenchman!" And, after paying his bill, Fix left the tavern. ----------CHAPTER 20--------- While these events were passing at the opium-house, Mr. Fogg, unconscious of the danger he was in of losing the steamer, was quietly escorting Aouda about the streets of the English quarter, making the necessary purchases for the long voyage before them. It was all very well for an Englishman like Mr. Fogg to make the tour of the world with a carpet-bag; a lady could not be expected to travel comfortably under such conditions. He acquitted his task with characteristic serenity, and invariably replied to the remonstrances of his fair companion, who was confused by his patience and generosity: "It is in the interest of my journey--a part of my programme." The purchases made, they returned to the hotel, where they dined at a sumptuously served table-d'hote; after which Aouda, shaking hands with her protector after the English fashion, retired to her room for rest. Mr. Fogg absorbed himself throughout the evening in the perusal of The Times and Illustrated London News. Had he been capable of being astonished at anything, it would have been not to see his servant return at bedtime. But, knowing that the steamer was not to leave for Yokohama until the next morning, he did not disturb himself about the matter. When Passepartout did not appear the next morning to answer his master's bell, Mr. Fogg, not betraying the least vexation, contented himself with taking his carpet-bag, calling Aouda, and sending for a palanquin. It was then eight o'clock; at half-past nine, it being then high tide, the Carnatic would leave the harbour. Mr. Fogg and Aouda got into the palanquin, their luggage being brought after on a wheelbarrow, and half an hour later stepped upon the quay whence they were to embark. Mr. Fogg then learned that the Carnatic had sailed the evening before. He had expected to find not only the steamer, but his domestic, and was forced to give up both; but no sign of disappointment appeared on his face, and he merely remarked to Aouda, "It is an accident, madam; nothing more." At this moment a man who had been observing him attentively approached. It was Fix, who, bowing, addressed Mr. Fogg: "Were you not, like me, sir, a passenger by the Rangoon, which arrived yesterday?" "I was, sir," replied Mr. Fogg coldly. "But I have not the honour--" "Pardon me; I thought I should find your servant here." "Do you know where he is, sir?" asked Aouda anxiously. "What!" responded Fix, feigning surprise. "Is he not with you?" "No," said Aouda. "He has not made his appearance since yesterday. Could he have gone on board the Carnatic without us?" "Without you, madam?" answered the detective. "Excuse me, did you intend to sail in the Carnatic?" "Yes, sir." "So did I, madam, and I am excessively disappointed. The Carnatic, its repairs being completed, left Hong Kong twelve hours before the stated time, without any notice being given; and we must now wait a week for another steamer." As he said "a week" Fix felt his heart leap for joy. Fogg detained at Hong Kong for a week! There would be time for the warrant to arrive, and fortune at last favoured the representative of the law. His horror may be imagined when he heard Mr. Fogg say, in his placid voice, "But there are other vessels besides the Carnatic, it seems to me, in the harbour of Hong Kong." And, offering his arm to Aouda, he directed his steps toward the docks in search of some craft about to start. Fix, stupefied, followed; it seemed as if he were attached to Mr. Fogg by an invisible thread. Chance, however, appeared really to have abandoned the man it had hitherto served so well. For three hours Phileas Fogg wandered about the docks, with the determination, if necessary, to charter a vessel to carry him to Yokohama; but he could only find vessels which were loading or unloading, and which could not therefore set sail. Fix began to hope again. But Mr. Fogg, far from being discouraged, was continuing his search, resolved not to stop if he had to resort to Macao, when he was accosted by a sailor on one of the wharves. "Is your honour looking for a boat?" "Have you a boat ready to sail?" "Yes, your honour; a pilot-boat--No. 43--the best in the harbour." "Does she go fast?" "Between eight and nine knots the hour. Will you look at her?" "Yes." "Your honour will be satisfied with her. Is it for a sea excursion?" "No; for a voyage." "A voyage?" "Yes, will you agree to take me to Yokohama?" The sailor leaned on the railing, opened his eyes wide, and said, "Is your honour joking?" "No. I have missed the Carnatic, and I must get to Yokohama by the 14th at the latest, to take the boat for San Francisco." "I am sorry," said the sailor; "but it is impossible." "I offer you a hundred pounds per day, and an additional reward of two hundred pounds if I reach Yokohama in time." "Are you in earnest?" "Very much so." The pilot walked away a little distance, and gazed out to sea, evidently struggling between the anxiety to gain a large sum and the fear of venturing so far. Fix was in mortal suspense. Mr. Fogg turned to Aouda and asked her, "You would not be afraid, would you, madam?" "Not with you, Mr. Fogg," was her answer. The pilot now returned, shuffling his hat in his hands. "Well, pilot?" said Mr. Fogg. "Well, your honour," replied he, "I could not risk myself, my men, or my little boat of scarcely twenty tons on so long a voyage at this time of year. Besides, we could not reach Yokohama in time, for it is sixteen hundred and sixty miles from Hong Kong." "Only sixteen hundred," said Mr. Fogg. "It's the same thing." Fix breathed more freely. "But," added the pilot, "it might be arranged another way." Fix ceased to breathe at all. "How?" asked Mr. Fogg. "By going to Nagasaki, at the extreme south of Japan, or even to Shanghai, which is only eight hundred miles from here. In going to Shanghai we should not be forced to sail wide of the Chinese coast, which would be a great advantage, as the currents run northward, and would aid us." "Pilot," said Mr. Fogg, "I must take the American steamer at Yokohama, and not at Shanghai or Nagasaki." "Why not?" returned the pilot. "The San Francisco steamer does not start from Yokohama. It puts in at Yokohama and Nagasaki, but it starts from Shanghai." "You are sure of that?" "Perfectly." "And when does the boat leave Shanghai?" "On the 11th, at seven in the evening. We have, therefore, four days before us, that is ninety-six hours; and in that time, if we had good luck and a south-west wind, and the sea was calm, we could make those eight hundred miles to Shanghai." "And you could go--" "In an hour; as soon as provisions could be got aboard and the sails put up." "It is a bargain. Are you the master of the boat?" "Yes; John Bunsby, master of the Tankadere." "Would you like some earnest-money?" "If it would not put your honour out--" "Here are two hundred pounds on account sir," added Phileas Fogg, turning to Fix, "if you would like to take advantage--" "Thanks, sir; I was about to ask the favour." "Very well. In half an hour we shall go on board." "But poor Passepartout?" urged Aouda, who was much disturbed by the servant's disappearance. "I shall do all I can to find him," replied Phileas Fogg. While Fix, in a feverish, nervous state, repaired to the pilot-boat, the others directed their course to the police-station at Hong Kong. Phileas Fogg there gave Passepartout's description, and left a sum of money to be spent in the search for him. The same formalities having been gone through at the French consulate, and the palanquin having stopped at the hotel for the luggage, which had been sent back there, they returned to the wharf. It was now three o'clock; and pilot-boat No. 43, with its crew on board, and its provisions stored away, was ready for departure. The Tankadere was a neat little craft of twenty tons, as gracefully built as if she were a racing yacht. Her shining copper sheathing, her galvanised iron-work, her deck, white as ivory, betrayed the pride taken by John Bunsby in making her presentable. Her two masts leaned a trifle backward; she carried brigantine, foresail, storm-jib, and standing-jib, and was well rigged for running before the wind; and she seemed capable of brisk speed, which, indeed, she had already proved by gaining several prizes in pilot-boat races. The crew of the Tankadere was composed of John Bunsby, the master, and four hardy mariners, who were familiar with the Chinese seas. John Bunsby, himself, a man of forty-five or thereabouts, vigorous, sunburnt, with a sprightly expression of the eye, and energetic and self-reliant countenance, would have inspired confidence in the most timid. Phileas Fogg and Aouda went on board, where they found Fix already installed. Below deck was a square cabin, of which the walls bulged out in the form of cots, above a circular divan; in the centre was a table provided with a swinging lamp. The accommodation was confined, but neat. "I am sorry to have nothing better to offer you," said Mr. Fogg to Fix, who bowed without responding. The detective had a feeling akin to humiliation in profiting by the kindness of Mr. Fogg. "It's certain," thought he, "though rascal as he is, he is a polite one!" The sails and the English flag were hoisted at ten minutes past three. Mr. Fogg and Aouda, who were seated on deck, cast a last glance at the quay, in the hope of espying Passepartout. Fix was not without his fears lest chance should direct the steps of the unfortunate servant, whom he had so badly treated, in this direction; in which case an explanation the reverse of satisfactory to the detective must have ensued. But the Frenchman did not appear, and, without doubt, was still lying under the stupefying influence of the opium. John Bunsby, master, at length gave the order to start, and the Tankadere, taking the wind under her brigantine, foresail, and standing-jib, bounded briskly forward over the waves.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 21 using the context provided.

chapter 21|chapter 22

The journey of the Tankadere is described in this chapter. Fogg asks John Bunsby to make the ship move as fast as possible. Fix in the meanwhile was worrying about his next course of action. In the night the wind begins to blow and continues during the next day. Aouda and Fogg were not sea sick but Fix didnt feel too well. The ship moved well and Bunsby hoped to reach Shanghai in time. Then the ship gets caught in a gale and the wind pushes the vessel northward. Aouda and Fogg face the storm bravely. Fogg insists that they will not take the ship to port, but shall move towards Shanghai. The Tankadere remained at sea, despite the furious storm. When the ship has barely a day left, they are still a distance away from Shanghai. Everybody on board is in a state of suspense as to whether theyll reach, in time to board the next ship. When they are three miles from Shanghai, they see the American liner leaving at the appointed time. Fogg asks Bunsby to signal the ship and he lowers his flag to half- mast. They hoped that the American ship would alter her course for a moment so as to stand by the pilot boat.

----------CHAPTER 21--------- This voyage of eight hundred miles was a perilous venture on a craft of twenty tons, and at that season of the year. The Chinese seas are usually boisterous, subject to terrible gales of wind, and especially during the equinoxes; and it was now early November. It would clearly have been to the master's advantage to carry his passengers to Yokohama, since he was paid a certain sum per day; but he would have been rash to attempt such a voyage, and it was imprudent even to attempt to reach Shanghai. But John Bunsby believed in the Tankadere, which rode on the waves like a seagull; and perhaps he was not wrong. Late in the day they passed through the capricious channels of Hong Kong, and the Tankadere, impelled by favourable winds, conducted herself admirably. "I do not need, pilot," said Phileas Fogg, when they got into the open sea, "to advise you to use all possible speed." "Trust me, your honour. We are carrying all the sail the wind will let us. The poles would add nothing, and are only used when we are going into port." "It's your trade, not mine, pilot, and I confide in you." Phileas Fogg, with body erect and legs wide apart, standing like a sailor, gazed without staggering at the swelling waters. The young woman, who was seated aft, was profoundly affected as she looked out upon the ocean, darkening now with the twilight, on which she had ventured in so frail a vessel. Above her head rustled the white sails, which seemed like great white wings. The boat, carried forward by the wind, seemed to be flying in the air. Night came. The moon was entering her first quarter, and her insufficient light would soon die out in the mist on the horizon. Clouds were rising from the east, and already overcast a part of the heavens. The pilot had hung out his lights, which was very necessary in these seas crowded with vessels bound landward; for collisions are not uncommon occurrences, and, at the speed she was going, the least shock would shatter the gallant little craft. Fix, seated in the bow, gave himself up to meditation. He kept apart from his fellow-travellers, knowing Mr. Fogg's taciturn tastes; besides, he did not quite like to talk to the man whose favours he had accepted. He was thinking, too, of the future. It seemed certain that Fogg would not stop at Yokohama, but would at once take the boat for San Francisco; and the vast extent of America would ensure him impunity and safety. Fogg's plan appeared to him the simplest in the world. Instead of sailing directly from England to the United States, like a common villain, he had traversed three quarters of the globe, so as to gain the American continent more surely; and there, after throwing the police off his track, he would quietly enjoy himself with the fortune stolen from the bank. But, once in the United States, what should he, Fix, do? Should he abandon this man? No, a hundred times no! Until he had secured his extradition, he would not lose sight of him for an hour. It was his duty, and he would fulfil it to the end. At all events, there was one thing to be thankful for; Passepartout was not with his master; and it was above all important, after the confidences Fix had imparted to him, that the servant should never have speech with his master. Phileas Fogg was also thinking of Passepartout, who had so strangely disappeared. Looking at the matter from every point of view, it did not seem to him impossible that, by some mistake, the man might have embarked on the Carnatic at the last moment; and this was also Aouda's opinion, who regretted very much the loss of the worthy fellow to whom she owed so much. They might then find him at Yokohama; for, if the Carnatic was carrying him thither, it would be easy to ascertain if he had been on board. A brisk breeze arose about ten o'clock; but, though it might have been prudent to take in a reef, the pilot, after carefully examining the heavens, let the craft remain rigged as before. The Tankadere bore sail admirably, as she drew a great deal of water, and everything was prepared for high speed in case of a gale. Mr. Fogg and Aouda descended into the cabin at midnight, having been already preceded by Fix, who had lain down on one of the cots. The pilot and crew remained on deck all night. At sunrise the next day, which was 8th November, the boat had made more than one hundred miles. The log indicated a mean speed of between eight and nine miles. The Tankadere still carried all sail, and was accomplishing her greatest capacity of speed. If the wind held as it was, the chances would be in her favour. During the day she kept along the coast, where the currents were favourable; the coast, irregular in profile, and visible sometimes across the clearings, was at most five miles distant. The sea was less boisterous, since the wind came off land--a fortunate circumstance for the boat, which would suffer, owing to its small tonnage, by a heavy surge on the sea. The breeze subsided a little towards noon, and set in from the south-west. The pilot put up his poles, but took them down again within two hours, as the wind freshened up anew. Mr. Fogg and Aouda, happily unaffected by the roughness of the sea, ate with a good appetite, Fix being invited to share their repast, which he accepted with secret chagrin. To travel at this man's expense and live upon his provisions was not palatable to him. Still, he was obliged to eat, and so he ate. When the meal was over, he took Mr. Fogg apart, and said, "sir"--this "sir" scorched his lips, and he had to control himself to avoid collaring this "gentleman"--"sir, you have been very kind to give me a passage on this boat. But, though my means will not admit of my expending them as freely as you, I must ask to pay my share--" "Let us not speak of that, sir," replied Mr. Fogg. "But, if I insist--" "No, sir," repeated Mr. Fogg, in a tone which did not admit of a reply. "This enters into my general expenses." Fix, as he bowed, had a stifled feeling, and, going forward, where he ensconced himself, did not open his mouth for the rest of the day. Meanwhile they were progressing famously, and John Bunsby was in high hope. He several times assured Mr. Fogg that they would reach Shanghai in time; to which that gentleman responded that he counted upon it. The crew set to work in good earnest, inspired by the reward to be gained. There was not a sheet which was not tightened, not a sail which was not vigorously hoisted; not a lurch could be charged to the man at the helm. They worked as desperately as if they were contesting in a Royal yacht regatta. By evening, the log showed that two hundred and twenty miles had been accomplished from Hong Kong, and Mr. Fogg might hope that he would be able to reach Yokohama without recording any delay in his journal; in which case, the many misadventures which had overtaken him since he left London would not seriously affect his journey. The Tankadere entered the Straits of Fo-Kien, which separate the island of Formosa from the Chinese coast, in the small hours of the night, and crossed the Tropic of Cancer. The sea was very rough in the straits, full of eddies formed by the counter-currents, and the chopping waves broke her course, whilst it became very difficult to stand on deck. At daybreak the wind began to blow hard again, and the heavens seemed to predict a gale. The barometer announced a speedy change, the mercury rising and falling capriciously; the sea also, in the south-east, raised long surges which indicated a tempest. The sun had set the evening before in a red mist, in the midst of the phosphorescent scintillations of the ocean. John Bunsby long examined the threatening aspect of the heavens, muttering indistinctly between his teeth. At last he said in a low voice to Mr. Fogg, "Shall I speak out to your honour?" "Of course." "Well, we are going to have a squall." "Is the wind north or south?" asked Mr. Fogg quietly. "South. Look! a typhoon is coming up." "Glad it's a typhoon from the south, for it will carry us forward." "Oh, if you take it that way," said John Bunsby, "I've nothing more to say." John Bunsby's suspicions were confirmed. At a less advanced season of the year the typhoon, according to a famous meteorologist, would have passed away like a luminous cascade of electric flame; but in the winter equinox it was to be feared that it would burst upon them with great violence. The pilot took his precautions in advance. He reefed all sail, the pole-masts were dispensed with; all hands went forward to the bows. A single triangular sail, of strong canvas, was hoisted as a storm-jib, so as to hold the wind from behind. Then they waited. John Bunsby had requested his passengers to go below; but this imprisonment in so narrow a space, with little air, and the boat bouncing in the gale, was far from pleasant. Neither Mr. Fogg, Fix, nor Aouda consented to leave the deck. The storm of rain and wind descended upon them towards eight o'clock. With but its bit of sail, the Tankadere was lifted like a feather by a wind, an idea of whose violence can scarcely be given. To compare her speed to four times that of a locomotive going on full steam would be below the truth. The boat scudded thus northward during the whole day, borne on by monstrous waves, preserving always, fortunately, a speed equal to theirs. Twenty times she seemed almost to be submerged by these mountains of water which rose behind her; but the adroit management of the pilot saved her. The passengers were often bathed in spray, but they submitted to it philosophically. Fix cursed it, no doubt; but Aouda, with her eyes fastened upon her protector, whose coolness amazed her, showed herself worthy of him, and bravely weathered the storm. As for Phileas Fogg, it seemed just as if the typhoon were a part of his programme. Up to this time the Tankadere had always held her course to the north; but towards evening the wind, veering three quarters, bore down from the north-west. The boat, now lying in the trough of the waves, shook and rolled terribly; the sea struck her with fearful violence. At night the tempest increased in violence. John Bunsby saw the approach of darkness and the rising of the storm with dark misgivings. He thought awhile, and then asked his crew if it was not time to slacken speed. After a consultation he approached Mr. Fogg, and said, "I think, your honour, that we should do well to make for one of the ports on the coast." "I think so too." "Ah!" said the pilot. "But which one?" "I know of but one," returned Mr. Fogg tranquilly. "And that is--" "Shanghai." The pilot, at first, did not seem to comprehend; he could scarcely realise so much determination and tenacity. Then he cried, "Well--yes! Your honour is right. To Shanghai!" So the Tankadere kept steadily on her northward track. The night was really terrible; it would be a miracle if the craft did not founder. Twice it could have been all over with her if the crew had not been constantly on the watch. Aouda was exhausted, but did not utter a complaint. More than once Mr. Fogg rushed to protect her from the violence of the waves. Day reappeared. The tempest still raged with undiminished fury; but the wind now returned to the south-east. It was a favourable change, and the Tankadere again bounded forward on this mountainous sea, though the waves crossed each other, and imparted shocks and counter-shocks which would have crushed a craft less solidly built. From time to time the coast was visible through the broken mist, but no vessel was in sight. The Tankadere was alone upon the sea. There were some signs of a calm at noon, and these became more distinct as the sun descended toward the horizon. The tempest had been as brief as terrific. The passengers, thoroughly exhausted, could now eat a little, and take some repose. The night was comparatively quiet. Some of the sails were again hoisted, and the speed of the boat was very good. The next morning at dawn they espied the coast, and John Bunsby was able to assert that they were not one hundred miles from Shanghai. A hundred miles, and only one day to traverse them! That very evening Mr. Fogg was due at Shanghai, if he did not wish to miss the steamer to Yokohama. Had there been no storm, during which several hours were lost, they would be at this moment within thirty miles of their destination. The wind grew decidedly calmer, and happily the sea fell with it. All sails were now hoisted, and at noon the Tankadere was within forty-five miles of Shanghai. There remained yet six hours in which to accomplish that distance. All on board feared that it could not be done, and every one--Phileas Fogg, no doubt, excepted--felt his heart beat with impatience. The boat must keep up an average of nine miles an hour, and the wind was becoming calmer every moment! It was a capricious breeze, coming from the coast, and after it passed the sea became smooth. Still, the Tankadere was so light, and her fine sails caught the fickle zephyrs so well, that, with the aid of the currents John Bunsby found himself at six o'clock not more than ten miles from the mouth of Shanghai River. Shanghai itself is situated at least twelve miles up the stream. At seven they were still three miles from Shanghai. The pilot swore an angry oath; the reward of two hundred pounds was evidently on the point of escaping him. He looked at Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was perfectly tranquil; and yet his whole fortune was at this moment at stake. At this moment, also, a long black funnel, crowned with wreaths of smoke, appeared on the edge of the waters. It was the American steamer, leaving for Yokohama at the appointed time. "Confound her!" cried John Bunsby, pushing back the rudder with a desperate jerk. "Signal her!" said Phileas Fogg quietly. A small brass cannon stood on the forward deck of the Tankadere, for making signals in the fogs. It was loaded to the muzzle; but just as the pilot was about to apply a red-hot coal to the touchhole, Mr. Fogg said, "Hoist your flag!" The flag was run up at half-mast, and, this being the signal of distress, it was hoped that the American steamer, perceiving it, would change her course a little, so as to succour the pilot-boat. "Fire!" said Mr. Fogg. And the booming of the little cannon resounded in the air. ----------CHAPTER 22--------- The Carnatic, setting sail from Hong Kong at half-past six on the 7th of November, directed her course at full steam towards Japan. She carried a large cargo and a well-filled cabin of passengers. Two state-rooms in the rear were, however, unoccupied--those which had been engaged by Phileas Fogg. The next day a passenger with a half-stupefied eye, staggering gait, and disordered hair, was seen to emerge from the second cabin, and to totter to a seat on deck. It was Passepartout; and what had happened to him was as follows: Shortly after Fix left the opium den, two waiters had lifted the unconscious Passepartout, and had carried him to the bed reserved for the smokers. Three hours later, pursued even in his dreams by a fixed idea, the poor fellow awoke, and struggled against the stupefying influence of the narcotic. The thought of a duty unfulfilled shook off his torpor, and he hurried from the abode of drunkenness. Staggering and holding himself up by keeping against the walls, falling down and creeping up again, and irresistibly impelled by a kind of instinct, he kept crying out, "The Carnatic! the Carnatic!" The steamer lay puffing alongside the quay, on the point of starting. Passepartout had but few steps to go; and, rushing upon the plank, he crossed it, and fell unconscious on the deck, just as the Carnatic was moving off. Several sailors, who were evidently accustomed to this sort of scene, carried the poor Frenchman down into the second cabin, and Passepartout did not wake until they were one hundred and fifty miles away from China. Thus he found himself the next morning on the deck of the Carnatic, and eagerly inhaling the exhilarating sea-breeze. The pure air sobered him. He began to collect his sense, which he found a difficult task; but at last he recalled the events of the evening before, Fix's revelation, and the opium-house. "It is evident," said he to himself, "that I have been abominably drunk! What will Mr. Fogg say? At least I have not missed the steamer, which is the most important thing." Then, as Fix occurred to him: "As for that rascal, I hope we are well rid of him, and that he has not dared, as he proposed, to follow us on board the Carnatic. A detective on the track of Mr. Fogg, accused of robbing the Bank of England! Pshaw! Mr. Fogg is no more a robber than I am a murderer." Should he divulge Fix's real errand to his master? Would it do to tell the part the detective was playing? Would it not be better to wait until Mr. Fogg reached London again, and then impart to him that an agent of the metropolitan police had been following him round the world, and have a good laugh over it? No doubt; at least, it was worth considering. The first thing to do was to find Mr. Fogg, and apologise for his singular behaviour. Passepartout got up and proceeded, as well as he could with the rolling of the steamer, to the after-deck. He saw no one who resembled either his master or Aouda. "Good!" muttered he; "Aouda has not got up yet, and Mr. Fogg has probably found some partners at whist." He descended to the saloon. Mr. Fogg was not there. Passepartout had only, however, to ask the purser the number of his master's state-room. The purser replied that he did not know any passenger by the name of Fogg. "I beg your pardon," said Passepartout persistently. "He is a tall gentleman, quiet, and not very talkative, and has with him a young lady--" "There is no young lady on board," interrupted the purser. "Here is a list of the passengers; you may see for yourself." Passepartout scanned the list, but his master's name was not upon it. All at once an idea struck him. "Ah! am I on the Carnatic?" "Yes." "On the way to Yokohama?" "Certainly." Passepartout had for an instant feared that he was on the wrong boat; but, though he was really on the Carnatic, his master was not there. He fell thunderstruck on a seat. He saw it all now. He remembered that the time of sailing had been changed, that he should have informed his master of that fact, and that he had not done so. It was his fault, then, that Mr. Fogg and Aouda had missed the steamer. Yes, but it was still more the fault of the traitor who, in order to separate him from his master, and detain the latter at Hong Kong, had inveigled him into getting drunk! He now saw the detective's trick; and at this moment Mr. Fogg was certainly ruined, his bet was lost, and he himself perhaps arrested and imprisoned! At this thought Passepartout tore his hair. Ah, if Fix ever came within his reach, what a settling of accounts there would be! After his first depression, Passepartout became calmer, and began to study his situation. It was certainly not an enviable one. He found himself on the way to Japan, and what should he do when he got there? His pocket was empty; he had not a solitary shilling, not so much as a penny. His passage had fortunately been paid for in advance; and he had five or six days in which to decide upon his future course. He fell to at meals with an appetite, and ate for Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and himself. He helped himself as generously as if Japan were a desert, where nothing to eat was to be looked for. At dawn on the 13th the Carnatic entered the port of Yokohama. This is an important port of call in the Pacific, where all the mail-steamers, and those carrying travellers between North America, China, Japan, and the Oriental islands put in. It is situated in the bay of Yeddo, and at but a short distance from that second capital of the Japanese Empire, and the residence of the Tycoon, the civil Emperor, before the Mikado, the spiritual Emperor, absorbed his office in his own. The Carnatic anchored at the quay near the custom-house, in the midst of a crowd of ships bearing the flags of all nations. Passepartout went timidly ashore on this so curious territory of the Sons of the Sun. He had nothing better to do than, taking chance for his guide, to wander aimlessly through the streets of Yokohama. He found himself at first in a thoroughly European quarter, the houses having low fronts, and being adorned with verandas, beneath which he caught glimpses of neat peristyles. This quarter occupied, with its streets, squares, docks, and warehouses, all the space between the "promontory of the Treaty" and the river. Here, as at Hong Kong and Calcutta, were mixed crowds of all races, Americans and English, Chinamen and Dutchmen, mostly merchants ready to buy or sell anything. The Frenchman felt himself as much alone among them as if he had dropped down in the midst of Hottentots. He had, at least, one resource,--to call on the French and English consuls at Yokohama for assistance. But he shrank from telling the story of his adventures, intimately connected as it was with that of his master; and, before doing so, he determined to exhaust all other means of aid. As chance did not favour him in the European quarter, he penetrated that inhabited by the native Japanese, determined, if necessary, to push on to Yeddo. The Japanese quarter of Yokohama is called Benten, after the goddess of the sea, who is worshipped on the islands round about. There Passepartout beheld beautiful fir and cedar groves, sacred gates of a singular architecture, bridges half hid in the midst of bamboos and reeds, temples shaded by immense cedar-trees, holy retreats where were sheltered Buddhist priests and sectaries of Confucius, and interminable streets, where a perfect harvest of rose-tinted and red-cheeked children, who looked as if they had been cut out of Japanese screens, and who were playing in the midst of short-legged poodles and yellowish cats, might have been gathered. The streets were crowded with people. Priests were passing in processions, beating their dreary tambourines; police and custom-house officers with pointed hats encrusted with lac and carrying two sabres hung to their waists; soldiers, clad in blue cotton with white stripes, and bearing guns; the Mikado's guards, enveloped in silken doubles, hauberks and coats of mail; and numbers of military folk of all ranks--for the military profession is as much respected in Japan as it is despised in China--went hither and thither in groups and pairs. Passepartout saw, too, begging friars, long-robed pilgrims, and simple civilians, with their warped and jet-black hair, big heads, long busts, slender legs, short stature, and complexions varying from copper-colour to a dead white, but never yellow, like the Chinese, from whom the Japanese widely differ. He did not fail to observe the curious equipages--carriages and palanquins, barrows supplied with sails, and litters made of bamboo; nor the women--whom he thought not especially handsome--who took little steps with their little feet, whereon they wore canvas shoes, straw sandals, and clogs of worked wood, and who displayed tight-looking eyes, flat chests, teeth fashionably blackened, and gowns crossed with silken scarfs, tied in an enormous knot behind an ornament which the modern Parisian ladies seem to have borrowed from the dames of Japan. Passepartout wandered for several hours in the midst of this motley crowd, looking in at the windows of the rich and curious shops, the jewellery establishments glittering with quaint Japanese ornaments, the restaurants decked with streamers and banners, the tea-houses, where the odorous beverage was being drunk with saki, a liquor concocted from the fermentation of rice, and the comfortable smoking-houses, where they were puffing, not opium, which is almost unknown in Japan, but a very fine, stringy tobacco. He went on till he found himself in the fields, in the midst of vast rice plantations. There he saw dazzling camellias expanding themselves, with flowers which were giving forth their last colours and perfumes, not on bushes, but on trees, and within bamboo enclosures, cherry, plum, and apple trees, which the Japanese cultivate rather for their blossoms than their fruit, and which queerly-fashioned, grinning scarecrows protected from the sparrows, pigeons, ravens, and other voracious birds. On the branches of the cedars were perched large eagles; amid the foliage of the weeping willows were herons, solemnly standing on one leg; and on every hand were crows, ducks, hawks, wild birds, and a multitude of cranes, which the Japanese consider sacred, and which to their minds symbolise long life and prosperity. As he was strolling along, Passepartout espied some violets among the shrubs. "Good!" said he; "I'll have some supper." But, on smelling them, he found that they were odourless. "No chance there," thought he. The worthy fellow had certainly taken good care to eat as hearty a breakfast as possible before leaving the Carnatic; but, as he had been walking about all day, the demands of hunger were becoming importunate. He observed that the butchers stalls contained neither mutton, goat, nor pork; and, knowing also that it is a sacrilege to kill cattle, which are preserved solely for farming, he made up his mind that meat was far from plentiful in Yokohama--nor was he mistaken; and, in default of butcher's meat, he could have wished for a quarter of wild boar or deer, a partridge, or some quails, some game or fish, which, with rice, the Japanese eat almost exclusively. But he found it necessary to keep up a stout heart, and to postpone the meal he craved till the following morning. Night came, and Passepartout re-entered the native quarter, where he wandered through the streets, lit by vari-coloured lanterns, looking on at the dancers, who were executing skilful steps and boundings, and the astrologers who stood in the open air with their telescopes. Then he came to the harbour, which was lit up by the resin torches of the fishermen, who were fishing from their boats. The streets at last became quiet, and the patrol, the officers of which, in their splendid costumes, and surrounded by their suites, Passepartout thought seemed like ambassadors, succeeded the bustling crowd. Each time a company passed, Passepartout chuckled, and said to himself: "Good! another Japanese embassy departing for Europe!"

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 23 with the given context.

chapter 23|chapter 24

The next morning Passepartout is famished and resolves that he just has to get himself something to eat. Before becoming a strolling artist, he decides to change his garments for old clothes. He gets into a Japanese robe and has a small breakfast. While moving towards the docks, he sees an immense placard carried by a sort of clown. Following the clown, he reaches Honorable Batulcars establishment, who is the manager of a troupe of buffoons, jugglers, clowns, acrobats and gymnasts. Passepartout finds employment with Batulcar as a Jack-of-all- work and he is happy because within a week, he would be on his way to San Francisco with the rest to of the troupe. He was to lend the support of his shoulders in the making of the human cluster accompanied by the Long Noses of the god Tingou. This is a part of the performance in a large hall. When it is the chance for the human cluster Passepartout takes his place at the bottom of the pyramid. But when he sees his master in the audience, he moves away and the human structure collapses. Honorable Batulcar is furious but his wrath is silenced by Fogg who throws some banknotes to him. Fogg, Aouda and Passepartout manage to board the American boat, together once again.

----------CHAPTER 23--------- The next morning poor, jaded, famished Passepartout said to himself that he must get something to eat at all hazards, and the sooner he did so the better. He might, indeed, sell his watch; but he would have starved first. Now or never he must use the strong, if not melodious voice which nature had bestowed upon him. He knew several French and English songs, and resolved to try them upon the Japanese, who must be lovers of music, since they were for ever pounding on their cymbals, tam-tams, and tambourines, and could not but appreciate European talent. It was, perhaps, rather early in the morning to get up a concert, and the audience prematurely aroused from their slumbers, might not possibly pay their entertainer with coin bearing the Mikado's features. Passepartout therefore decided to wait several hours; and, as he was sauntering along, it occurred to him that he would seem rather too well dressed for a wandering artist. The idea struck him to change his garments for clothes more in harmony with his project; by which he might also get a little money to satisfy the immediate cravings of hunger. The resolution taken, it remained to carry it out. It was only after a long search that Passepartout discovered a native dealer in old clothes, to whom he applied for an exchange. The man liked the European costume, and ere long Passepartout issued from his shop accoutred in an old Japanese coat, and a sort of one-sided turban, faded with long use. A few small pieces of silver, moreover, jingled in his pocket. "Good!" thought he. "I will imagine I am at the Carnival!" His first care, after being thus "Japanesed," was to enter a tea-house of modest appearance, and, upon half a bird and a little rice, to breakfast like a man for whom dinner was as yet a problem to be solved. "Now," thought he, when he had eaten heartily, "I mustn't lose my head. I can't sell this costume again for one still more Japanese. I must consider how to leave this country of the Sun, of which I shall not retain the most delightful of memories, as quickly as possible." It occurred to him to visit the steamers which were about to leave for America. He would offer himself as a cook or servant, in payment of his passage and meals. Once at San Francisco, he would find some means of going on. The difficulty was, how to traverse the four thousand seven hundred miles of the Pacific which lay between Japan and the New World. Passepartout was not the man to let an idea go begging, and directed his steps towards the docks. But, as he approached them, his project, which at first had seemed so simple, began to grow more and more formidable to his mind. What need would they have of a cook or servant on an American steamer, and what confidence would they put in him, dressed as he was? What references could he give? As he was reflecting in this wise, his eyes fell upon an immense placard which a sort of clown was carrying through the streets. This placard, which was in English, read as follows: ACROBATIC JAPANESE TROUPE, HONOURABLE WILLIAM BATULCAR, PROPRIETOR, LAST REPRESENTATIONS, PRIOR TO THEIR DEPARTURE TO THE UNITED STATES, OF THE LONG NOSES! LONG NOSES! UNDER THE DIRECT PATRONAGE OF THE GOD TINGOU! GREAT ATTRACTION! "The United States!" said Passepartout; "that's just what I want!" He followed the clown, and soon found himself once more in the Japanese quarter. A quarter of an hour later he stopped before a large cabin, adorned with several clusters of streamers, the exterior walls of which were designed to represent, in violent colours and without perspective, a company of jugglers. This was the Honourable William Batulcar's establishment. That gentleman was a sort of Barnum, the director of a troupe of mountebanks, jugglers, clowns, acrobats, equilibrists, and gymnasts, who, according to the placard, was giving his last performances before leaving the Empire of the Sun for the States of the Union. Passepartout entered and asked for Mr. Batulcar, who straightway appeared in person. "What do you want?" said he to Passepartout, whom he at first took for a native. "Would you like a servant, sir?" asked Passepartout. "A servant!" cried Mr. Batulcar, caressing the thick grey beard which hung from his chin. "I already have two who are obedient and faithful, have never left me, and serve me for their nourishment and here they are," added he, holding out his two robust arms, furrowed with veins as large as the strings of a bass-viol. "So I can be of no use to you?" "None." "The devil! I should so like to cross the Pacific with you!" "Ah!" said the Honourable Mr. Batulcar. "You are no more a Japanese than I am a monkey! Who are you dressed up in that way?" "A man dresses as he can." "That's true. You are a Frenchman, aren't you?" "Yes; a Parisian of Paris." "Then you ought to know how to make grimaces?" "Why," replied Passepartout, a little vexed that his nationality should cause this question, "we Frenchmen know how to make grimaces, it is true but not any better than the Americans do." "True. Well, if I can't take you as a servant, I can as a clown. You see, my friend, in France they exhibit foreign clowns, and in foreign parts French clowns." "Ah!" "You are pretty strong, eh?" "Especially after a good meal." "And you can sing?" "Yes," returned Passepartout, who had formerly been wont to sing in the streets. "But can you sing standing on your head, with a top spinning on your left foot, and a sabre balanced on your right?" "Humph! I think so," replied Passepartout, recalling the exercises of his younger days. "Well, that's enough," said the Honourable William Batulcar. The engagement was concluded there and then. Passepartout had at last found something to do. He was engaged to act in the celebrated Japanese troupe. It was not a very dignified position, but within a week he would be on his way to San Francisco. The performance, so noisily announced by the Honourable Mr. Batulcar, was to commence at three o'clock, and soon the deafening instruments of a Japanese orchestra resounded at the door. Passepartout, though he had not been able to study or rehearse a part, was designated to lend the aid of his sturdy shoulders in the great exhibition of the "human pyramid," executed by the Long Noses of the god Tingou. This "great attraction" was to close the performance. Before three o'clock the large shed was invaded by the spectators, comprising Europeans and natives, Chinese and Japanese, men, women and children, who precipitated themselves upon the narrow benches and into the boxes opposite the stage. The musicians took up a position inside, and were vigorously performing on their gongs, tam-tams, flutes, bones, tambourines, and immense drums. The performance was much like all acrobatic displays; but it must be confessed that the Japanese are the first equilibrists in the world. One, with a fan and some bits of paper, performed the graceful trick of the butterflies and the flowers; another traced in the air, with the odorous smoke of his pipe, a series of blue words, which composed a compliment to the audience; while a third juggled with some lighted candles, which he extinguished successively as they passed his lips, and relit again without interrupting for an instant his juggling. Another reproduced the most singular combinations with a spinning-top; in his hands the revolving tops seemed to be animated with a life of their own in their interminable whirling; they ran over pipe-stems, the edges of sabres, wires and even hairs stretched across the stage; they turned around on the edges of large glasses, crossed bamboo ladders, dispersed into all the corners, and produced strange musical effects by the combination of their various pitches of tone. The jugglers tossed them in the air, threw them like shuttlecocks with wooden battledores, and yet they kept on spinning; they put them into their pockets, and took them out still whirling as before. It is useless to describe the astonishing performances of the acrobats and gymnasts. The turning on ladders, poles, balls, barrels, &c., was executed with wonderful precision. But the principal attraction was the exhibition of the Long Noses, a show to which Europe is as yet a stranger. The Long Noses form a peculiar company, under the direct patronage of the god Tingou. Attired after the fashion of the Middle Ages, they bore upon their shoulders a splendid pair of wings; but what especially distinguished them was the long noses which were fastened to their faces, and the uses which they made of them. These noses were made of bamboo, and were five, six, and even ten feet long, some straight, others curved, some ribboned, and some having imitation warts upon them. It was upon these appendages, fixed tightly on their real noses, that they performed their gymnastic exercises. A dozen of these sectaries of Tingou lay flat upon their backs, while others, dressed to represent lightning-rods, came and frolicked on their noses, jumping from one to another, and performing the most skilful leapings and somersaults. As a last scene, a "human pyramid" had been announced, in which fifty Long Noses were to represent the Car of Juggernaut. But, instead of forming a pyramid by mounting each other's shoulders, the artists were to group themselves on top of the noses. It happened that the performer who had hitherto formed the base of the Car had quitted the troupe, and as, to fill this part, only strength and adroitness were necessary, Passepartout had been chosen to take his place. The poor fellow really felt sad when--melancholy reminiscence of his youth!--he donned his costume, adorned with vari-coloured wings, and fastened to his natural feature a false nose six feet long. But he cheered up when he thought that this nose was winning him something to eat. He went upon the stage, and took his place beside the rest who were to compose the base of the Car of Juggernaut. They all stretched themselves on the floor, their noses pointing to the ceiling. A second group of artists disposed themselves on these long appendages, then a third above these, then a fourth, until a human monument reaching to the very cornices of the theatre soon arose on top of the noses. This elicited loud applause, in the midst of which the orchestra was just striking up a deafening air, when the pyramid tottered, the balance was lost, one of the lower noses vanished from the pyramid, and the human monument was shattered like a castle built of cards! It was Passepartout's fault. Abandoning his position, clearing the footlights without the aid of his wings, and, clambering up to the right-hand gallery, he fell at the feet of one of the spectators, crying, "Ah, my master! my master!" "You here?" "Myself." "Very well; then let us go to the steamer, young man!" Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout passed through the lobby of the theatre to the outside, where they encountered the Honourable Mr. Batulcar, furious with rage. He demanded damages for the "breakage" of the pyramid; and Phileas Fogg appeased him by giving him a handful of banknotes. At half-past six, the very hour of departure, Mr. Fogg and Aouda, followed by Passepartout, who in his hurry had retained his wings, and nose six feet long, stepped upon the American steamer. ----------CHAPTER 24--------- What happened when the pilot-boat came in sight of Shanghai will be easily guessed. The signals made by the Tankadere had been seen by the captain of the Yokohama steamer, who, espying the flag at half-mast, had directed his course towards the little craft. Phileas Fogg, after paying the stipulated price of his passage to John Busby, and rewarding that worthy with the additional sum of five hundred and fifty pounds, ascended the steamer with Aouda and Fix; and they started at once for Nagasaki and Yokohama. They reached their destination on the morning of the 14th of November. Phileas Fogg lost no time in going on board the Carnatic, where he learned, to Aouda's great delight--and perhaps to his own, though he betrayed no emotion--that Passepartout, a Frenchman, had really arrived on her the day before. The San Francisco steamer was announced to leave that very evening, and it became necessary to find Passepartout, if possible, without delay. Mr. Fogg applied in vain to the French and English consuls, and, after wandering through the streets a long time, began to despair of finding his missing servant. Chance, or perhaps a kind of presentiment, at last led him into the Honourable Mr. Batulcar's theatre. He certainly would not have recognised Passepartout in the eccentric mountebank's costume; but the latter, lying on his back, perceived his master in the gallery. He could not help starting, which so changed the position of his nose as to bring the "pyramid" pell-mell upon the stage. All this Passepartout learned from Aouda, who recounted to him what had taken place on the voyage from Hong Kong to Shanghai on the Tankadere, in company with one Mr. Fix. Passepartout did not change countenance on hearing this name. He thought that the time had not yet arrived to divulge to his master what had taken place between the detective and himself; and, in the account he gave of his absence, he simply excused himself for having been overtaken by drunkenness, in smoking opium at a tavern in Hong Kong. Mr. Fogg heard this narrative coldly, without a word; and then furnished his man with funds necessary to obtain clothing more in harmony with his position. Within an hour the Frenchman had cut off his nose and parted with his wings, and retained nothing about him which recalled the sectary of the god Tingou. The steamer which was about to depart from Yokohama to San Francisco belonged to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, and was named the General Grant. She was a large paddle-wheel steamer of two thousand five hundred tons; well equipped and very fast. The massive walking-beam rose and fell above the deck; at one end a piston-rod worked up and down; and at the other was a connecting-rod which, in changing the rectilinear motion to a circular one, was directly connected with the shaft of the paddles. The General Grant was rigged with three masts, giving a large capacity for sails, and thus materially aiding the steam power. By making twelve miles an hour, she would cross the ocean in twenty-one days. Phileas Fogg was therefore justified in hoping that he would reach San Francisco by the 2nd of December, New York by the 11th, and London on the 20th--thus gaining several hours on the fatal date of the 21st of December. There was a full complement of passengers on board, among them English, many Americans, a large number of coolies on their way to California, and several East Indian officers, who were spending their vacation in making the tour of the world. Nothing of moment happened on the voyage; the steamer, sustained on its large paddles, rolled but little, and the Pacific almost justified its name. Mr. Fogg was as calm and taciturn as ever. His young companion felt herself more and more attached to him by other ties than gratitude; his silent but generous nature impressed her more than she thought; and it was almost unconsciously that she yielded to emotions which did not seem to have the least effect upon her protector. Aouda took the keenest interest in his plans, and became impatient at any incident which seemed likely to retard his journey. She often chatted with Passepartout, who did not fail to perceive the state of the lady's heart; and, being the most faithful of domestics, he never exhausted his eulogies of Phileas Fogg's honesty, generosity, and devotion. He took pains to calm Aouda's doubts of a successful termination of the journey, telling her that the most difficult part of it had passed, that now they were beyond the fantastic countries of Japan and China, and were fairly on their way to civilised places again. A railway train from San Francisco to New York, and a transatlantic steamer from New York to Liverpool, would doubtless bring them to the end of this impossible journey round the world within the period agreed upon. On the ninth day after leaving Yokohama, Phileas Fogg had traversed exactly one half of the terrestrial globe. The General Grant passed, on the 23rd of November, the one hundred and eightieth meridian, and was at the very antipodes of London. Mr. Fogg had, it is true, exhausted fifty-two of the eighty days in which he was to complete the tour, and there were only twenty-eight left. But, though he was only half-way by the difference of meridians, he had really gone over two-thirds of the whole journey; for he had been obliged to make long circuits from London to Aden, from Aden to Bombay, from Calcutta to Singapore, and from Singapore to Yokohama. Could he have followed without deviation the fiftieth parallel, which is that of London, the whole distance would only have been about twelve thousand miles; whereas he would be forced, by the irregular methods of locomotion, to traverse twenty-six thousand, of which he had, on the 23rd of November, accomplished seventeen thousand five hundred. And now the course was a straight one, and Fix was no longer there to put obstacles in their way! It happened also, on the 23rd of November, that Passepartout made a joyful discovery. It will be remembered that the obstinate fellow had insisted on keeping his famous family watch at London time, and on regarding that of the countries he had passed through as quite false and unreliable. Now, on this day, though he had not changed the hands, he found that his watch exactly agreed with the ship's chronometers. His triumph was hilarious. He would have liked to know what Fix would say if he were aboard! "The rogue told me a lot of stories," repeated Passepartout, "about the meridians, the sun, and the moon! Moon, indeed! moonshine more likely! If one listened to that sort of people, a pretty sort of time one would keep! I was sure that the sun would some day regulate itself by my watch!" Passepartout was ignorant that, if the face of his watch had been divided into twenty-four hours, like the Italian clocks, he would have no reason for exultation; for the hands of his watch would then, instead of as now indicating nine o'clock in the morning, indicate nine o'clock in the evening, that is, the twenty-first hour after midnight precisely the difference between London time and that of the one hundred and eightieth meridian. But if Fix had been able to explain this purely physical effect, Passepartout would not have admitted, even if he had comprehended it. Moreover, if the detective had been on board at that moment, Passepartout would have joined issue with him on a quite different subject, and in an entirely different manner. Where was Fix at that moment? He was actually on board the General Grant. On reaching Yokohama, the detective, leaving Mr. Fogg, whom he expected to meet again during the day, had repaired at once to the English consulate, where he at last found the warrant of arrest. It had followed him from Bombay, and had come by the Carnatic, on which steamer he himself was supposed to be. Fix's disappointment may be imagined when he reflected that the warrant was now useless. Mr. Fogg had left English ground, and it was now necessary to procure his extradition! "Well," thought Fix, after a moment of anger, "my warrant is not good here, but it will be in England. The rogue evidently intends to return to his own country, thinking he has thrown the police off his track. Good! I will follow him across the Atlantic. As for the money, heaven grant there may be some left! But the fellow has already spent in travelling, rewards, trials, bail, elephants, and all sorts of charges, more than five thousand pounds. Yet, after all, the Bank is rich!" His course decided on, he went on board the General Grant, and was there when Mr. Fogg and Aouda arrived. To his utter amazement, he recognised Passepartout, despite his theatrical disguise. He quickly concealed himself in his cabin, to avoid an awkward explanation, and hoped--thanks to the number of passengers--to remain unperceived by Mr. Fogg's servant. On that very day, however, he met Passepartout face to face on the forward deck. The latter, without a word, made a rush for him, grasped him by the throat, and, much to the amusement of a group of Americans, who immediately began to bet on him, administered to the detective a perfect volley of blows, which proved the great superiority of French over English pugilistic skill. When Passepartout had finished, he found himself relieved and comforted. Fix got up in a somewhat rumpled condition, and, looking at his adversary, coldly said, "Have you done?" "For this time--yes." "Then let me have a word with you." "But I--" "In your master's interests." Passepartout seemed to be vanquished by Fix's coolness, for he quietly followed him, and they sat down aside from the rest of the passengers. "You have given me a thrashing," said Fix. "Good, I expected it. Now, listen to me. Up to this time I have been Mr. Fogg's adversary. I am now in his game." "Aha!" cried Passepartout; "you are convinced he is an honest man?" "No," replied Fix coldly, "I think him a rascal. Sh! don't budge, and let me speak. As long as Mr. Fogg was on English ground, it was for my interest to detain him there until my warrant of arrest arrived. I did everything I could to keep him back. I sent the Bombay priests after him, I got you intoxicated at Hong Kong, I separated you from him, and I made him miss the Yokohama steamer." Passepartout listened, with closed fists. "Now," resumed Fix, "Mr. Fogg seems to be going back to England. Well, I will follow him there. But hereafter I will do as much to keep obstacles out of his way as I have done up to this time to put them in his path. I've changed my game, you see, and simply because it was for my interest to change it. Your interest is the same as mine; for it is only in England that you will ascertain whether you are in the service of a criminal or an honest man." Passepartout listened very attentively to Fix, and was convinced that he spoke with entire good faith. "Are we friends?" asked the detective. "Friends?--no," replied Passepartout; "but allies, perhaps. At the least sign of treason, however, I'll twist your neck for you." "Agreed," said the detective quietly. Eleven days later, on the 3rd of December, the General Grant entered the bay of the Golden Gate, and reached San Francisco. Mr. Fogg had neither gained nor lost a single day.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 25 with the given context.

chapter 25|chapter 26

Fogg, Aouda and Passepartout set foot on American soil. After finding out that the first train for New York would start that evening, Fogg has a whole day to spend in the Californian capital. The city is described through the eyes of Passepartout and what he sees. Fogg and Aouda rest at a hotel restaurant they go to the consulate and then by chance bump into Fix. The detective expresses surprise at seeing Fogg and then accompanies Fogg and Aouda in their sauntering. The three of them find themselves in the middle of a political meeting and the two opposing parties are those supporting Mandiboy or Kamerfield respectively. Suddenly the threesome find that they are between two fires. The two men try their best to defend Aouda. Meanwhile an American with a red goatee raises a fist at Fogg, which the latter misses by chance. Fix is hurt. Then the group returns to the International Hotel. When they start moving towards the station, Fogg promises to return to America to avenge the American Colonel Proctors insult. The travelers board the train that takes them towards New York.

----------CHAPTER 25--------- It was seven in the morning when Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout set foot upon the American continent, if this name can be given to the floating quay upon which they disembarked. These quays, rising and falling with the tide, thus facilitate the loading and unloading of vessels. Alongside them were clippers of all sizes, steamers of all nationalities, and the steamboats, with several decks rising one above the other, which ply on the Sacramento and its tributaries. There were also heaped up the products of a commerce which extends to Mexico, Chili, Peru, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and all the Pacific islands. Passepartout, in his joy on reaching at last the American continent, thought he would manifest it by executing a perilous vault in fine style; but, tumbling upon some worm-eaten planks, he fell through them. Put out of countenance by the manner in which he thus "set foot" upon the New World, he uttered a loud cry, which so frightened the innumerable cormorants and pelicans that are always perched upon these movable quays, that they flew noisily away. Mr. Fogg, on reaching shore, proceeded to find out at what hour the first train left for New York, and learned that this was at six o'clock p.m.; he had, therefore, an entire day to spend in the Californian capital. Taking a carriage at a charge of three dollars, he and Aouda entered it, while Passepartout mounted the box beside the driver, and they set out for the International Hotel. From his exalted position Passepartout observed with much curiosity the wide streets, the low, evenly ranged houses, the Anglo-Saxon Gothic churches, the great docks, the palatial wooden and brick warehouses, the numerous conveyances, omnibuses, horse-cars, and upon the side-walks, not only Americans and Europeans, but Chinese and Indians. Passepartout was surprised at all he saw. San Francisco was no longer the legendary city of 1849--a city of banditti, assassins, and incendiaries, who had flocked hither in crowds in pursuit of plunder; a paradise of outlaws, where they gambled with gold-dust, a revolver in one hand and a bowie-knife in the other: it was now a great commercial emporium. The lofty tower of its City Hall overlooked the whole panorama of the streets and avenues, which cut each other at right-angles, and in the midst of which appeared pleasant, verdant squares, while beyond appeared the Chinese quarter, seemingly imported from the Celestial Empire in a toy-box. Sombreros and red shirts and plumed Indians were rarely to be seen; but there were silk hats and black coats everywhere worn by a multitude of nervously active, gentlemanly-looking men. Some of the streets--especially Montgomery Street, which is to San Francisco what Regent Street is to London, the Boulevard des Italiens to Paris, and Broadway to New York--were lined with splendid and spacious stores, which exposed in their windows the products of the entire world. When Passepartout reached the International Hotel, it did not seem to him as if he had left England at all. The ground floor of the hotel was occupied by a large bar, a sort of restaurant freely open to all passers-by, who might partake of dried beef, oyster soup, biscuits, and cheese, without taking out their purses. Payment was made only for the ale, porter, or sherry which was drunk. This seemed "very American" to Passepartout. The hotel refreshment-rooms were comfortable, and Mr. Fogg and Aouda, installing themselves at a table, were abundantly served on diminutive plates by negroes of darkest hue. After breakfast, Mr. Fogg, accompanied by Aouda, started for the English consulate to have his passport visaed. As he was going out, he met Passepartout, who asked him if it would not be well, before taking the train, to purchase some dozens of Enfield rifles and Colt's revolvers. He had been listening to stories of attacks upon the trains by the Sioux and Pawnees. Mr. Fogg thought it a useless precaution, but told him to do as he thought best, and went on to the consulate. He had not proceeded two hundred steps, however, when, "by the greatest chance in the world," he met Fix. The detective seemed wholly taken by surprise. What! Had Mr. Fogg and himself crossed the Pacific together, and not met on the steamer! At least Fix felt honoured to behold once more the gentleman to whom he owed so much, and, as his business recalled him to Europe, he should be delighted to continue the journey in such pleasant company. Mr. Fogg replied that the honour would be his; and the detective--who was determined not to lose sight of him--begged permission to accompany them in their walk about San Francisco--a request which Mr. Fogg readily granted. They soon found themselves in Montgomery Street, where a great crowd was collected; the side-walks, street, horsecar rails, the shop-doors, the windows of the houses, and even the roofs, were full of people. Men were going about carrying large posters, and flags and streamers were floating in the wind; while loud cries were heard on every hand. "Hurrah for Camerfield!" "Hurrah for Mandiboy!" It was a political meeting; at least so Fix conjectured, who said to Mr. Fogg, "Perhaps we had better not mingle with the crowd. There may be danger in it." "Yes," returned Mr. Fogg; "and blows, even if they are political are still blows." Fix smiled at this remark; and, in order to be able to see without being jostled about, the party took up a position on the top of a flight of steps situated at the upper end of Montgomery Street. Opposite them, on the other side of the street, between a coal wharf and a petroleum warehouse, a large platform had been erected in the open air, towards which the current of the crowd seemed to be directed. For what purpose was this meeting? What was the occasion of this excited assemblage? Phileas Fogg could not imagine. Was it to nominate some high official--a governor or member of Congress? It was not improbable, so agitated was the multitude before them. Just at this moment there was an unusual stir in the human mass. All the hands were raised in the air. Some, tightly closed, seemed to disappear suddenly in the midst of the cries--an energetic way, no doubt, of casting a vote. The crowd swayed back, the banners and flags wavered, disappeared an instant, then reappeared in tatters. The undulations of the human surge reached the steps, while all the heads floundered on the surface like a sea agitated by a squall. Many of the black hats disappeared, and the greater part of the crowd seemed to have diminished in height. "It is evidently a meeting," said Fix, "and its object must be an exciting one. I should not wonder if it were about the Alabama, despite the fact that that question is settled." "Perhaps," replied Mr. Fogg, simply. "At least, there are two champions in presence of each other, the Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy." Aouda, leaning upon Mr. Fogg's arm, observed the tumultuous scene with surprise, while Fix asked a man near him what the cause of it all was. Before the man could reply, a fresh agitation arose; hurrahs and excited shouts were heard; the staffs of the banners began to be used as offensive weapons; and fists flew about in every direction. Thumps were exchanged from the tops of the carriages and omnibuses which had been blocked up in the crowd. Boots and shoes went whirling through the air, and Mr. Fogg thought he even heard the crack of revolvers mingling in the din, the rout approached the stairway, and flowed over the lower step. One of the parties had evidently been repulsed; but the mere lookers-on could not tell whether Mandiboy or Camerfield had gained the upper hand. "It would be prudent for us to retire," said Fix, who was anxious that Mr. Fogg should not receive any injury, at least until they got back to London. "If there is any question about England in all this, and we were recognised, I fear it would go hard with us." "An English subject--" began Mr. Fogg. He did not finish his sentence; for a terrific hubbub now arose on the terrace behind the flight of steps where they stood, and there were frantic shouts of, "Hurrah for Mandiboy! Hip, hip, hurrah!" It was a band of voters coming to the rescue of their allies, and taking the Camerfield forces in flank. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix found themselves between two fires; it was too late to escape. The torrent of men, armed with loaded canes and sticks, was irresistible. Phileas Fogg and Fix were roughly hustled in their attempts to protect their fair companion; the former, as cool as ever, tried to defend himself with the weapons which nature has placed at the end of every Englishman's arm, but in vain. A big brawny fellow with a red beard, flushed face, and broad shoulders, who seemed to be the chief of the band, raised his clenched fist to strike Mr. Fogg, whom he would have given a crushing blow, had not Fix rushed in and received it in his stead. An enormous bruise immediately made its appearance under the detective's silk hat, which was completely smashed in. "Yankee!" exclaimed Mr. Fogg, darting a contemptuous look at the ruffian. "Englishman!" returned the other. "We will meet again!" "When you please." "What is your name?" "Phileas Fogg. And yours?" "Colonel Stamp Proctor." The human tide now swept by, after overturning Fix, who speedily got upon his feet again, though with tattered clothes. Happily, he was not seriously hurt. His travelling overcoat was divided into two unequal parts, and his trousers resembled those of certain Indians, which fit less compactly than they are easy to put on. Aouda had escaped unharmed, and Fix alone bore marks of the fray in his black and blue bruise. "Thanks," said Mr. Fogg to the detective, as soon as they were out of the crowd. "No thanks are necessary," replied. Fix; "but let us go." "Where?" "To a tailor's." Such a visit was, indeed, opportune. The clothing of both Mr. Fogg and Fix was in rags, as if they had themselves been actively engaged in the contest between Camerfield and Mandiboy. An hour after, they were once more suitably attired, and with Aouda returned to the International Hotel. Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen six-barrelled revolvers. When he perceived Fix, he knit his brows; but Aouda having, in a few words, told him of their adventure, his countenance resumed its placid expression. Fix evidently was no longer an enemy, but an ally; he was faithfully keeping his word. Dinner over, the coach which was to convey the passengers and their luggage to the station drew up to the door. As he was getting in, Mr. Fogg said to Fix, "You have not seen this Colonel Proctor again?" "No." "I will come back to America to find him," said Phileas Fogg calmly. "It would not be right for an Englishman to permit himself to be treated in that way, without retaliating." The detective smiled, but did not reply. It was clear that Mr. Fogg was one of those Englishmen who, while they do not tolerate duelling at home, fight abroad when their honour is attacked. At a quarter before six the travellers reached the station, and found the train ready to depart. As he was about to enter it, Mr. Fogg called a porter, and said to him: "My friend, was there not some trouble to-day in San Francisco?" "It was a political meeting, sir," replied the porter. "But I thought there was a great deal of disturbance in the streets." "It was only a meeting assembled for an election." "The election of a general-in-chief, no doubt?" asked Mr. Fogg. "No, sir; of a justice of the peace." Phileas Fogg got into the train, which started off at full speed. ----------CHAPTER 26--------- "From ocean to ocean"--so say the Americans; and these four words compose the general designation of the "great trunk line" which crosses the entire width of the United States. The Pacific Railroad is, however, really divided into two distinct lines: the Central Pacific, between San Francisco and Ogden, and the Union Pacific, between Ogden and Omaha. Five main lines connect Omaha with New York. New York and San Francisco are thus united by an uninterrupted metal ribbon, which measures no less than three thousand seven hundred and eighty-six miles. Between Omaha and the Pacific the railway crosses a territory which is still infested by Indians and wild beasts, and a large tract which the Mormons, after they were driven from Illinois in 1845, began to colonise. The journey from New York to San Francisco consumed, formerly, under the most favourable conditions, at least six months. It is now accomplished in seven days. It was in 1862 that, in spite of the Southern Members of Congress, who wished a more southerly route, it was decided to lay the road between the forty-first and forty-second parallels. President Lincoln himself fixed the end of the line at Omaha, in Nebraska. The work was at once commenced, and pursued with true American energy; nor did the rapidity with which it went on injuriously affect its good execution. The road grew, on the prairies, a mile and a half a day. A locomotive, running on the rails laid down the evening before, brought the rails to be laid on the morrow, and advanced upon them as fast as they were put in position. The Pacific Railroad is joined by several branches in Iowa, Kansas, Colorado, and Oregon. On leaving Omaha, it passes along the left bank of the Platte River as far as the junction of its northern branch, follows its southern branch, crosses the Laramie territory and the Wahsatch Mountains, turns the Great Salt Lake, and reaches Salt Lake City, the Mormon capital, plunges into the Tuilla Valley, across the American Desert, Cedar and Humboldt Mountains, the Sierra Nevada, and descends, via Sacramento, to the Pacific--its grade, even on the Rocky Mountains, never exceeding one hundred and twelve feet to the mile. Such was the road to be traversed in seven days, which would enable Phileas Fogg--at least, so he hoped--to take the Atlantic steamer at New York on the 11th for Liverpool. The car which he occupied was a sort of long omnibus on eight wheels, and with no compartments in the interior. It was supplied with two rows of seats, perpendicular to the direction of the train on either side of an aisle which conducted to the front and rear platforms. These platforms were found throughout the train, and the passengers were able to pass from one end of the train to the other. It was supplied with saloon cars, balcony cars, restaurants, and smoking-cars; theatre cars alone were wanting, and they will have these some day. Book and news dealers, sellers of edibles, drinkables, and cigars, who seemed to have plenty of customers, were continually circulating in the aisles. The train left Oakland station at six o'clock. It was already night, cold and cheerless, the heavens being overcast with clouds which seemed to threaten snow. The train did not proceed rapidly; counting the stoppages, it did not run more than twenty miles an hour, which was a sufficient speed, however, to enable it to reach Omaha within its designated time. There was but little conversation in the car, and soon many of the passengers were overcome with sleep. Passepartout found himself beside the detective; but he did not talk to him. After recent events, their relations with each other had grown somewhat cold; there could no longer be mutual sympathy or intimacy between them. Fix's manner had not changed; but Passepartout was very reserved, and ready to strangle his former friend on the slightest provocation. Snow began to fall an hour after they started, a fine snow, however, which happily could not obstruct the train; nothing could be seen from the windows but a vast, white sheet, against which the smoke of the locomotive had a greyish aspect. At eight o'clock a steward entered the car and announced that the time for going to bed had arrived; and in a few minutes the car was transformed into a dormitory. The backs of the seats were thrown back, bedsteads carefully packed were rolled out by an ingenious system, berths were suddenly improvised, and each traveller had soon at his disposition a comfortable bed, protected from curious eyes by thick curtains. The sheets were clean and the pillows soft. It only remained to go to bed and sleep which everybody did--while the train sped on across the State of California. The country between San Francisco and Sacramento is not very hilly. The Central Pacific, taking Sacramento for its starting-point, extends eastward to meet the road from Omaha. The line from San Francisco to Sacramento runs in a north-easterly direction, along the American River, which empties into San Pablo Bay. The one hundred and twenty miles between these cities were accomplished in six hours, and towards midnight, while fast asleep, the travellers passed through Sacramento; so that they saw nothing of that important place, the seat of the State government, with its fine quays, its broad streets, its noble hotels, squares, and churches. The train, on leaving Sacramento, and passing the junction, Roclin, Auburn, and Colfax, entered the range of the Sierra Nevada. 'Cisco was reached at seven in the morning; and an hour later the dormitory was transformed into an ordinary car, and the travellers could observe the picturesque beauties of the mountain region through which they were steaming. The railway track wound in and out among the passes, now approaching the mountain-sides, now suspended over precipices, avoiding abrupt angles by bold curves, plunging into narrow defiles, which seemed to have no outlet. The locomotive, its great funnel emitting a weird light, with its sharp bell, and its cow-catcher extended like a spur, mingled its shrieks and bellowings with the noise of torrents and cascades, and twined its smoke among the branches of the gigantic pines. There were few or no bridges or tunnels on the route. The railway turned around the sides of the mountains, and did not attempt to violate nature by taking the shortest cut from one point to another. The train entered the State of Nevada through the Carson Valley about nine o'clock, going always northeasterly; and at midday reached Reno, where there was a delay of twenty minutes for breakfast. From this point the road, running along Humboldt River, passed northward for several miles by its banks; then it turned eastward, and kept by the river until it reached the Humboldt Range, nearly at the extreme eastern limit of Nevada. Having breakfasted, Mr. Fogg and his companions resumed their places in the car, and observed the varied landscape which unfolded itself as they passed along the vast prairies, the mountains lining the horizon, and the creeks, with their frothy, foaming streams. Sometimes a great herd of buffaloes, massing together in the distance, seemed like a moveable dam. These innumerable multitudes of ruminating beasts often form an insurmountable obstacle to the passage of the trains; thousands of them have been seen passing over the track for hours together, in compact ranks. The locomotive is then forced to stop and wait till the road is once more clear. This happened, indeed, to the train in which Mr. Fogg was travelling. About twelve o'clock a troop of ten or twelve thousand head of buffalo encumbered the track. The locomotive, slackening its speed, tried to clear the way with its cow-catcher; but the mass of animals was too great. The buffaloes marched along with a tranquil gait, uttering now and then deafening bellowings. There was no use of interrupting them, for, having taken a particular direction, nothing can moderate and change their course; it is a torrent of living flesh which no dam could contain. The travellers gazed on this curious spectacle from the platforms; but Phileas Fogg, who had the most reason of all to be in a hurry, remained in his seat, and waited philosophically until it should please the buffaloes to get out of the way. Passepartout was furious at the delay they occasioned, and longed to discharge his arsenal of revolvers upon them. "What a country!" cried he. "Mere cattle stop the trains, and go by in a procession, just as if they were not impeding travel! Parbleu! I should like to know if Mr. Fogg foresaw this mishap in his programme! And here's an engineer who doesn't dare to run the locomotive into this herd of beasts!" The engineer did not try to overcome the obstacle, and he was wise. He would have crushed the first buffaloes, no doubt, with the cow-catcher; but the locomotive, however powerful, would soon have been checked, the train would inevitably have been thrown off the track, and would then have been helpless. The best course was to wait patiently, and regain the lost time by greater speed when the obstacle was removed. The procession of buffaloes lasted three full hours, and it was night before the track was clear. The last ranks of the herd were now passing over the rails, while the first had already disappeared below the southern horizon. It was eight o'clock when the train passed through the defiles of the Humboldt Range, and half-past nine when it penetrated Utah, the region of the Great Salt Lake, the singular colony of the Mormons.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 27 with the given context.

chapter 27|chapter 28

The train continues on its path. Passepartout steps down at a station, when he sees an interesting man-tall, very dark, who looked like a parson. This man goes from one part of the train to another and announces that he will give a lecture on Mormonism in car No. 117. Thirty people are drawn by the attraction of a lecture, including Passepartout. The Mormon missionary-Elder William Hitch turns out to be a fanatic and one by one, people start leaving the lecture room. Passepartout is the last to escape the tedious preaching. During the lecture, the train had made rapid progress and the landscape is outlined. The train stops at Ogden for a few hours and so the travelers alight. The town is described through the visiting travelers eye and the voyagers do not feel sorry about leaving this City of Saints. Just as the train starts, a breathless Mormon man runs up and he is late because of a domestic fight. Passepartout asks him how many wives he has and they learn that he has only one wife unlike other Mormons.

----------CHAPTER 27--------- During the night of the 5th of December, the train ran south-easterly for about fifty miles; then rose an equal distance in a north-easterly direction, towards the Great Salt Lake. Passepartout, about nine o'clock, went out upon the platform to take the air. The weather was cold, the heavens grey, but it was not snowing. The sun's disc, enlarged by the mist, seemed an enormous ring of gold, and Passepartout was amusing himself by calculating its value in pounds sterling, when he was diverted from this interesting study by a strange-looking personage who made his appearance on the platform. This personage, who had taken the train at Elko, was tall and dark, with black moustache, black stockings, a black silk hat, a black waistcoat, black trousers, a white cravat, and dogskin gloves. He might have been taken for a clergyman. He went from one end of the train to the other, and affixed to the door of each car a notice written in manuscript. Passepartout approached and read one of these notices, which stated that Elder William Hitch, Mormon missionary, taking advantage of his presence on train No. 48, would deliver a lecture on Mormonism in car No. 117, from eleven to twelve o'clock; and that he invited all who were desirous of being instructed concerning the mysteries of the religion of the "Latter Day Saints" to attend. "I'll go," said Passepartout to himself. He knew nothing of Mormonism except the custom of polygamy, which is its foundation. The news quickly spread through the train, which contained about one hundred passengers, thirty of whom, at most, attracted by the notice, ensconced themselves in car No. 117. Passepartout took one of the front seats. Neither Mr. Fogg nor Fix cared to attend. At the appointed hour Elder William Hitch rose, and, in an irritated voice, as if he had already been contradicted, said, "I tell you that Joe Smith is a martyr, that his brother Hiram is a martyr, and that the persecutions of the United States Government against the prophets will also make a martyr of Brigham Young. Who dares to say the contrary?" No one ventured to gainsay the missionary, whose excited tone contrasted curiously with his naturally calm visage. No doubt his anger arose from the hardships to which the Mormons were actually subjected. The government had just succeeded, with some difficulty, in reducing these independent fanatics to its rule. It had made itself master of Utah, and subjected that territory to the laws of the Union, after imprisoning Brigham Young on a charge of rebellion and polygamy. The disciples of the prophet had since redoubled their efforts, and resisted, by words at least, the authority of Congress. Elder Hitch, as is seen, was trying to make proselytes on the very railway trains. Then, emphasising his words with his loud voice and frequent gestures, he related the history of the Mormons from Biblical times: how that, in Israel, a Mormon prophet of the tribe of Joseph published the annals of the new religion, and bequeathed them to his son Mormon; how, many centuries later, a translation of this precious book, which was written in Egyptian, was made by Joseph Smith, junior, a Vermont farmer, who revealed himself as a mystical prophet in 1825; and how, in short, the celestial messenger appeared to him in an illuminated forest, and gave him the annals of the Lord. Several of the audience, not being much interested in the missionary's narrative, here left the car; but Elder Hitch, continuing his lecture, related how Smith, junior, with his father, two brothers, and a few disciples, founded the church of the "Latter Day Saints," which, adopted not only in America, but in England, Norway and Sweden, and Germany, counts many artisans, as well as men engaged in the liberal professions, among its members; how a colony was established in Ohio, a temple erected there at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, and a town built at Kirkland; how Smith became an enterprising banker, and received from a simple mummy showman a papyrus scroll written by Abraham and several famous Egyptians. The Elder's story became somewhat wearisome, and his audience grew gradually less, until it was reduced to twenty passengers. But this did not disconcert the enthusiast, who proceeded with the story of Joseph Smith's bankruptcy in 1837, and how his ruined creditors gave him a coat of tar and feathers; his reappearance some years afterwards, more honourable and honoured than ever, at Independence, Missouri, the chief of a flourishing colony of three thousand disciples, and his pursuit thence by outraged Gentiles, and retirement into the Far West. Ten hearers only were now left, among them honest Passepartout, who was listening with all his ears. Thus he learned that, after long persecutions, Smith reappeared in Illinois, and in 1839 founded a community at Nauvoo, on the Mississippi, numbering twenty-five thousand souls, of which he became mayor, chief justice, and general-in-chief; that he announced himself, in 1843, as a candidate for the Presidency of the United States; and that finally, being drawn into ambuscade at Carthage, he was thrown into prison, and assassinated by a band of men disguised in masks. Passepartout was now the only person left in the car, and the Elder, looking him full in the face, reminded him that, two years after the assassination of Joseph Smith, the inspired prophet, Brigham Young, his successor, left Nauvoo for the banks of the Great Salt Lake, where, in the midst of that fertile region, directly on the route of the emigrants who crossed Utah on their way to California, the new colony, thanks to the polygamy practised by the Mormons, had flourished beyond expectations. "And this," added Elder William Hitch, "this is why the jealousy of Congress has been aroused against us! Why have the soldiers of the Union invaded the soil of Utah? Why has Brigham Young, our chief, been imprisoned, in contempt of all justice? Shall we yield to force? Never! Driven from Vermont, driven from Illinois, driven from Ohio, driven from Missouri, driven from Utah, we shall yet find some independent territory on which to plant our tents. And you, my brother," continued the Elder, fixing his angry eyes upon his single auditor, "will you not plant yours there, too, under the shadow of our flag?" "No!" replied Passepartout courageously, in his turn retiring from the car, and leaving the Elder to preach to vacancy. During the lecture the train had been making good progress, and towards half-past twelve it reached the northwest border of the Great Salt Lake. Thence the passengers could observe the vast extent of this interior sea, which is also called the Dead Sea, and into which flows an American Jordan. It is a picturesque expanse, framed in lofty crags in large strata, encrusted with white salt--a superb sheet of water, which was formerly of larger extent than now, its shores having encroached with the lapse of time, and thus at once reduced its breadth and increased its depth. The Salt Lake, seventy miles long and thirty-five wide, is situated three miles eight hundred feet above the sea. Quite different from Lake Asphaltite, whose depression is twelve hundred feet below the sea, it contains considerable salt, and one quarter of the weight of its water is solid matter, its specific weight being 1,170, and, after being distilled, 1,000. Fishes are, of course, unable to live in it, and those which descend through the Jordan, the Weber, and other streams soon perish. The country around the lake was well cultivated, for the Mormons are mostly farmers; while ranches and pens for domesticated animals, fields of wheat, corn, and other cereals, luxuriant prairies, hedges of wild rose, clumps of acacias and milk-wort, would have been seen six months later. Now the ground was covered with a thin powdering of snow. The train reached Ogden at two o'clock, where it rested for six hours, Mr. Fogg and his party had time to pay a visit to Salt Lake City, connected with Ogden by a branch road; and they spent two hours in this strikingly American town, built on the pattern of other cities of the Union, like a checker-board, "with the sombre sadness of right-angles," as Victor Hugo expresses it. The founder of the City of the Saints could not escape from the taste for symmetry which distinguishes the Anglo-Saxons. In this strange country, where the people are certainly not up to the level of their institutions, everything is done "squarely"--cities, houses, and follies. The travellers, then, were promenading, at three o'clock, about the streets of the town built between the banks of the Jordan and the spurs of the Wahsatch Range. They saw few or no churches, but the prophet's mansion, the court-house, and the arsenal, blue-brick houses with verandas and porches, surrounded by gardens bordered with acacias, palms, and locusts. A clay and pebble wall, built in 1853, surrounded the town; and in the principal street were the market and several hotels adorned with pavilions. The place did not seem thickly populated. The streets were almost deserted, except in the vicinity of the temple, which they only reached after having traversed several quarters surrounded by palisades. There were many women, which was easily accounted for by the "peculiar institution" of the Mormons; but it must not be supposed that all the Mormons are polygamists. They are free to marry or not, as they please; but it is worth noting that it is mainly the female citizens of Utah who are anxious to marry, as, according to the Mormon religion, maiden ladies are not admitted to the possession of its highest joys. These poor creatures seemed to be neither well off nor happy. Some--the more well-to-do, no doubt--wore short, open, black silk dresses, under a hood or modest shawl; others were habited in Indian fashion. Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women, charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a vocation, and he imagined--perhaps he was mistaken--that the fair ones of Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person. Happily, his stay there was but brief. At four the party found themselves again at the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels began to move, cries of "Stop! stop!" were heard. Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers. He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train, and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats. Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast, approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken flight after an unpleasant domestic scene. When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least. "One, sir," replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward--"one, and that was enough!" ----------CHAPTER 28--------- The train, on leaving Great Salt Lake at Ogden, passed northward for an hour as far as Weber River, having completed nearly nine hundred miles from San Francisco. From this point it took an easterly direction towards the jagged Wahsatch Mountains. It was in the section included between this range and the Rocky Mountains that the American engineers found the most formidable difficulties in laying the road, and that the government granted a subsidy of forty-eight thousand dollars per mile, instead of sixteen thousand allowed for the work done on the plains. But the engineers, instead of violating nature, avoided its difficulties by winding around, instead of penetrating the rocks. One tunnel only, fourteen thousand feet in length, was pierced in order to arrive at the great basin. The track up to this time had reached its highest elevation at the Great Salt Lake. From this point it described a long curve, descending towards Bitter Creek Valley, to rise again to the dividing ridge of the waters between the Atlantic and the Pacific. There were many creeks in this mountainous region, and it was necessary to cross Muddy Creek, Green Creek, and others, upon culverts. Passepartout grew more and more impatient as they went on, while Fix longed to get out of this difficult region, and was more anxious than Phileas Fogg himself to be beyond the danger of delays and accidents, and set foot on English soil. At ten o'clock at night the train stopped at Fort Bridger station, and twenty minutes later entered Wyoming Territory, following the valley of Bitter Creek throughout. The next day, 7th December, they stopped for a quarter of an hour at Green River station. Snow had fallen abundantly during the night, but, being mixed with rain, it had half melted, and did not interrupt their progress. The bad weather, however, annoyed Passepartout; for the accumulation of snow, by blocking the wheels of the cars, would certainly have been fatal to Mr. Fogg's tour. "What an idea!" he said to himself. "Why did my master make this journey in winter? Couldn't he have waited for the good season to increase his chances?" While the worthy Frenchman was absorbed in the state of the sky and the depression of the temperature, Aouda was experiencing fears from a totally different cause. Several passengers had got off at Green River, and were walking up and down the platforms; and among these Aouda recognised Colonel Stamp Proctor, the same who had so grossly insulted Phileas Fogg at the San Francisco meeting. Not wishing to be recognised, the young woman drew back from the window, feeling much alarm at her discovery. She was attached to the man who, however coldly, gave her daily evidences of the most absolute devotion. She did not comprehend, perhaps, the depth of the sentiment with which her protector inspired her, which she called gratitude, but which, though she was unconscious of it, was really more than that. Her heart sank within her when she recognised the man whom Mr. Fogg desired, sooner or later, to call to account for his conduct. Chance alone, it was clear, had brought Colonel Proctor on this train; but there he was, and it was necessary, at all hazards, that Phileas Fogg should not perceive his adversary. Aouda seized a moment when Mr. Fogg was asleep to tell Fix and Passepartout whom she had seen. "That Proctor on this train!" cried Fix. "Well, reassure yourself, madam; before he settles with Mr. Fogg; he has got to deal with me! It seems to me that I was the more insulted of the two." "And, besides," added Passepartout, "I'll take charge of him, colonel as he is." "Mr. Fix," resumed Aouda, "Mr. Fogg will allow no one to avenge him. He said that he would come back to America to find this man. Should he perceive Colonel Proctor, we could not prevent a collision which might have terrible results. He must not see him." "You are right, madam," replied Fix; "a meeting between them might ruin all. Whether he were victorious or beaten, Mr. Fogg would be delayed, and--" "And," added Passepartout, "that would play the game of the gentlemen of the Reform Club. In four days we shall be in New York. Well, if my master does not leave this car during those four days, we may hope that chance will not bring him face to face with this confounded American. We must, if possible, prevent his stirring out of it." The conversation dropped. Mr. Fogg had just woke up, and was looking out of the window. Soon after Passepartout, without being heard by his master or Aouda, whispered to the detective, "Would you really fight for him?" "I would do anything," replied Fix, in a tone which betrayed determined will, "to get him back living to Europe!" Passepartout felt something like a shudder shoot through his frame, but his confidence in his master remained unbroken. Was there any means of detaining Mr. Fogg in the car, to avoid a meeting between him and the colonel? It ought not to be a difficult task, since that gentleman was naturally sedentary and little curious. The detective, at least, seemed to have found a way; for, after a few moments, he said to Mr. Fogg, "These are long and slow hours, sir, that we are passing on the railway." "Yes," replied Mr. Fogg; "but they pass." "You were in the habit of playing whist," resumed Fix, "on the steamers." "Yes; but it would be difficult to do so here. I have neither cards nor partners." "Oh, but we can easily buy some cards, for they are sold on all the American trains. And as for partners, if madam plays--" "Certainly, sir," Aouda quickly replied; "I understand whist. It is part of an English education." "I myself have some pretensions to playing a good game. Well, here are three of us, and a dummy--" "As you please, sir," replied Phileas Fogg, heartily glad to resume his favourite pastime even on the railway. Passepartout was dispatched in search of the steward, and soon returned with two packs of cards, some pins, counters, and a shelf covered with cloth. The game commenced. Aouda understood whist sufficiently well, and even received some compliments on her playing from Mr. Fogg. As for the detective, he was simply an adept, and worthy of being matched against his present opponent. "Now," thought Passepartout, "we've got him. He won't budge." At eleven in the morning the train had reached the dividing ridge of the waters at Bridger Pass, seven thousand five hundred and twenty-four feet above the level of the sea, one of the highest points attained by the track in crossing the Rocky Mountains. After going about two hundred miles, the travellers at last found themselves on one of those vast plains which extend to the Atlantic, and which nature has made so propitious for laying the iron road. On the declivity of the Atlantic basin the first streams, branches of the North Platte River, already appeared. The whole northern and eastern horizon was bounded by the immense semi-circular curtain which is formed by the southern portion of the Rocky Mountains, the highest being Laramie Peak. Between this and the railway extended vast plains, plentifully irrigated. On the right rose the lower spurs of the mountainous mass which extends southward to the sources of the Arkansas River, one of the great tributaries of the Missouri. At half-past twelve the travellers caught sight for an instant of Fort Halleck, which commands that section; and in a few more hours the Rocky Mountains were crossed. There was reason to hope, then, that no accident would mark the journey through this difficult country. The snow had ceased falling, and the air became crisp and cold. Large birds, frightened by the locomotive, rose and flew off in the distance. No wild beast appeared on the plain. It was a desert in its vast nakedness. After a comfortable breakfast, served in the car, Mr. Fogg and his partners had just resumed whist, when a violent whistling was heard, and the train stopped. Passepartout put his head out of the door, but saw nothing to cause the delay; no station was in view. Aouda and Fix feared that Mr. Fogg might take it into his head to get out; but that gentleman contented himself with saying to his servant, "See what is the matter." Passepartout rushed out of the car. Thirty or forty passengers had already descended, amongst them Colonel Stamp Proctor. The train had stopped before a red signal which blocked the way. The engineer and conductor were talking excitedly with a signal-man, whom the station-master at Medicine Bow, the next stopping place, had sent on before. The passengers drew around and took part in the discussion, in which Colonel Proctor, with his insolent manner, was conspicuous. Passepartout, joining the group, heard the signal-man say, "No! you can't pass. The bridge at Medicine Bow is shaky, and would not bear the weight of the train." This was a suspension-bridge thrown over some rapids, about a mile from the place where they now were. According to the signal-man, it was in a ruinous condition, several of the iron wires being broken; and it was impossible to risk the passage. He did not in any way exaggerate the condition of the bridge. It may be taken for granted that, rash as the Americans usually are, when they are prudent there is good reason for it. Passepartout, not daring to apprise his master of what he heard, listened with set teeth, immovable as a statue. "Hum!" cried Colonel Proctor; "but we are not going to stay here, I imagine, and take root in the snow?" "Colonel," replied the conductor, "we have telegraphed to Omaha for a train, but it is not likely that it will reach Medicine Bow in less than six hours." "Six hours!" cried Passepartout. "Certainly," returned the conductor, "besides, it will take us as long as that to reach Medicine Bow on foot." "But it is only a mile from here," said one of the passengers. "Yes, but it's on the other side of the river." "And can't we cross that in a boat?" asked the colonel. "That's impossible. The creek is swelled by the rains. It is a rapid, and we shall have to make a circuit of ten miles to the north to find a ford." The colonel launched a volley of oaths, denouncing the railway company and the conductor; and Passepartout, who was furious, was not disinclined to make common cause with him. Here was an obstacle, indeed, which all his master's banknotes could not remove. There was a general disappointment among the passengers, who, without reckoning the delay, saw themselves compelled to trudge fifteen miles over a plain covered with snow. They grumbled and protested, and would certainly have thus attracted Phileas Fogg's attention if he had not been completely absorbed in his game. Passepartout found that he could not avoid telling his master what had occurred, and, with hanging head, he was turning towards the car, when the engineer, a true Yankee, named Forster called out, "Gentlemen, perhaps there is a way, after all, to get over." "On the bridge?" asked a passenger. "On the bridge." "With our train?" "With our train." Passepartout stopped short, and eagerly listened to the engineer. "But the bridge is unsafe," urged the conductor. "No matter," replied Forster; "I think that by putting on the very highest speed we might have a chance of getting over." "The devil!" muttered Passepartout. But a number of the passengers were at once attracted by the engineer's proposal, and Colonel Proctor was especially delighted, and found the plan a very feasible one. He told stories about engineers leaping their trains over rivers without bridges, by putting on full steam; and many of those present avowed themselves of the engineer's mind. "We have fifty chances out of a hundred of getting over," said one. "Eighty! ninety!" Passepartout was astounded, and, though ready to attempt anything to get over Medicine Creek, thought the experiment proposed a little too American. "Besides," thought he, "there's a still more simple way, and it does not even occur to any of these people! Sir," said he aloud to one of the passengers, "the engineer's plan seems to me a little dangerous, but--" "Eighty chances!" replied the passenger, turning his back on him. "I know it," said Passepartout, turning to another passenger, "but a simple idea--" "Ideas are no use," returned the American, shrugging his shoulders, "as the engineer assures us that we can pass." "Doubtless," urged Passepartout, "we can pass, but perhaps it would be more prudent--" "What! Prudent!" cried Colonel Proctor, whom this word seemed to excite prodigiously. "At full speed, don't you see, at full speed!" "I know--I see," repeated Passepartout; "but it would be, if not more prudent, since that word displeases you, at least more natural--" "Who! What! What's the matter with this fellow?" cried several. The poor fellow did not know to whom to address himself. "Are you afraid?" asked Colonel Proctor. "I afraid? Very well; I will show these people that a Frenchman can be as American as they!" "All aboard!" cried the conductor. "Yes, all aboard!" repeated Passepartout, and immediately. "But they can't prevent me from thinking that it would be more natural for us to cross the bridge on foot, and let the train come after!" But no one heard this sage reflection, nor would anyone have acknowledged its justice. The passengers resumed their places in the cars. Passepartout took his seat without telling what had passed. The whist-players were quite absorbed in their game. The locomotive whistled vigorously; the engineer, reversing the steam, backed the train for nearly a mile--retiring, like a jumper, in order to take a longer leap. Then, with another whistle, he began to move forward; the train increased its speed, and soon its rapidity became frightful; a prolonged screech issued from the locomotive; the piston worked up and down twenty strokes to the second. They perceived that the whole train, rushing on at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, hardly bore upon the rails at all. And they passed over! It was like a flash. No one saw the bridge. The train leaped, so to speak, from one bank to the other, and the engineer could not stop it until it had gone five miles beyond the station. But scarcely had the train passed the river, when the bridge, completely ruined, fell with a crash into the rapids of Medicine Bow.

cliffnotes

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chapter 29|chapter 30

The train pursues its course. Thirteen hundred and eighty two miles had now been traveled over from San Francisco in three days and three nights. Fogg and his partners were busy with cards, when suddenly Colonel Proctor is among them. He is rude and sarcastic to Fogg and there is a war of words. Fogg and the Colonel decide to duel with each other and Fogg wants to arrange for a meeting six months hence. But the Colonel wants to fight immediately and so they decide to do that at Plum Greek, a train stop. Fix is to be the second in the impending duel. But the guard rushes up to them at the station, saying that the train will not be stopping there. The guard suggests that the duo should fight in the train itself-in the carriages to the rear. Just before Fogg and the Colonel commence dueling the air is rent with savage yells and detonations. The train was being attacked by a band of Sioux who were armed with guns. They swarm the carriages and a fight between them and the passengers ensues. Aouda showed great courage and defended herself heroically. The guard who was fighting beside Fogg cried that if the train is not stopped, the Sioux would win. Passepartout hears this too and manages to slip under the train carriages. He removes the safety chains and a violent jolt separates the train and the engine. The train comes to a stand still near Kearney Fort station. The soldiers of the fort hear the firing and hurry up and the Sioux scampers away. But when the passengers are counted on the station platform, it is found that several are missing, including Passepartout.

----------CHAPTER 29--------- The train pursued its course, that evening, without interruption, passing Fort Saunders, crossing Cheyne Pass, and reaching Evans Pass. The road here attained the highest elevation of the journey, eight thousand and ninety-two feet above the level of the sea. The travellers had now only to descend to the Atlantic by limitless plains, levelled by nature. A branch of the "grand trunk" led off southward to Denver, the capital of Colorado. The country round about is rich in gold and silver, and more than fifty thousand inhabitants are already settled there. Thirteen hundred and eighty-two miles had been passed over from San Francisco, in three days and three nights; four days and nights more would probably bring them to New York. Phileas Fogg was not as yet behind-hand. During the night Camp Walbach was passed on the left; Lodge Pole Creek ran parallel with the road, marking the boundary between the territories of Wyoming and Colorado. They entered Nebraska at eleven, passed near Sedgwick, and touched at Julesburg, on the southern branch of the Platte River. It was here that the Union Pacific Railroad was inaugurated on the 23rd of October, 1867, by the chief engineer, General Dodge. Two powerful locomotives, carrying nine cars of invited guests, amongst whom was Thomas C. Durant, vice-president of the road, stopped at this point; cheers were given, the Sioux and Pawnees performed an imitation Indian battle, fireworks were let off, and the first number of the Railway Pioneer was printed by a press brought on the train. Thus was celebrated the inauguration of this great railroad, a mighty instrument of progress and civilisation, thrown across the desert, and destined to link together cities and towns which do not yet exist. The whistle of the locomotive, more powerful than Amphion's lyre, was about to bid them rise from American soil. Fort McPherson was left behind at eight in the morning, and three hundred and fifty-seven miles had yet to be traversed before reaching Omaha. The road followed the capricious windings of the southern branch of the Platte River, on its left bank. At nine the train stopped at the important town of North Platte, built between the two arms of the river, which rejoin each other around it and form a single artery, a large tributary, whose waters empty into the Missouri a little above Omaha. The one hundred and first meridian was passed. Mr. Fogg and his partners had resumed their game; no one--not even the dummy--complained of the length of the trip. Fix had begun by winning several guineas, which he seemed likely to lose; but he showed himself a not less eager whist-player than Mr. Fogg. During the morning, chance distinctly favoured that gentleman. Trumps and honours were showered upon his hands. Once, having resolved on a bold stroke, he was on the point of playing a spade, when a voice behind him said, "I should play a diamond." Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix raised their heads, and beheld Colonel Proctor. Stamp Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognised each other at once. "Ah! it's you, is it, Englishman?" cried the colonel; "it's you who are going to play a spade!" "And who plays it," replied Phileas Fogg coolly, throwing down the ten of spades. "Well, it pleases me to have it diamonds," replied Colonel Proctor, in an insolent tone. He made a movement as if to seize the card which had just been played, adding, "You don't understand anything about whist." "Perhaps I do, as well as another," said Phileas Fogg, rising. "You have only to try, son of John Bull," replied the colonel. Aouda turned pale, and her blood ran cold. She seized Mr. Fogg's arm and gently pulled him back. Passepartout was ready to pounce upon the American, who was staring insolently at his opponent. But Fix got up, and, going to Colonel Proctor said, "You forget that it is I with whom you have to deal, sir; for it was I whom you not only insulted, but struck!" "Mr. Fix," said Mr. Fogg, "pardon me, but this affair is mine, and mine only. The colonel has again insulted me, by insisting that I should not play a spade, and he shall give me satisfaction for it." "When and where you will," replied the American, "and with whatever weapon you choose." Aouda in vain attempted to retain Mr. Fogg; as vainly did the detective endeavour to make the quarrel his. Passepartout wished to throw the colonel out of the window, but a sign from his master checked him. Phileas Fogg left the car, and the American followed him upon the platform. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg to his adversary, "I am in a great hurry to get back to Europe, and any delay whatever will be greatly to my disadvantage." "Well, what's that to me?" replied Colonel Proctor. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg, very politely, "after our meeting at San Francisco, I determined to return to America and find you as soon as I had completed the business which called me to England." "Really!" "Will you appoint a meeting for six months hence?" "Why not ten years hence?" "I say six months," returned Phileas Fogg; "and I shall be at the place of meeting promptly." "All this is an evasion," cried Stamp Proctor. "Now or never!" "Very good. You are going to New York?" "No." "To Chicago?" "No." "To Omaha?" "What difference is it to you? Do you know Plum Creek?" "No," replied Mr. Fogg. "It's the next station. The train will be there in an hour, and will stop there ten minutes. In ten minutes several revolver-shots could be exchanged." "Very well," said Mr. Fogg. "I will stop at Plum Creek." "And I guess you'll stay there too," added the American insolently. "Who knows?" replied Mr. Fogg, returning to the car as coolly as usual. He began to reassure Aouda, telling her that blusterers were never to be feared, and begged Fix to be his second at the approaching duel, a request which the detective could not refuse. Mr. Fogg resumed the interrupted game with perfect calmness. At eleven o'clock the locomotive's whistle announced that they were approaching Plum Creek station. Mr. Fogg rose, and, followed by Fix, went out upon the platform. Passepartout accompanied him, carrying a pair of revolvers. Aouda remained in the car, as pale as death. The door of the next car opened, and Colonel Proctor appeared on the platform, attended by a Yankee of his own stamp as his second. But just as the combatants were about to step from the train, the conductor hurried up, and shouted, "You can't get off, gentlemen!" "Why not?" asked the colonel. "We are twenty minutes late, and we shall not stop." "But I am going to fight a duel with this gentleman." "I am sorry," said the conductor; "but we shall be off at once. There's the bell ringing now." The train started. "I'm really very sorry, gentlemen," said the conductor. "Under any other circumstances I should have been happy to oblige you. But, after all, as you have not had time to fight here, why not fight as we go along?" "That wouldn't be convenient, perhaps, for this gentleman," said the colonel, in a jeering tone. "It would be perfectly so," replied Phileas Fogg. "Well, we are really in America," thought Passepartout, "and the conductor is a gentleman of the first order!" So muttering, he followed his master. The two combatants, their seconds, and the conductor passed through the cars to the rear of the train. The last car was only occupied by a dozen passengers, whom the conductor politely asked if they would not be so kind as to leave it vacant for a few moments, as two gentlemen had an affair of honour to settle. The passengers granted the request with alacrity, and straightway disappeared on the platform. The car, which was some fifty feet long, was very convenient for their purpose. The adversaries might march on each other in the aisle, and fire at their ease. Never was duel more easily arranged. Mr. Fogg and Colonel Proctor, each provided with two six-barrelled revolvers, entered the car. The seconds, remaining outside, shut them in. They were to begin firing at the first whistle of the locomotive. After an interval of two minutes, what remained of the two gentlemen would be taken from the car. Nothing could be more simple. Indeed, it was all so simple that Fix and Passepartout felt their hearts beating as if they would crack. They were listening for the whistle agreed upon, when suddenly savage cries resounded in the air, accompanied by reports which certainly did not issue from the car where the duellists were. The reports continued in front and the whole length of the train. Cries of terror proceeded from the interior of the cars. Colonel Proctor and Mr. Fogg, revolvers in hand, hastily quitted their prison, and rushed forward where the noise was most clamorous. They then perceived that the train was attacked by a band of Sioux. This was not the first attempt of these daring Indians, for more than once they had waylaid trains on the road. A hundred of them had, according to their habit, jumped upon the steps without stopping the train, with the ease of a clown mounting a horse at full gallop. The Sioux were armed with guns, from which came the reports, to which the passengers, who were almost all armed, responded by revolver-shots. The Indians had first mounted the engine, and half stunned the engineer and stoker with blows from their muskets. A Sioux chief, wishing to stop the train, but not knowing how to work the regulator, had opened wide instead of closing the steam-valve, and the locomotive was plunging forward with terrific velocity. The Sioux had at the same time invaded the cars, skipping like enraged monkeys over the roofs, thrusting open the doors, and fighting hand to hand with the passengers. Penetrating the baggage-car, they pillaged it, throwing the trunks out of the train. The cries and shots were constant. The travellers defended themselves bravely; some of the cars were barricaded, and sustained a siege, like moving forts, carried along at a speed of a hundred miles an hour. Aouda behaved courageously from the first. She defended herself like a true heroine with a revolver, which she shot through the broken windows whenever a savage made his appearance. Twenty Sioux had fallen mortally wounded to the ground, and the wheels crushed those who fell upon the rails as if they had been worms. Several passengers, shot or stunned, lay on the seats. It was necessary to put an end to the struggle, which had lasted for ten minutes, and which would result in the triumph of the Sioux if the train was not stopped. Fort Kearney station, where there was a garrison, was only two miles distant; but, that once passed, the Sioux would be masters of the train between Fort Kearney and the station beyond. The conductor was fighting beside Mr. Fogg, when he was shot and fell. At the same moment he cried, "Unless the train is stopped in five minutes, we are lost!" "It shall be stopped," said Phileas Fogg, preparing to rush from the car. "Stay, monsieur," cried Passepartout; "I will go." Mr. Fogg had not time to stop the brave fellow, who, opening a door unperceived by the Indians, succeeded in slipping under the car; and while the struggle continued and the balls whizzed across each other over his head, he made use of his old acrobatic experience, and with amazing agility worked his way under the cars, holding on to the chains, aiding himself by the brakes and edges of the sashes, creeping from one car to another with marvellous skill, and thus gaining the forward end of the train. There, suspended by one hand between the baggage-car and the tender, with the other he loosened the safety chains; but, owing to the traction, he would never have succeeded in unscrewing the yoking-bar, had not a violent concussion jolted this bar out. The train, now detached from the engine, remained a little behind, whilst the locomotive rushed forward with increased speed. Carried on by the force already acquired, the train still moved for several minutes; but the brakes were worked and at last they stopped, less than a hundred feet from Kearney station. The soldiers of the fort, attracted by the shots, hurried up; the Sioux had not expected them, and decamped in a body before the train entirely stopped. But when the passengers counted each other on the station platform several were found missing; among others the courageous Frenchman, whose devotion had just saved them. ----------CHAPTER 30--------- Three passengers including Passepartout had disappeared. Had they been killed in the struggle? Were they taken prisoners by the Sioux? It was impossible to tell. There were many wounded, but none mortally. Colonel Proctor was one of the most seriously hurt; he had fought bravely, and a ball had entered his groin. He was carried into the station with the other wounded passengers, to receive such attention as could be of avail. Aouda was safe; and Phileas Fogg, who had been in the thickest of the fight, had not received a scratch. Fix was slightly wounded in the arm. But Passepartout was not to be found, and tears coursed down Aouda's cheeks. All the passengers had got out of the train, the wheels of which were stained with blood. From the tyres and spokes hung ragged pieces of flesh. As far as the eye could reach on the white plain behind, red trails were visible. The last Sioux were disappearing in the south, along the banks of Republican River. Mr. Fogg, with folded arms, remained motionless. He had a serious decision to make. Aouda, standing near him, looked at him without speaking, and he understood her look. If his servant was a prisoner, ought he not to risk everything to rescue him from the Indians? "I will find him, living or dead," said he quietly to Aouda. "Ah, Mr.--Mr. Fogg!" cried she, clasping his hands and covering them with tears. "Living," added Mr. Fogg, "if we do not lose a moment." Phileas Fogg, by this resolution, inevitably sacrificed himself; he pronounced his own doom. The delay of a single day would make him lose the steamer at New York, and his bet would be certainly lost. But as he thought, "It is my duty," he did not hesitate. The commanding officer of Fort Kearney was there. A hundred of his soldiers had placed themselves in a position to defend the station, should the Sioux attack it. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg to the captain, "three passengers have disappeared." "Dead?" asked the captain. "Dead or prisoners; that is the uncertainty which must be solved. Do you propose to pursue the Sioux?" "That's a serious thing to do, sir," returned the captain. "These Indians may retreat beyond the Arkansas, and I cannot leave the fort unprotected." "The lives of three men are in question, sir," said Phileas Fogg. "Doubtless; but can I risk the lives of fifty men to save three?" "I don't know whether you can, sir; but you ought to do so." "Nobody here," returned the other, "has a right to teach me my duty." "Very well," said Mr. Fogg, coldly. "I will go alone." "You, sir!" cried Fix, coming up; "you go alone in pursuit of the Indians?" "Would you have me leave this poor fellow to perish--him to whom every one present owes his life? I shall go." "No, sir, you shall not go alone," cried the captain, touched in spite of himself. "No! you are a brave man. Thirty volunteers!" he added, turning to the soldiers. The whole company started forward at once. The captain had only to pick his men. Thirty were chosen, and an old sergeant placed at their head. "Thanks, captain," said Mr. Fogg. "Will you let me go with you?" asked Fix. "Do as you please, sir. But if you wish to do me a favour, you will remain with Aouda. In case anything should happen to me--" A sudden pallor overspread the detective's face. Separate himself from the man whom he had so persistently followed step by step! Leave him to wander about in this desert! Fix gazed attentively at Mr. Fogg, and, despite his suspicions and of the struggle which was going on within him, he lowered his eyes before that calm and frank look. "I will stay," said he. A few moments after, Mr. Fogg pressed the young woman's hand, and, having confided to her his precious carpet-bag, went off with the sergeant and his little squad. But, before going, he had said to the soldiers, "My friends, I will divide five thousand dollars among you, if we save the prisoners." It was then a little past noon. Aouda retired to a waiting-room, and there she waited alone, thinking of the simple and noble generosity, the tranquil courage of Phileas Fogg. He had sacrificed his fortune, and was now risking his life, all without hesitation, from duty, in silence. Fix did not have the same thoughts, and could scarcely conceal his agitation. He walked feverishly up and down the platform, but soon resumed his outward composure. He now saw the folly of which he had been guilty in letting Fogg go alone. What! This man, whom he had just followed around the world, was permitted now to separate himself from him! He began to accuse and abuse himself, and, as if he were director of police, administered to himself a sound lecture for his greenness. "I have been an idiot!" he thought, "and this man will see it. He has gone, and won't come back! But how is it that I, Fix, who have in my pocket a warrant for his arrest, have been so fascinated by him? Decidedly, I am nothing but an ass!" So reasoned the detective, while the hours crept by all too slowly. He did not know what to do. Sometimes he was tempted to tell Aouda all; but he could not doubt how the young woman would receive his confidences. What course should he take? He thought of pursuing Fogg across the vast white plains; it did not seem impossible that he might overtake him. Footsteps were easily printed on the snow! But soon, under a new sheet, every imprint would be effaced. Fix became discouraged. He felt a sort of insurmountable longing to abandon the game altogether. He could now leave Fort Kearney station, and pursue his journey homeward in peace. Towards two o'clock in the afternoon, while it was snowing hard, long whistles were heard approaching from the east. A great shadow, preceded by a wild light, slowly advanced, appearing still larger through the mist, which gave it a fantastic aspect. No train was expected from the east, neither had there been time for the succour asked for by telegraph to arrive; the train from Omaha to San Francisco was not due till the next day. The mystery was soon explained. The locomotive, which was slowly approaching with deafening whistles, was that which, having been detached from the train, had continued its route with such terrific rapidity, carrying off the unconscious engineer and stoker. It had run several miles, when, the fire becoming low for want of fuel, the steam had slackened; and it had finally stopped an hour after, some twenty miles beyond Fort Kearney. Neither the engineer nor the stoker was dead, and, after remaining for some time in their swoon, had come to themselves. The train had then stopped. The engineer, when he found himself in the desert, and the locomotive without cars, understood what had happened. He could not imagine how the locomotive had become separated from the train; but he did not doubt that the train left behind was in distress. He did not hesitate what to do. It would be prudent to continue on to Omaha, for it would be dangerous to return to the train, which the Indians might still be engaged in pillaging. Nevertheless, he began to rebuild the fire in the furnace; the pressure again mounted, and the locomotive returned, running backwards to Fort Kearney. This it was which was whistling in the mist. The travellers were glad to see the locomotive resume its place at the head of the train. They could now continue the journey so terribly interrupted. Aouda, on seeing the locomotive come up, hurried out of the station, and asked the conductor, "Are you going to start?" "At once, madam." "But the prisoners, our unfortunate fellow-travellers--" "I cannot interrupt the trip," replied the conductor. "We are already three hours behind time." "And when will another train pass here from San Francisco?" "To-morrow evening, madam." "To-morrow evening! But then it will be too late! We must wait--" "It is impossible," responded the conductor. "If you wish to go, please get in." "I will not go," said Aouda. Fix had heard this conversation. A little while before, when there was no prospect of proceeding on the journey, he had made up his mind to leave Fort Kearney; but now that the train was there, ready to start, and he had only to take his seat in the car, an irresistible influence held him back. The station platform burned his feet, and he could not stir. The conflict in his mind again began; anger and failure stifled him. He wished to struggle on to the end. Meanwhile the passengers and some of the wounded, among them Colonel Proctor, whose injuries were serious, had taken their places in the train. The buzzing of the over-heated boiler was heard, and the steam was escaping from the valves. The engineer whistled, the train started, and soon disappeared, mingling its white smoke with the eddies of the densely falling snow. The detective had remained behind. Several hours passed. The weather was dismal, and it was very cold. Fix sat motionless on a bench in the station; he might have been thought asleep. Aouda, despite the storm, kept coming out of the waiting-room, going to the end of the platform, and peering through the tempest of snow, as if to pierce the mist which narrowed the horizon around her, and to hear, if possible, some welcome sound. She heard and saw nothing. Then she would return, chilled through, to issue out again after the lapse of a few moments, but always in vain. Evening came, and the little band had not returned. Where could they be? Had they found the Indians, and were they having a conflict with them, or were they still wandering amid the mist? The commander of the fort was anxious, though he tried to conceal his apprehensions. As night approached, the snow fell less plentifully, but it became intensely cold. Absolute silence rested on the plains. Neither flight of bird nor passing of beast troubled the perfect calm. Throughout the night Aouda, full of sad forebodings, her heart stifled with anguish, wandered about on the verge of the plains. Her imagination carried her far off, and showed her innumerable dangers. What she suffered through the long hours it would be impossible to describe. Fix remained stationary in the same place, but did not sleep. Once a man approached and spoke to him, and the detective merely replied by shaking his head. Thus the night passed. At dawn, the half-extinguished disc of the sun rose above a misty horizon; but it was now possible to recognise objects two miles off. Phileas Fogg and the squad had gone southward; in the south all was still vacancy. It was then seven o'clock. The captain, who was really alarmed, did not know what course to take. Should he send another detachment to the rescue of the first? Should he sacrifice more men, with so few chances of saving those already sacrificed? His hesitation did not last long, however. Calling one of his lieutenants, he was on the point of ordering a reconnaissance, when gunshots were heard. Was it a signal? The soldiers rushed out of the fort, and half a mile off they perceived a little band returning in good order. Mr. Fogg was marching at their head, and just behind him were Passepartout and the other two travellers, rescued from the Sioux. They had met and fought the Indians ten miles south of Fort Kearney. Shortly before the detachment arrived, Passepartout and his companions had begun to struggle with their captors, three of whom the Frenchman had felled with his fists, when his master and the soldiers hastened up to their relief. All were welcomed with joyful cries. Phileas Fogg distributed the reward he had promised to the soldiers, while Passepartout, not without reason, muttered to himself, "It must certainly be confessed that I cost my master dear!" Fix, without saying a word, looked at Mr. Fogg, and it would have been difficult to analyse the thoughts which struggled within him. As for Aouda, she took her protector's hand and pressed it in her own, too much moved to speak. Meanwhile, Passepartout was looking about for the train; he thought he should find it there, ready to start for Omaha, and he hoped that the time lost might be regained. "The train! the train!" cried he. "Gone," replied Fix. "And when does the next train pass here?" said Phileas Fogg. "Not till this evening." "Ah!" returned the impassible gentleman quietly.

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chapter 31|chapter 32

Foggs last hope seemed to have gone with the China, the boat that leaves for Liverpool from New York. Passepartout is crushed by the fact that the boat has been missed because of him. Fogg merely says that they will decide the next day, on what needs to be done. They stay the night at a Hotel and the next day, Fogg leaves the hotel alone, in order to look for a ship. He sees a trading vessel of fine lines-the Henrietta and goes to meet the Captain. Fogg wants to know, whether the Captain-Andrew Speedy-will take passengers to Liverpool. The latter refuses but Fogg manages to strike a deal, for a journey to Bordeaux. He offers two thousand dollars for each person and there are four. Thus, the foursome-Fogg, Aouda, Passepartout and Fix board the ship-Henrietta-for Bordeaux.

----------CHAPTER 31--------- 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! ----------CHAPTER 32--------- The China, in leaving, seemed to have carried off Phileas Fogg's last hope. None of the other steamers were able to serve his projects. The Pereire, of the French Transatlantic Company, whose admirable steamers are equal to any in speed and comfort, did not leave until the 14th; the Hamburg boats did not go directly to Liverpool or London, but to Havre; and the additional trip from Havre to Southampton would render Phileas Fogg's last efforts of no avail. The Inman steamer did not depart till the next day, and could not cross the Atlantic in time to save the wager. Mr. Fogg learned all this in consulting his Bradshaw, which gave him the daily movements of the trans-Atlantic steamers. Passepartout was crushed; it overwhelmed him to lose the boat by three-quarters of an hour. It was his fault, for, instead of helping his master, he had not ceased putting obstacles in his path! And when he recalled all the incidents of the tour, when he counted up the sums expended in pure loss and on his own account, when he thought that the immense stake, added to the heavy charges of this useless journey, would completely ruin Mr. Fogg, he overwhelmed himself with bitter self-accusations. Mr. Fogg, however, did not reproach him; and, on leaving the Cunard pier, only said: "We will consult about what is best to-morrow. Come." The party crossed the Hudson in the Jersey City ferryboat, and drove in a carriage to the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Broadway. Rooms were engaged, and the night passed, briefly to Phileas Fogg, who slept profoundly, but very long to Aouda and the others, whose agitation did not permit them to rest. The next day was the 12th of December. From seven in the morning of the 12th to a quarter before nine in the evening of the 21st there were nine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes. If Phileas Fogg had left in the China, one of the fastest steamers on the Atlantic, he would have reached Liverpool, and then London, within the period agreed upon. Mr. Fogg left the hotel alone, after giving Passepartout instructions to await his return, and inform Aouda to be ready at an instant's notice. He proceeded to the banks of the Hudson, and looked about among the vessels moored or anchored in the river, for any that were about to depart. Several had departure signals, and were preparing to put to sea at morning tide; for in this immense and admirable port there is not one day in a hundred that vessels do not set out for every quarter of the globe. But they were mostly sailing vessels, of which, of course, Phileas Fogg could make no use. He seemed about to give up all hope, when he espied, anchored at the Battery, a cable's length off at most, a trading vessel, with a screw, well-shaped, whose funnel, puffing a cloud of smoke, indicated that she was getting ready for departure. Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got into it, and soon found himself on board the Henrietta, iron-hulled, wood-built above. He ascended to the deck, and asked for the captain, who forthwith presented himself. He was a man of fifty, a sort of sea-wolf, with big eyes, a complexion of oxidised copper, red hair and thick neck, and a growling voice. "The captain?" asked Mr. Fogg. "I am the captain." "I am Phileas Fogg, of London." "And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff." "You are going to put to sea?" "In an hour." "You are bound for--" "Bordeaux." "And your cargo?" "No freight. Going in ballast." "Have you any passengers?" "No passengers. Never have passengers. Too much in the way." "Is your vessel a swift one?" "Between eleven and twelve knots. The Henrietta, well known." "Will you carry me and three other persons to Liverpool?" "To Liverpool? Why not to China?" "I said Liverpool." "No!" "No?" "No. I am setting out for Bordeaux, and shall go to Bordeaux." "Money is no object?" "None." The captain spoke in a tone which did not admit of a reply. "But the owners of the Henrietta--" resumed Phileas Fogg. "The owners are myself," replied the captain. "The vessel belongs to me." "I will freight it for you." "No." "I will buy it of you." "No." Phileas Fogg did not betray the least disappointment; but the situation was a grave one. It was not at New York as at Hong Kong, nor with the captain of the Henrietta as with the captain of the Tankadere. Up to this time money had smoothed away every obstacle. Now money failed. Still, some means must be found to cross the Atlantic on a boat, unless by balloon--which would have been venturesome, besides not being capable of being put in practice. It seemed that Phileas Fogg had an idea, for he said to the captain, "Well, will you carry me to Bordeaux?" "No, not if you paid me two hundred dollars." "I offer you two thousand." "Apiece?" "Apiece." "And there are four of you?" "Four." Captain Speedy began to scratch his head. There were eight thousand dollars to gain, without changing his route; for which it was well worth conquering the repugnance he had for all kinds of passengers. Besides, passengers at two thousand dollars are no longer passengers, but valuable merchandise. "I start at nine o'clock," said Captain Speedy, simply. "Are you and your party ready?" "We will be on board at nine o'clock," replied, no less simply, Mr. Fogg. It was half-past eight. To disembark from the Henrietta, jump into a hack, hurry to the St. Nicholas, and return with Aouda, Passepartout, and even the inseparable Fix was the work of a brief time, and was performed by Mr. Fogg with the coolness which never abandoned him. They were on board when the Henrietta made ready to weigh anchor. When Passepartout heard what this last voyage was going to cost, he uttered a prolonged "Oh!" which extended throughout his vocal gamut. As for Fix, he said to himself that the Bank of England would certainly not come out of this affair well indemnified. When they reached England, even if Mr. Fogg did not throw some handfuls of bank-bills into the sea, more than seven thousand pounds would have been spent!

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chapter 33|chapter 34|chapter 35

After one day of being on the Henrietta, Fogg takes over as the Captain of the ship after having bribed the entire crew and after locking Andrew Speedy in a cabin. Fogg wished to take the ship to Liverpool. Everything went well for the first few days and then the ship got caught in a gale. The ship has to fight the wind and they lose time as a result. Also since the ship had been traveling on full steam the vessel runs out of coal, as fuel. Fogg nevertheless asks the engineer to run the ship on full steam. He then summons Speedy and pays him enough money to be allowed to burn parts of the ship, in order to use them as fuel. Speedy appreciates the large sum of money and lets Fogg do whatever he wants with the ship. The ship manages to reach Queenstown Harbor and Fogg plans to go to Liverpool from here. They reach Liverpool, and now have only six hours in which to reach England. At this moment, Fix arrests Fogg.

----------CHAPTER 33--------- An hour after, the Henrietta passed the lighthouse which marks the entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea. During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and directed her course rapidly eastward. At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the vessel's position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy. Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire. As for Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and excessive. What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the Henrietta was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor. How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg's manoeuvre simply glorious. The captain had said "between eleven and twelve knots," and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction. If, then--for there were "ifs" still--the sea did not become too boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta might cross the three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days, between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta, added to that of the Bank of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he imagined or could desire. During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east, the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves like a real trans-Atlantic steamer. Passepartout was delighted. His master's last exploit, the consequences of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors, and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past, its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if heated by the furnaces of the Henrietta. Often, also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer existed. Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on. The conquest of the Henrietta, the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing the boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not unnaturally inclined to conclude that the Henrietta under Fogg's command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair. As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin; and Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals, courageous as he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg did not seem even to know that there was a captain on board. On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland, a dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are frequent fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening before the barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching change in the atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied, the cold became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east. This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his course, furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the vessel's speed slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves of which broke against the stern. She pitched violently, and this retarded her progress. The breeze little by little swelled into a tempest, and it was to be feared that the Henrietta might not be able to maintain herself upright on the waves. Passepartout's visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the poor fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold mariner, and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept on his course, without even decreasing his steam. The Henrietta, when she could not rise upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but passing safely. Sometimes the screw rose out of the water, beating its protruding end, when a mountain of water raised the stern above the waves; but the craft always kept straight ahead. The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been feared; it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with a speed of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it remained obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless. The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg's departure from London, and the Henrietta had not yet been seriously delayed. Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst localities had been passed. In summer, success would have been well-nigh certain. In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season. Passepartout said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and comforted himself with the reflection that, if the wind failed them, they might still count on the steam. On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and began to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was a presentiment, perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy. He would have given one of his ears to hear with the other what the engineer was saying. He finally managed to catch a few words, and was sure he heard his master say, "You are certain of what you tell me?" "Certain, sir," replied the engineer. "You must remember that, since we started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces, and, though we had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to Bordeaux, we haven't enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool." "I will consider," replied Mr. Fogg. Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety. The coal was giving out! "Ah, if my master can get over that," muttered he, "he'll be a famous man!" He could not help imparting to Fix what he had overheard. "Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?" "Of course." "Ass!" replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on his heel. Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet, the reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend; but he reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much disappointed and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so awkwardly followed a false scent around the world, and refrained. And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult to imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one, for that evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him, "Feed all the fires until the coal is exhausted." A few moments after, the funnel of the Henrietta vomited forth torrents of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on; but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced that the coal would give out in the course of the day. "Do not let the fires go down," replied Mr. Fogg. "Keep them up to the last. Let the valves be filled." Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position, called Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy. It was as if the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger. He went to the poop, saying to himself, "He will be like a madman!" In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the poop-deck. The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the point of bursting. "Where are we?" were the first words his anger permitted him to utter. Had the poor man been an apoplectic, he could never have recovered from his paroxysm of wrath. "Where are we?" he repeated, with purple face. "Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool," replied Mr. Fogg, with imperturbable calmness. "Pirate!" cried Captain Speedy. "I have sent for you, sir--" "Pickaroon!" "--sir," continued Mr. Fogg, "to ask you to sell me your vessel." "No! By all the devils, no!" "But I shall be obliged to burn her." "Burn the Henrietta!" "Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out." "Burn my vessel!" cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely pronounce the words. "A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!" "Here are sixty thousand," replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. An American can scarcely remain unmoved at the sight of sixty thousand dollars. The captain forgot in an instant his anger, his imprisonment, and all his grudges against his passenger. The Henrietta was twenty years old; it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all. Mr. Fogg had taken away the match. "And I shall still have the iron hull," said the captain in a softer tone. "The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?" "Agreed." And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them and consigned them to his pocket. During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet, and Fix seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit. Nearly twenty thousand pounds had been expended, and Fogg left the hull and engine to the captain, that is, near the whole value of the craft! It was true, however, that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank. When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him, "Don't let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall lose twenty thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by a quarter before nine on the evening of the 21st of December. I missed the steamer at New York, and as you refused to take me to Liverpool--" "And I did well!" cried Andrew Speedy; "for I have gained at least forty thousand dollars by it!" He added, more sedately, "Do you know one thing, Captain--" "Fogg." "Captain Fogg, you've got something of the Yankee about you." And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment, he was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, "The vessel now belongs to me?" "Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts--all the wood, that is." "Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down, and burn them." It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up to the adequate pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins, bunks, and the spare deck were sacrificed. On the next day, the 19th of December, the masts, rafts, and spars were burned; the crew worked lustily, keeping up the fires. Passepartout hewed, cut, and sawed away with all his might. There was a perfect rage for demolition. The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides disappeared on the 20th, and the Henrietta was now only a flat hulk. But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light. By ten in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had only twenty-four hours more in which to get to London; that length of time was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on. And the steam was about to give out altogether! "Sir," said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in Mr. Fogg's project, "I really commiserate you. Everything is against you. We are only opposite Queenstown." "Ah," said Mr. Fogg, "is that place where we see the lights Queenstown?" "Yes." "Can we enter the harbour?" "Not under three hours. Only at high tide." "Stay," replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer ill-fortune. Queenstown is the Irish port at which the trans-Atlantic steamers stop to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the Atlantic steamers. Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way. Instead of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the Henrietta, he would be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before a quarter before nine in the evening. The Henrietta entered Queenstown Harbour at one o'clock in the morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold it for. The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr. Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle was going on within him? Had he changed his mind about "his man"? Did he understand that he had made a grave mistake? He did not, however, abandon Mr. Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the waves, invariably cut through them. Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only six hours distant from London. But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg's shoulder, and, showing his warrant, said, "You are really Phileas Fogg?" "I am." "I arrest you in the Queen's name!" ----------CHAPTER 34--------- Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom House, and he was to be transferred to London the next day. Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon Fix had he not been held back by some policemen. Aouda was thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not understand. Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber. The young woman's heart revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly. As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether Mr. Fogg were guilty or not. The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this new misfortune! Had he not concealed Fix's errand from his master? When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least, Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of his master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil. Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains out. Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place; both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again. That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal. Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st of December, he had till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter; the journey from Liverpool to London was six hours. If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true, resigned; but this last blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which only burst forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment? No one could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting--for what? Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed? However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern. The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he was a knave, he was caught. Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were any practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping from it? Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room. But the door was locked, and the window heavily barred with iron rods. He sat down again, and drew his journal from his pocket. On the line where these words were written, "21st December, Saturday, Liverpool," he added, "80th day, 11.40 a.m.," and waited. The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch was two hours too fast. Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an express train, he could reach London and the Reform Club by a quarter before nine, p.m. His forehead slightly wrinkled. At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside, then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout's voice was audible, and immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg's eyes brightened for an instant. The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix, who hurried towards him. Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not speak. "Sir," he stammered, "sir--forgive me--most--unfortunate resemblance--robber arrested three days ago--you are free!" Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him steadily in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his life, or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the precision of a machine knocked Fix down. "Well hit!" cried Passepartout, "Parbleu! that's what you might call a good application of English fists!" Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word. He had only received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout left the Custom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few moments descended at the station. Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train about to leave for London. It was forty minutes past two. The express train had left thirty-five minutes before. Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train. There were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway arrangements did not permit the special train to leave until three o'clock. At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by the offer of a generous reward, at last set out towards London with Aouda and his faithful servant. It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half; and this would have been easy on a clear road throughout. But there were forced delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped from the train at the terminus, all the clocks in London were striking ten minutes before nine. Having made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand five minutes. He had lost the wager! ----------CHAPTER 35--------- The dwellers in Saville Row would have been surprised the next day, if they had been told that Phileas Fogg had returned home. His doors and windows were still closed, no appearance of change was visible. After leaving the station, Mr. Fogg gave Passepartout instructions to purchase some provisions, and quietly went to his domicile. He bore his misfortune with his habitual tranquillity. Ruined! And by the blundering of the detective! After having steadily traversed that long journey, overcome a hundred obstacles, braved many dangers, and still found time to do some good on his way, to fail near the goal by a sudden event which he could not have foreseen, and against which he was unarmed; it was terrible! But a few pounds were left of the large sum he had carried with him. There only remained of his fortune the twenty thousand pounds deposited at Barings, and this amount he owed to his friends of the Reform Club. So great had been the expense of his tour that, even had he won, it would not have enriched him; and it is probable that he had not sought to enrich himself, being a man who rather laid wagers for honour's sake than for the stake proposed. But this wager totally ruined him. Mr. Fogg's course, however, was fully decided upon; he knew what remained for him to do. A room in the house in Saville Row was set apart for Aouda, who was overwhelmed with grief at her protector's misfortune. From the words which Mr. Fogg dropped, she saw that he was meditating some serious project. Knowing that Englishmen governed by a fixed idea sometimes resort to the desperate expedient of suicide, Passepartout kept a narrow watch upon his master, though he carefully concealed the appearance of so doing. First of all, the worthy fellow had gone up to his room, and had extinguished the gas burner, which had been burning for eighty days. He had found in the letter-box a bill from the gas company, and he thought it more than time to put a stop to this expense, which he had been doomed to bear. The night passed. Mr. Fogg went to bed, but did he sleep? Aouda did not once close her eyes. Passepartout watched all night, like a faithful dog, at his master's door. Mr. Fogg called him in the morning, and told him to get Aouda's breakfast, and a cup of tea and a chop for himself. He desired Aouda to excuse him from breakfast and dinner, as his time would be absorbed all day in putting his affairs to rights. In the evening he would ask permission to have a few moment's conversation with the young lady. Passepartout, having received his orders, had nothing to do but obey them. He looked at his imperturbable master, and could scarcely bring his mind to leave him. His heart was full, and his conscience tortured by remorse; for he accused himself more bitterly than ever of being the cause of the irretrievable disaster. Yes! if he had warned Mr. Fogg, and had betrayed Fix's projects to him, his master would certainly not have given the detective passage to Liverpool, and then-- Passepartout could hold in no longer. "My master! Mr. Fogg!" he cried, "why do you not curse me? It was my fault that--" "I blame no one," returned Phileas Fogg, with perfect calmness. "Go!" Passepartout left the room, and went to find Aouda, to whom he delivered his master's message. "Madam," he added, "I can do nothing myself--nothing! I have no influence over my master; but you, perhaps--" "What influence could I have?" replied Aouda. "Mr. Fogg is influenced by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude to him is overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend, he must not be left alone an instant! You say he is going to speak with me this evening?" "Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in England." "We shall see," replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive. Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if uninhabited, and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in that house, did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck half-past eleven. Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer expected him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on the evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine), he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should go to his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists already had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their credit. Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so he remained at home. He shut himself up in his room, and busied himself putting his affairs in order. Passepartout continually ascended and descended the stairs. The hours were long for him. He listened at his master's door, and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do, and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment. Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all the world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty in tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout. . . . This thought haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly. Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda's door, went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a corner, and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still pensive. About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know if Aouda would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself alone with her. Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace, opposite Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face. Fogg returned was exactly the Fogg who had gone away; there was the same calm, the same impassibility. He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on Aouda, "Madam," said he, "will you pardon me for bringing you to England?" "I, Mr. Fogg!" replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart. "Please let me finish," returned Mr. Fogg. "When I decided to bring you far away from the country which was so unsafe for you, I was rich, and counted on putting a portion of my fortune at your disposal; then your existence would have been free and happy. But now I am ruined." "I know it, Mr. Fogg," replied Aouda; "and I ask you in my turn, will you forgive me for having followed you, and--who knows?--for having, perhaps, delayed you, and thus contributed to your ruin?" "Madam, you could not remain in India, and your safety could only be assured by bringing you to such a distance that your persecutors could not take you." "So, Mr. Fogg," resumed Aouda, "not content with rescuing me from a terrible death, you thought yourself bound to secure my comfort in a foreign land?" "Yes, madam; but circumstances have been against me. Still, I beg to place the little I have left at your service." "But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?" "As for me, madam," replied the gentleman, coldly, "I have need of nothing." "But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?" "As I am in the habit of doing." "At least," said Aouda, "want should not overtake a man like you. Your friends--" "I have no friends, madam." "Your relatives--" "I have no longer any relatives." "I pity you, then, Mr. Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing, with no heart to which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself, shared by two sympathetic souls, may be borne with patience." "They say so, madam." "Mr. Fogg," said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, "do you wish at once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?" Mr. Fogg, at this, rose in his turn. There was an unwonted light in his eyes, and a slight trembling of his lips. Aouda looked into his face. The sincerity, rectitude, firmness, and sweetness of this soft glance of a noble woman, who could dare all to save him to whom she owed all, at first astonished, then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an instant, as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again, "I love you!" he said, simply. "Yes, by all that is holiest, I love you, and I am entirely yours!" "Ah!" cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart. Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr. Fogg still held Aouda's hand in his own; Passepartout understood, and his big, round face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith. Mr. Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify the Reverend Samuel Wilson, of Marylebone parish, that evening. Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said, "Never too late." It was five minutes past eight. "Will it be for to-morrow, Monday?" "For to-morrow, Monday," said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda. "Yes; for to-morrow, Monday," she replied. Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 1 using the context provided.

chapter 36|chapter 37|chapter 1|chapter 2

Text: Jules Verne, Around the World in 80 Days. The Reader's Digest complete text of Le Tour du Monde en Quartre-vingts Jours, 1873. The Reader's Digest Assn, Inc. Montreal and Pleasantville, New York, 1988. of Chapter One: In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout accept each other: the one as master, the other as man On October 2, 1872, Mr. Phileas Fogg of No. 7, Savile Row, Burlington Gardens, London, is hiring a new servant, after firing James Forster for bringing his shaving water at 84 degrees instead of 86 degrees Fahrenheit. Fogg is a gentleman and man of the world, a prominent but mysterious member of the Reform Club. He is never seen anywhere in London except at his club, at which he arrives the same time every day for luncheon and departs every night at midnight. No one knows what he does; he is not a landowner, a businessman, merchant, or scientist. He appears to be rich but not showy. He gives his money to charitable purposes, but he communicates little to anyone. He does nothing but read the papers, dine, and play whist with the same men. Though he often wins at cards, he gives the money to charity. He plays for love of the game. Fogg seems to be a world traveler because he knows about every spot around the globe, yet no one sees him travel. He has no wife or children but lives alone in a rather plain but comfortable house with one manservant. Fogg is watching the clock this day, and when there is a knock on the door, he lets in a man of thirty, whom he interviews for the position of manservant. The man introduces himself as Jean Passepartout, an honest Frenchman, jack-of-all trades. He has been a singer, gymnast, circus performer, a tightrope walker, a fireman, and a valet. He had heard of Fogg's strict requirements and wanted to work for him, to lead a quiet and orderly life. Fogg tests him by asking what time it is. Passepartout brings out his large watch and says " twenty-two minutes after eleven" . Fogg corrects him, saying he is four minutes slow. They synchronize their watches as a gesture of formal contract, and Fogg has effectively hired his new man. Without any other word, Fogg leaves Passepartout in his house and goes to his club.

----------CHAPTER 36--------- It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion when it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand, had been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh. Three days before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being desperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable gentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the world. The papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had laid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic; the "Phileas Fogg bonds" again became negotiable, and many new wagers were made. Phileas Fogg's name was once more at a premium on 'Change. His five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state of feverish suspense. Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten, reappear before their eyes! Where was he at this moment? The 17th of December, the day of James Strand's arrest, was the seventy-sixth since Phileas Fogg's departure, and no news of him had been received. Was he dead? Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey along the route agreed upon? And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold of the Reform Club saloon? The anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be described. Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas Fogg. Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning and evening. No news. The police were ignorant what had become of the detective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent. Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value. Phileas Fogg, like a racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point. The bonds were quoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at five; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour. A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets on Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently established around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded, and everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going on. The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as the hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to its highest pitch. The five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the club. John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart, the engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and Thomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously. When the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got up, saying, "Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between Mr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired." "What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?" asked Thomas Flanagan. "At twenty-three minutes past seven," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and the next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve." "Well, gentlemen," resumed Andrew Stuart, "if Phileas Fogg had come in the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can, therefore, regard the bet as won." "Wait; don't let us be too hasty," replied Samuel Fallentin. "You know that Mr. Fogg is very eccentric. His punctuality is well known; he never arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if he appeared before us at the last minute." "Why," said Andrew Stuart nervously, "if I should see him, I should not believe it was he." "The fact is," resumed Thomas Flanagan, "Mr. Fogg's project was absurdly foolish. Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the delays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three days would be fatal to his tour." "Observe, too," added John Sullivan, "that we have received no intelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along his route." "He has lost, gentleman," said Andrew Stuart, "he has a hundred times lost! You know, besides, that the China the only steamer he could have taken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday. I have seen a list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among them. Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can scarcely have reached America. I think he will be at least twenty days behind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand." "It is clear," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and we have nothing to do but to present Mr. Fogg's cheque at Barings to-morrow." At this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes to nine. "Five minutes more," said Andrew Stuart. The five gentlemen looked at each other. Their anxiety was becoming intense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr. Fallentin's proposal of a rubber. "I wouldn't give up my four thousand of the bet," said Andrew Stuart, as he took his seat, "for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine." The clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine. The players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the clock. Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed so long to them! "Seventeen minutes to nine," said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards which Ralph handed to him. Then there was a moment of silence. The great saloon was perfectly quiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and then a shrill cry. The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player eagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity. "Sixteen minutes to nine!" said John Sullivan, in a voice which betrayed his emotion. One minute more, and the wager would be won. Andrew Stuart and his partners suspended their game. They left their cards, and counted the seconds. At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth, still nothing. At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by applause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls. The players rose from their seats. At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared, followed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club doors, and in his calm voice, said, "Here I am, gentlemen!" ----------CHAPTER 37--------- IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR AROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS Yes; Phileas Fogg in person. The reader will remember that at five minutes past eight in the evening--about five and twenty hours after the arrival of the travellers in London--Passepartout had been sent by his master to engage the services of the Reverend Samuel Wilson in a certain marriage ceremony, which was to take place the next day. Passepartout went on his errand enchanted. He soon reached the clergyman's house, but found him not at home. Passepartout waited a good twenty minutes, and when he left the reverend gentleman, it was thirty-five minutes past eight. But in what a state he was! With his hair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the sidewalk like a waterspout. In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into Mr. Fogg's room. He could not speak. "What is the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "My master!" gasped Passepartout--"marriage--impossible--" "Impossible?" "Impossible--for to-morrow." "Why so?" "Because to-morrow--is Sunday!" "Monday," replied Mr. Fogg. "No--to-day is Saturday." "Saturday? Impossible!" "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" cried Passepartout. "You have made a mistake of one day! We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time; but there are only ten minutes left!" Passepartout had seized his master by the collar, and was dragging him along with irresistible force. Phileas Fogg, thus kidnapped, without having time to think, left his house, jumped into a cab, promised a hundred pounds to the cabman, and, having run over two dogs and overturned five carriages, reached the Reform Club. The clock indicated a quarter before nine when he appeared in the great saloon. Phileas Fogg had accomplished the journey round the world in eighty days! Phileas Fogg had won his wager of twenty thousand pounds! How was it that a man so exact and fastidious could have made this error of a day? How came he to think that he had arrived in London on Saturday, the twenty-first day of December, when it was really Friday, the twentieth, the seventy-ninth day only from his departure? The cause of the error is very simple. Phileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey, and this merely because he had travelled constantly eastward; he would, on the contrary, have lost a day had he gone in the opposite direction, that is, westward. In journeying eastward he had gone towards the sun, and the days therefore diminished for him as many times four minutes as he crossed degrees in this direction. There are three hundred and sixty degrees on the circumference of the earth; and these three hundred and sixty degrees, multiplied by four minutes, gives precisely twenty-four hours--that is, the day unconsciously gained. In other words, while Phileas Fogg, going eastward, saw the sun pass the meridian eighty times, his friends in London only saw it pass the meridian seventy-nine times. This is why they awaited him at the Reform Club on Saturday, and not Sunday, as Mr. Fogg thought. And Passepartout's famous family watch, which had always kept London time, would have betrayed this fact, if it had marked the days as well as the hours and the minutes! Phileas Fogg, then, had won the twenty thousand pounds; but, as he had spent nearly nineteen thousand on the way, the pecuniary gain was small. His object was, however, to be victorious, and not to win money. He divided the one thousand pounds that remained between Passepartout and the unfortunate Fix, against whom he cherished no grudge. He deducted, however, from Passepartout's share the cost of the gas which had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty hours, for the sake of regularity. That evening, Mr. Fogg, as tranquil and phlegmatic as ever, said to Aouda: "Is our marriage still agreeable to you?" "Mr. Fogg," replied she, "it is for me to ask that question. You were ruined, but now you are rich again." "Pardon me, madam; my fortune belongs to you. If you had not suggested our marriage, my servant would not have gone to the Reverend Samuel Wilson's, I should not have been apprised of my error, and--" "Dear Mr. Fogg!" said the young woman. "Dear Aouda!" replied Phileas Fogg. It need not be said that the marriage took place forty-eight hours after, and that Passepartout, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride away. Had he not saved her, and was he not entitled to this honour? The next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously at his master's door. Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, "What's the matter, Passepartout?" "What is it, sir? Why, I've just this instant found out--" "What?" "That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight days." "No doubt," returned Mr. Fogg, "by not crossing India. But if I had not crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have been my wife, and--" Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door. Phileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the world in eighty days. To do this he had employed every means of conveyance--steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading-vessels, sledges, elephants. The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed all his marvellous qualities of coolness and exactitude. But what then? What had he really gained by all this trouble? What had he brought back from this long and weary journey? Nothing, say you? Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who, strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men! Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world? ----------CHAPTER 1--------- Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron--at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old. Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He was never seen on 'Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the counting-rooms of the "City"; no ships ever came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen's Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take part in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London Institution, the Artisan's Association, or the Institution of Arts and Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects. Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all. The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple enough. He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His cheques were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which was always flush. Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the least communicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled. Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the true probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions. He must have travelled everywhere, at least in the spirit. It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better acquaintance with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one, harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, congenial to his tastes. Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which may happen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house in Saville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleeping or making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined all the resources of the club--its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and dairy--aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port, and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes. If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that there is something good in eccentricity. The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past. Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform. A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared. "The new servant," said he. A young man of thirty advanced and bowed. "You are a Frenchman, I believe," asked Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?" "Jean, if monsieur pleases," replied the newcomer, "Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I believe I'm honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout." "Passepartout suits me," responded Mr. Fogg. "You are well recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?" "Yes, monsieur." "Good! What time is it?" "Twenty-two minutes after eleven," returned Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket. "You are too slow," said Mr. Fogg. "Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible--" "You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it's enough to mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my service." Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a word. Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the house in Saville Row. ----------CHAPTER 2--------- "Faith," muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, "I've seen people at Madame Tussaud's as lively as my new master!" Madame Tussaud's "people," let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human. During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call "repose in action," a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions. He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment. He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody. As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva's tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet. It would be rash to predict how Passepartout's lively nature would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required; experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on policemen's shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen. At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row. He began its inspection without delay, scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail's shell, lighted and warmed by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg's bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. "That's good, that'll do," said Passepartout to himself. He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club--all the details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired. Mr. Fogg's wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was applied to the master's shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits. Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, "This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don't mind serving a machine."

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 4, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 3|chapter 4|chapter 5

"In which Phileas Fogg astounds Passepartout, his servant" Phileas Fogg leaves the Reform Club at twenty-five minutes past seven, having won twenty guineas at whist. Passepartout is surprised to see his master before midnight, his usual time for coming home, according to the schedule. Fogg announces they are leaving for Dover in ten minutes to travel around the world. Passepartout is astonished and complains about having to pack the trunks. Fogg tells him they will take a single carpetbag with a few items and buy the rest as they need it. Passepartout collapses into a chair, worrying that he had been looking for peace, and now things were changing. They would travel! Perhaps he would get to see Paris again, his home that he has not seen for five years. He packs the one bag, and by 8:00 p.m. man and master are ready. Fogg has with him a Bradshaw schedule of trains and steamships and puts twenty thousand pounds from his safe into the carpetbag for expenses. He tells Passepartout never to let the bag out of his sight. Outside the railway station, they see a beggar woman with a child in her arms. Fogg gives her the twenty guineas he won at whist, and Passepartout feels his eyes tear up at his master's kindness. Two train tickets to Paris are purchased, and then they spot the five members of the Reform Club waiting to see them off. Fogg tells the members they can examine his passport with the visa stamps when he gets back to prove he has been around the world. They say they trust his word as a gentleman. Fogg pledges to return on December 21, 1872, at a quarter before 9 p.m. The rain begins to fall as the train pulls out. Suddenly Passepartout remembers he has not turned out the gas in his room. Fogg tells him he will have to pay the bill when they return.

----------CHAPTER 3--------- Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-past eleven, and having put his right foot before his left five hundred and seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right five hundred and seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions. He repaired at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a tasteful garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn colouring; and took his place at the habitual table, the cover of which had already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish, a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel of Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed down with several cups of tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thirteen minutes to one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him an uncut Times, which he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed familiarity with this delicate operation. The perusal of this paper absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the Standard, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg re-appeared in the reading-room and sat down to the Pall Mall at twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were Mr. Fogg's usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England--all rich and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the princes of English trade and finance. "Well, Ralph," said Thomas Flanagan, "what about that robbery?" "Oh," replied Stuart, "the Bank will lose the money." "On the contrary," broke in Ralph, "I hope we may put our hands on the robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of America and the Continent, and he'll be a clever fellow if he slips through their fingers." "But have you got the robber's description?" asked Stuart. "In the first place, he is no robber at all," returned Ralph, positively. "What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no robber?" "No." "Perhaps he's a manufacturer, then." "The Daily Telegraph says that he is a gentleman." It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from behind his newspapers, who made this remark. He bowed to his friends, and entered into the conversation. The affair which formed its subject, and which was town talk, had occurred three days before at the Bank of England. A package of banknotes, to the value of fifty-five thousand pounds, had been taken from the principal cashier's table, that functionary being at the moment engaged in registering the receipt of three shillings and sixpence. Of course, he could not have his eyes everywhere. Let it be observed that the Bank of England reposes a touching confidence in the honesty of the public. There are neither guards nor gratings to protect its treasures; gold, silver, banknotes are freely exposed, at the mercy of the first comer. A keen observer of English customs relates that, being in one of the rooms of the Bank one day, he had the curiosity to examine a gold ingot weighing some seven or eight pounds. He took it up, scrutinised it, passed it to his neighbour, he to the next man, and so on until the ingot, going from hand to hand, was transferred to the end of a dark entry; nor did it return to its place for half an hour. Meanwhile, the cashier had not so much as raised his head. But in the present instance things had not gone so smoothly. The package of notes not being found when five o'clock sounded from the ponderous clock in the "drawing office," the amount was passed to the account of profit and loss. As soon as the robbery was discovered, picked detectives hastened off to Liverpool, Glasgow, Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York, and other ports, inspired by the proffered reward of two thousand pounds, and five per cent. on the sum that might be recovered. Detectives were also charged with narrowly watching those who arrived at or left London by rail, and a judicial examination was at once entered upon. There were real grounds for supposing, as the Daily Telegraph said, that the thief did not belong to a professional band. On the day of the robbery a well-dressed gentleman of polished manners, and with a well-to-do air, had been observed going to and fro in the paying room where the crime was committed. A description of him was easily procured and sent to the detectives; and some hopeful spirits, of whom Ralph was one, did not despair of his apprehension. The papers and clubs were full of the affair, and everywhere people were discussing the probabilities of a successful pursuit; and the Reform Club was especially agitated, several of its members being Bank officials. Ralph would not concede that the work of the detectives was likely to be in vain, for he thought that the prize offered would greatly stimulate their zeal and activity. But Stuart was far from sharing this confidence; and, as they placed themselves at the whist-table, they continued to argue the matter. Stuart and Flanagan played together, while Phileas Fogg had Fallentin for his partner. As the game proceeded the conversation ceased, excepting between the rubbers, when it revived again. "I maintain," said Stuart, "that the chances are in favour of the thief, who must be a shrewd fellow." "Well, but where can he fly to?" asked Ralph. "No country is safe for him." "Pshaw!" "Where could he go, then?" "Oh, I don't know that. The world is big enough." "It was once," said Phileas Fogg, in a low tone. "Cut, sir," he added, handing the cards to Thomas Flanagan. The discussion fell during the rubber, after which Stuart took up its thread. "What do you mean by `once'? Has the world grown smaller?" "Certainly," returned Ralph. "I agree with Mr. Fogg. The world has grown smaller, since a man can now go round it ten times more quickly than a hundred years ago. And that is why the search for this thief will be more likely to succeed." "And also why the thief can get away more easily." "Be so good as to play, Mr. Stuart," said Phileas Fogg. But the incredulous Stuart was not convinced, and when the hand was finished, said eagerly: "You have a strange way, Ralph, of proving that the world has grown smaller. So, because you can go round it in three months--" "In eighty days," interrupted Phileas Fogg. "That is true, gentlemen," added John Sullivan. "Only eighty days, now that the section between Rothal and Allahabad, on the Great Indian Peninsula Railway, has been opened. Here is the estimate made by the Daily Telegraph: From London to Suez via Mont Cenis and Brindisi, by rail and steamboats ................. 7 days From Suez to Bombay, by steamer .................... 13 " From Bombay to Calcutta, by rail ................... 3 " From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamer ............. 13 " From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamer ..... 6 " From Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamer ......... 22 " From San Francisco to New York, by rail ............. 7 " From New York to London, by steamer and rail ........ 9 " ------ Total ............................................ 80 days." "Yes, in eighty days!" exclaimed Stuart, who in his excitement made a false deal. "But that doesn't take into account bad weather, contrary winds, shipwrecks, railway accidents, and so on." "All included," returned Phileas Fogg, continuing to play despite the discussion. "But suppose the Hindoos or Indians pull up the rails," replied Stuart; "suppose they stop the trains, pillage the luggage-vans, and scalp the passengers!" "All included," calmly retorted Fogg; adding, as he threw down the cards, "Two trumps." Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, gathered them up, and went on: "You are right, theoretically, Mr. Fogg, but practically--" "Practically also, Mr. Stuart." "I'd like to see you do it in eighty days." "It depends on you. Shall we go?" "Heaven preserve me! But I would wager four thousand pounds that such a journey, made under these conditions, is impossible." "Quite possible, on the contrary," returned Mr. Fogg. "Well, make it, then!" "The journey round the world in eighty days?" "Yes." "I should like nothing better." "When?" "At once. Only I warn you that I shall do it at your expense." "It's absurd!" cried Stuart, who was beginning to be annoyed at the persistency of his friend. "Come, let's go on with the game." "Deal over again, then," said Phileas Fogg. "There's a false deal." Stuart took up the pack with a feverish hand; then suddenly put them down again. "Well, Mr. Fogg," said he, "it shall be so: I will wager the four thousand on it." "Calm yourself, my dear Stuart," said Fallentin. "It's only a joke." "When I say I'll wager," returned Stuart, "I mean it." "All right," said Mr. Fogg; and, turning to the others, he continued: "I have a deposit of twenty thousand at Baring's which I will willingly risk upon it." "Twenty thousand pounds!" cried Sullivan. "Twenty thousand pounds, which you would lose by a single accidental delay!" "The unforeseen does not exist," quietly replied Phileas Fogg. "But, Mr. Fogg, eighty days are only the estimate of the least possible time in which the journey can be made." "A well-used minimum suffices for everything." "But, in order not to exceed it, you must jump mathematically from the trains upon the steamers, and from the steamers upon the trains again." "I will jump--mathematically." "You are joking." "A true Englishman doesn't joke when he is talking about so serious a thing as a wager," replied Phileas Fogg, solemnly. "I will bet twenty thousand pounds against anyone who wishes that I will make the tour of the world in eighty days or less; in nineteen hundred and twenty hours, or a hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Do you accept?" "We accept," replied Messrs. Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and Ralph, after consulting each other. "Good," said Mr. Fogg. "The train leaves for Dover at a quarter before nine. I will take it." "This very evening?" asked Stuart. "This very evening," returned Phileas Fogg. He took out and consulted a pocket almanac, and added, "As today is Wednesday, the 2nd of October, I shall be due in London in this very room of the Reform Club, on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine p.m.; or else the twenty thousand pounds, now deposited in my name at Baring's, will belong to you, in fact and in right, gentlemen. Here is a cheque for the amount." A memorandum of the wager was at once drawn up and signed by the six parties, during which Phileas Fogg preserved a stoical composure. He certainly did not bet to win, and had only staked the twenty thousand pounds, half of his fortune, because he foresaw that he might have to expend the other half to carry out this difficult, not to say unattainable, project. As for his antagonists, they seemed much agitated; not so much by the value of their stake, as because they had some scruples about betting under conditions so difficult to their friend. The clock struck seven, and the party offered to suspend the game so that Mr. Fogg might make his preparations for departure. "I am quite ready now," was his tranquil response. "Diamonds are trumps: be so good as to play, gentlemen." ----------CHAPTER 4--------- Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club. Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight. Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, "Passepartout!" Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour. "Passepartout!" repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice. Passepartout made his appearance. "I've called you twice," observed his master. "But it is not midnight," responded the other, showing his watch. "I know it; I don't blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes." A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout's round face; clearly he had not comprehended his master. "Monsieur is going to leave home?" "Yes," returned Phileas Fogg. "We are going round the world." Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment. "Round the world!" he murmured. "In eighty days," responded Mr. Fogg. "So we haven't a moment to lose." "But the trunks?" gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left. "We'll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We'll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!" Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: "That's good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!" He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt--but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this so domestic person hitherto! By eight o'clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag, containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of Bradshaw's Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, with its timetables showing the arrival and departure of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass wherever he might go. "You have forgotten nothing?" asked he. "Nothing, monsieur." "My mackintosh and cloak?" "Here they are." "Good! Take this carpet-bag," handing it to Passepartout. "Take good care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it." Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and weighed him down. Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms. Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the beggar, saying, "Here, my good woman. I'm glad that I met you;" and passed on. Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master's action touched his susceptible heart. Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr. Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five friends of the Reform. "Well, gentlemen," said he, "I'm off, you see; and, if you will examine my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon." "Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg," said Ralph politely. "We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour." "You do not forget when you are due in London again?" asked Stuart. "In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen." Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station. The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout, not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure. Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair. "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "Alas! In my hurry--I--I forgot--" "What?" "To turn off the gas in my room!" "Very well, young man," returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; "it will burn--at your expense." ----------CHAPTER 5--------- Phileas Fogg rightly suspected that his departure from London would create a lively sensation at the West End. The news of the bet spread through the Reform Club, and afforded an exciting topic of conversation to its members. From the club it soon got into the papers throughout England. The boasted "tour of the world" was talked about, disputed, argued with as much warmth as if the subject were another Alabama claim. Some took sides with Phileas Fogg, but the large majority shook their heads and declared against him; it was absurd, impossible, they declared, that the tour of the world could be made, except theoretically and on paper, in this minimum of time, and with the existing means of travelling. The Times, Standard, Morning Post, and Daily News, and twenty other highly respectable newspapers scouted Mr. Fogg's project as madness; the Daily Telegraph alone hesitatingly supported him. People in general thought him a lunatic, and blamed his Reform Club friends for having accepted a wager which betrayed the mental aberration of its proposer. Articles no less passionate than logical appeared on the question, for geography is one of the pet subjects of the English; and the columns devoted to Phileas Fogg's venture were eagerly devoured by all classes of readers. At first some rash individuals, principally of the gentler sex, espoused his cause, which became still more popular when the Illustrated London News came out with his portrait, copied from a photograph in the Reform Club. A few readers of the Daily Telegraph even dared to say, "Why not, after all? Stranger things have come to pass." At last a long article appeared, on the 7th of October, in the bulletin of the Royal Geographical Society, which treated the question from every point of view, and demonstrated the utter folly of the enterprise. Everything, it said, was against the travellers, every obstacle imposed alike by man and by nature. A miraculous agreement of the times of departure and arrival, which was impossible, was absolutely necessary to his success. He might, perhaps, reckon on the arrival of trains at the designated hours, in Europe, where the distances were relatively moderate; but when he calculated upon crossing India in three days, and the United States in seven, could he rely beyond misgiving upon accomplishing his task? There were accidents to machinery, the liability of trains to run off the line, collisions, bad weather, the blocking up by snow--were not all these against Phileas Fogg? Would he not find himself, when travelling by steamer in winter, at the mercy of the winds and fogs? Is it uncommon for the best ocean steamers to be two or three days behind time? But a single delay would suffice to fatally break the chain of communication; should Phileas Fogg once miss, even by an hour; a steamer, he would have to wait for the next, and that would irrevocably render his attempt vain. This article made a great deal of noise, and, being copied into all the papers, seriously depressed the advocates of the rash tourist. Everybody knows that England is the world of betting men, who are of a higher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English temperament. Not only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made heavy wagers for or against Phileas Fogg, who was set down in the betting books as if he were a race-horse. Bonds were issued, and made their appearance on 'Change; "Phileas Fogg bonds" were offered at par or at a premium, and a great business was done in them. But five days after the article in the bulletin of the Geographical Society appeared, the demand began to subside: "Phileas Fogg" declined. They were offered by packages, at first of five, then of ten, until at last nobody would take less than twenty, fifty, a hundred! Lord Albemarle, an elderly paralytic gentleman, was now the only advocate of Phileas Fogg left. This noble lord, who was fastened to his chair, would have given his fortune to be able to make the tour of the world, if it took ten years; and he bet five thousand pounds on Phileas Fogg. When the folly as well as the uselessness of the adventure was pointed out to him, he contented himself with replying, "If the thing is feasible, the first to do it ought to be an Englishman." The Fogg party dwindled more and more, everybody was going against him, and the bets stood a hundred and fifty and two hundred to one; and a week after his departure an incident occurred which deprived him of backers at any price. The commissioner of police was sitting in his office at nine o'clock one evening, when the following telegraphic dispatch was put into his hands: Suez to London. Rowan, Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard: I've found the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send with out delay warrant of arrest to Bombay. Fix, Detective. The effect of this dispatch was instantaneous. The polished gentleman disappeared to give place to the bank robber. His photograph, which was hung with those of the rest of the members at the Reform Club, was minutely examined, and it betrayed, feature by feature, the description of the robber which had been provided to the police. The mysterious habits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary ways, his sudden departure; and it seemed clear that, in undertaking a tour round the world on the pretext of a wager, he had had no other end in view than to elude the detectives, and throw them off his track.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 9 based on the provided context.

chapter 6|chapter 7|chapter 8|chapter 9

"In which the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean prove propitious to the designs of Phileas Fogg" The Mongolia, being so fast, is likely to get to Bombay on time. On board are a number of British military personnel headed for India. Sumptuous meals and entertainment on board make the time go quickly. Though the Red Sea can be rough and the winds often make the ship toss, the ship cuts through the waves with no problem. Is Fogg anxious? No, he is just as he was at the Reform Club, indifferent to what is passing around him. He eats heartily and plays whist with Reverend Decimus Smith, a tax collector of Goa, and a general of the British army on the way to Benares. Passepartout enjoys the voyage, taking "interest in the scenes" they see . He feels that his master will tire of the trip when they reach Bombay. Passepartout makes friends on the voyage with the man he met at Suez, Mr. Fix, who seems surprised to see Passepartout. Fix lies to him, telling him he is an agent of the Peninsular Company that owns the ship, going to India. Fix pumps Passepartout for more information, and they spend time together on the crossing. Passepartout enjoys seeing the ruined walls of Mocha, the strait of Bab-el-Mandeb and Aden harbor where they take in coal for fuel. The fuel delay does not agitate Fogg, who remains always calm. Besides, the Mongolia had arrived in Aden early, a gain of 15 hours. Fogg goes ashore to have his passport stamped, and Fix follows him. Fogg returns to the ship and begins his routine again, but Passepartout walks around viewing the mixed population of Aden--Somalis, Jews, Parsees, and Europeans, and the vast cisterns that are the work of English engineers. He is impressed and begins to love travel. The Mongolia now has 168 hours on the Indian Ocean to get to Bombay, but the sea is favorable. Passepartout enjoys the friendship of Fix, and just as Fogg finishes the thirty-third rubber of whist, they come into the harbor of Bombay, with a net gain of two days, as Fogg notes in his journal.

----------CHAPTER 6--------- The circumstances under which this telegraphic dispatch about Phileas Fogg was sent were as follows: The steamer Mongolia, belonging to the Peninsular and Oriental Company, built of iron, of two thousand eight hundred tons burden, and five hundred horse-power, was due at eleven o'clock a.m. on Wednesday, the 9th of October, at Suez. The Mongolia plied regularly between Brindisi and Bombay via the Suez Canal, and was one of the fastest steamers belonging to the company, always making more than ten knots an hour between Brindisi and Suez, and nine and a half between Suez and Bombay. Two men were promenading up and down the wharves, among the crowd of natives and strangers who were sojourning at this once straggling village--now, thanks to the enterprise of M. Lesseps, a fast-growing town. One was the British consul at Suez, who, despite the prophecies of the English Government, and the unfavourable predictions of Stephenson, was in the habit of seeing, from his office window, English ships daily passing to and fro on the great canal, by which the old roundabout route from England to India by the Cape of Good Hope was abridged by at least a half. The other was a small, slight-built personage, with a nervous, intelligent face, and bright eyes peering out from under eyebrows which he was incessantly twitching. He was just now manifesting unmistakable signs of impatience, nervously pacing up and down, and unable to stand still for a moment. This was Fix, one of the detectives who had been dispatched from England in search of the bank robber; it was his task to narrowly watch every passenger who arrived at Suez, and to follow up all who seemed to be suspicious characters, or bore a resemblance to the description of the criminal, which he had received two days before from the police headquarters at London. The detective was evidently inspired by the hope of obtaining the splendid reward which would be the prize of success, and awaited with a feverish impatience, easy to understand, the arrival of the steamer Mongolia. "So you say, consul," asked he for the twentieth time, "that this steamer is never behind time?" "No, Mr. Fix," replied the consul. "She was bespoken yesterday at Port Said, and the rest of the way is of no account to such a craft. I repeat that the Mongolia has been in advance of the time required by the company's regulations, and gained the prize awarded for excess of speed." "Does she come directly from Brindisi?" "Directly from Brindisi; she takes on the Indian mails there, and she left there Saturday at five p.m. Have patience, Mr. Fix; she will not be late. But really, I don't see how, from the description you have, you will be able to recognise your man, even if he is on board the Mongolia." "A man rather feels the presence of these fellows, consul, than recognises them. You must have a scent for them, and a scent is like a sixth sense which combines hearing, seeing, and smelling. I've arrested more than one of these gentlemen in my time, and, if my thief is on board, I'll answer for it; he'll not slip through my fingers." "I hope so, Mr. Fix, for it was a heavy robbery." "A magnificent robbery, consul; fifty-five thousand pounds! We don't often have such windfalls. Burglars are getting to be so contemptible nowadays! A fellow gets hung for a handful of shillings!" "Mr. Fix," said the consul, "I like your way of talking, and hope you'll succeed; but I fear you will find it far from easy. Don't you see, the description which you have there has a singular resemblance to an honest man?" "Consul," remarked the detective, dogmatically, "great robbers always resemble honest folks. Fellows who have rascally faces have only one course to take, and that is to remain honest; otherwise they would be arrested off-hand. The artistic thing is, to unmask honest countenances; it's no light task, I admit, but a real art." Mr. Fix evidently was not wanting in a tinge of self-conceit. Little by little the scene on the quay became more animated; sailors of various nations, merchants, ship-brokers, porters, fellahs, bustled to and fro as if the steamer were immediately expected. The weather was clear, and slightly chilly. The minarets of the town loomed above the houses in the pale rays of the sun. A jetty pier, some two thousand yards along, extended into the roadstead. A number of fishing-smacks and coasting boats, some retaining the fantastic fashion of ancient galleys, were discernible on the Red Sea. As he passed among the busy crowd, Fix, according to habit, scrutinised the passers-by with a keen, rapid glance. It was now half-past ten. "The steamer doesn't come!" he exclaimed, as the port clock struck. "She can't be far off now," returned his companion. "How long will she stop at Suez?" "Four hours; long enough to get in her coal. It is thirteen hundred and ten miles from Suez to Aden, at the other end of the Red Sea, and she has to take in a fresh coal supply." "And does she go from Suez directly to Bombay?" "Without putting in anywhere." "Good!" said Fix. "If the robber is on board he will no doubt get off at Suez, so as to reach the Dutch or French colonies in Asia by some other route. He ought to know that he would not be safe an hour in India, which is English soil." "Unless," objected the consul, "he is exceptionally shrewd. An English criminal, you know, is always better concealed in London than anywhere else." This observation furnished the detective food for thought, and meanwhile the consul went away to his office. Fix, left alone, was more impatient than ever, having a presentiment that the robber was on board the Mongolia. If he had indeed left London intending to reach the New World, he would naturally take the route via India, which was less watched and more difficult to watch than that of the Atlantic. But Fix's reflections were soon interrupted by a succession of sharp whistles, which announced the arrival of the Mongolia. The porters and fellahs rushed down the quay, and a dozen boats pushed off from the shore to go and meet the steamer. Soon her gigantic hull appeared passing along between the banks, and eleven o'clock struck as she anchored in the road. She brought an unusual number of passengers, some of whom remained on deck to scan the picturesque panorama of the town, while the greater part disembarked in the boats, and landed on the quay. Fix took up a position, and carefully examined each face and figure which made its appearance. Presently one of the passengers, after vigorously pushing his way through the importunate crowd of porters, came up to him and politely asked if he could point out the English consulate, at the same time showing a passport which he wished to have visaed. Fix instinctively took the passport, and with a rapid glance read the description of its bearer. An involuntary motion of surprise nearly escaped him, for the description in the passport was identical with that of the bank robber which he had received from Scotland Yard. "Is this your passport?" asked he. "No, it's my master's." "And your master is--" "He stayed on board." "But he must go to the consul's in person, so as to establish his identity." "Oh, is that necessary?" "Quite indispensable." "And where is the consulate?" "There, on the corner of the square," said Fix, pointing to a house two hundred steps off. "I'll go and fetch my master, who won't be much pleased, however, to be disturbed." The passenger bowed to Fix, and returned to the steamer. ----------CHAPTER 7--------- The detective passed down the quay, and rapidly made his way to the consul's office, where he was at once admitted to the presence of that official. "Consul," said he, without preamble, "I have strong reasons for believing that my man is a passenger on the Mongolia." And he narrated what had just passed concerning the passport. "Well, Mr. Fix," replied the consul, "I shall not be sorry to see the rascal's face; but perhaps he won't come here--that is, if he is the person you suppose him to be. A robber doesn't quite like to leave traces of his flight behind him; and, besides, he is not obliged to have his passport countersigned." "If he is as shrewd as I think he is, consul, he will come." "To have his passport visaed?" "Yes. Passports are only good for annoying honest folks, and aiding in the flight of rogues. I assure you it will be quite the thing for him to do; but I hope you will not visa the passport." "Why not? If the passport is genuine I have no right to refuse." "Still, I must keep this man here until I can get a warrant to arrest him from London." "Ah, that's your look-out. But I cannot--" The consul did not finish his sentence, for as he spoke a knock was heard at the door, and two strangers entered, one of whom was the servant whom Fix had met on the quay. The other, who was his master, held out his passport with the request that the consul would do him the favour to visa it. The consul took the document and carefully read it, whilst Fix observed, or rather devoured, the stranger with his eyes from a corner of the room. "You are Mr. Phileas Fogg?" said the consul, after reading the passport. "I am." "And this man is your servant?" "He is: a Frenchman, named Passepartout." "You are from London?" "Yes." "And you are going--" "To Bombay." "Very good, sir. You know that a visa is useless, and that no passport is required?" "I know it, sir," replied Phileas Fogg; "but I wish to prove, by your visa, that I came by Suez." "Very well, sir." The consul proceeded to sign and date the passport, after which he added his official seal. Mr. Fogg paid the customary fee, coldly bowed, and went out, followed by his servant. "Well?" queried the detective. "Well, he looks and acts like a perfectly honest man," replied the consul. "Possibly; but that is not the question. Do you think, consul, that this phlegmatic gentleman resembles, feature by feature, the robber whose description I have received?" "I concede that; but then, you know, all descriptions--" "I'll make certain of it," interrupted Fix. "The servant seems to me less mysterious than the master; besides, he's a Frenchman, and can't help talking. Excuse me for a little while, consul." Fix started off in search of Passepartout. Meanwhile Mr. Fogg, after leaving the consulate, repaired to the quay, gave some orders to Passepartout, went off to the Mongolia in a boat, and descended to his cabin. He took up his note-book, which contained the following memoranda: "Left London, Wednesday, October 2nd, at 8.45 p.m. "Reached Paris, Thursday, October 3rd, at 7.20 a.m. "Left Paris, Thursday, at 8.40 a.m. "Reached Turin by Mont Cenis, Friday, October 4th, at 6.35 a.m. "Left Turin, Friday, at 7.20 a.m. "Arrived at Brindisi, Saturday, October 5th, at 4 p.m. "Sailed on the Mongolia, Saturday, at 5 p.m. "Reached Suez, Wednesday, October 9th, at 11 a.m. "Total of hours spent, 158+; or, in days, six days and a half." These dates were inscribed in an itinerary divided into columns, indicating the month, the day of the month, and the day for the stipulated and actual arrivals at each principal point Paris, Brindisi, Suez, Bombay, Calcutta, Singapore, Hong Kong, Yokohama, San Francisco, New York, and London--from the 2nd of October to the 21st of December; and giving a space for setting down the gain made or the loss suffered on arrival at each locality. This methodical record thus contained an account of everything needed, and Mr. Fogg always knew whether he was behind-hand or in advance of his time. On this Friday, October 9th, he noted his arrival at Suez, and observed that he had as yet neither gained nor lost. He sat down quietly to breakfast in his cabin, never once thinking of inspecting the town, being one of those Englishmen who are wont to see foreign countries through the eyes of their domestics. ----------CHAPTER 8--------- Fix soon rejoined Passepartout, who was lounging and looking about on the quay, as if he did not feel that he, at least, was obliged not to see anything. "Well, my friend," said the detective, coming up with him, "is your passport visaed?" "Ah, it's you, is it, monsieur?" responded Passepartout. "Thanks, yes, the passport is all right." "And you are looking about you?" "Yes; but we travel so fast that I seem to be journeying in a dream. So this is Suez?" "Yes." "In Egypt?" "Certainly, in Egypt." "And in Africa?" "In Africa." "In Africa!" repeated Passepartout. "Just think, monsieur, I had no idea that we should go farther than Paris; and all that I saw of Paris was between twenty minutes past seven and twenty minutes before nine in the morning, between the Northern and the Lyons stations, through the windows of a car, and in a driving rain! How I regret not having seen once more Pere la Chaise and the circus in the Champs Elysees!" "You are in a great hurry, then?" "I am not, but my master is. By the way, I must buy some shoes and shirts. We came away without trunks, only with a carpet-bag." "I will show you an excellent shop for getting what you want." "Really, monsieur, you are very kind." And they walked off together, Passepartout chatting volubly as they went along. "Above all," said he; "don't let me lose the steamer." "You have plenty of time; it's only twelve o'clock." Passepartout pulled out his big watch. "Twelve!" he exclaimed; "why, it's only eight minutes before ten." "Your watch is slow." "My watch? A family watch, monsieur, which has come down from my great-grandfather! It doesn't vary five minutes in the year. It's a perfect chronometer, look you." "I see how it is," said Fix. "You have kept London time, which is two hours behind that of Suez. You ought to regulate your watch at noon in each country." "I regulate my watch? Never!" "Well, then, it will not agree with the sun." "So much the worse for the sun, monsieur. The sun will be wrong, then!" And the worthy fellow returned the watch to its fob with a defiant gesture. After a few minutes silence, Fix resumed: "You left London hastily, then?" "I rather think so! Last Friday at eight o'clock in the evening, Monsieur Fogg came home from his club, and three-quarters of an hour afterwards we were off." "But where is your master going?" "Always straight ahead. He is going round the world." "Round the world?" cried Fix. "Yes, and in eighty days! He says it is on a wager; but, between us, I don't believe a word of it. That wouldn't be common sense. There's something else in the wind." "Ah! Mr. Fogg is a character, is he?" "I should say he was." "Is he rich?" "No doubt, for he is carrying an enormous sum in brand new banknotes with him. And he doesn't spare the money on the way, either: he has offered a large reward to the engineer of the Mongolia if he gets us to Bombay well in advance of time." "And you have known your master a long time?" "Why, no; I entered his service the very day we left London." The effect of these replies upon the already suspicious and excited detective may be imagined. The hasty departure from London soon after the robbery; the large sum carried by Mr. Fogg; his eagerness to reach distant countries; the pretext of an eccentric and foolhardy bet--all confirmed Fix in his theory. He continued to pump poor Passepartout, and learned that he really knew little or nothing of his master, who lived a solitary existence in London, was said to be rich, though no one knew whence came his riches, and was mysterious and impenetrable in his affairs and habits. Fix felt sure that Phileas Fogg would not land at Suez, but was really going on to Bombay. "Is Bombay far from here?" asked Passepartout. "Pretty far. It is a ten days' voyage by sea." "And in what country is Bombay?" "India." "In Asia?" "Certainly." "The deuce! I was going to tell you there's one thing that worries me--my burner!" "What burner?" "My gas-burner, which I forgot to turn off, and which is at this moment burning at my expense. I have calculated, monsieur, that I lose two shillings every four and twenty hours, exactly sixpence more than I earn; and you will understand that the longer our journey--" Did Fix pay any attention to Passepartout's trouble about the gas? It is not probable. He was not listening, but was cogitating a project. Passepartout and he had now reached the shop, where Fix left his companion to make his purchases, after recommending him not to miss the steamer, and hurried back to the consulate. Now that he was fully convinced, Fix had quite recovered his equanimity. "Consul," said he, "I have no longer any doubt. I have spotted my man. He passes himself off as an odd stick who is going round the world in eighty days." "Then he's a sharp fellow," returned the consul, "and counts on returning to London after putting the police of the two countries off his track." "We'll see about that," replied Fix. "But are you not mistaken?" "I am not mistaken." "Why was this robber so anxious to prove, by the visa, that he had passed through Suez?" "Why? I have no idea; but listen to me." He reported in a few words the most important parts of his conversation with Passepartout. "In short," said the consul, "appearances are wholly against this man. And what are you going to do?" "Send a dispatch to London for a warrant of arrest to be dispatched instantly to Bombay, take passage on board the Mongolia, follow my rogue to India, and there, on English ground, arrest him politely, with my warrant in my hand, and my hand on his shoulder." Having uttered these words with a cool, careless air, the detective took leave of the consul, and repaired to the telegraph office, whence he sent the dispatch which we have seen to the London police office. A quarter of an hour later found Fix, with a small bag in his hand, proceeding on board the Mongolia; and, ere many moments longer, the noble steamer rode out at full steam upon the waters of the Red Sea. ----------CHAPTER 9--------- The distance between Suez and Aden is precisely thirteen hundred and ten miles, and the regulations of the company allow the steamers one hundred and thirty-eight hours in which to traverse it. The Mongolia, thanks to the vigorous exertions of the engineer, seemed likely, so rapid was her speed, to reach her destination considerably within that time. The greater part of the passengers from Brindisi were bound for India some for Bombay, others for Calcutta by way of Bombay, the nearest route thither, now that a railway crosses the Indian peninsula. Among the passengers was a number of officials and military officers of various grades, the latter being either attached to the regular British forces or commanding the Sepoy troops, and receiving high salaries ever since the central government has assumed the powers of the East India Company: for the sub-lieutenants get 280 pounds, brigadiers, 2,400 pounds, and generals of divisions, 4,000 pounds. What with the military men, a number of rich young Englishmen on their travels, and the hospitable efforts of the purser, the time passed quickly on the Mongolia. The best of fare was spread upon the cabin tables at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the eight o'clock supper, and the ladies scrupulously changed their toilets twice a day; and the hours were whirled away, when the sea was tranquil, with music, dancing, and games. But the Red Sea is full of caprice, and often boisterous, like most long and narrow gulfs. When the wind came from the African or Asian coast the Mongolia, with her long hull, rolled fearfully. Then the ladies speedily disappeared below; the pianos were silent; singing and dancing suddenly ceased. Yet the good ship ploughed straight on, unretarded by wind or wave, towards the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. What was Phileas Fogg doing all this time? It might be thought that, in his anxiety, he would be constantly watching the changes of the wind, the disorderly raging of the billows--every chance, in short, which might force the Mongolia to slacken her speed, and thus interrupt his journey. But, if he thought of these possibilities, he did not betray the fact by any outward sign. Always the same impassible member of the Reform Club, whom no incident could surprise, as unvarying as the ship's chronometers, and seldom having the curiosity even to go upon the deck, he passed through the memorable scenes of the Red Sea with cold indifference; did not care to recognise the historic towns and villages which, along its borders, raised their picturesque outlines against the sky; and betrayed no fear of the dangers of the Arabic Gulf, which the old historians always spoke of with horror, and upon which the ancient navigators never ventured without propitiating the gods by ample sacrifices. How did this eccentric personage pass his time on the Mongolia? He made his four hearty meals every day, regardless of the most persistent rolling and pitching on the part of the steamer; and he played whist indefatigably, for he had found partners as enthusiastic in the game as himself. A tax-collector, on the way to his post at Goa; the Rev. Decimus Smith, returning to his parish at Bombay; and a brigadier-general of the English army, who was about to rejoin his brigade at Benares, made up the party, and, with Mr. Fogg, played whist by the hour together in absorbing silence. As for Passepartout, he, too, had escaped sea-sickness, and took his meals conscientiously in the forward cabin. He rather enjoyed the voyage, for he was well fed and well lodged, took a great interest in the scenes through which they were passing, and consoled himself with the delusion that his master's whim would end at Bombay. He was pleased, on the day after leaving Suez, to find on deck the obliging person with whom he had walked and chatted on the quays. "If I am not mistaken," said he, approaching this person, with his most amiable smile, "you are the gentleman who so kindly volunteered to guide me at Suez?" "Ah! I quite recognise you. You are the servant of the strange Englishman--" "Just so, monsieur--" "Fix." "Monsieur Fix," resumed Passepartout, "I'm charmed to find you on board. Where are you bound?" "Like you, to Bombay." "That's capital! Have you made this trip before?" "Several times. I am one of the agents of the Peninsular Company." "Then you know India?" "Why yes," replied Fix, who spoke cautiously. "A curious place, this India?" "Oh, very curious. Mosques, minarets, temples, fakirs, pagodas, tigers, snakes, elephants! I hope you will have ample time to see the sights." "I hope so, Monsieur Fix. You see, a man of sound sense ought not to spend his life jumping from a steamer upon a railway train, and from a railway train upon a steamer again, pretending to make the tour of the world in eighty days! No; all these gymnastics, you may be sure, will cease at Bombay." "And Mr. Fogg is getting on well?" asked Fix, in the most natural tone in the world. "Quite well, and I too. I eat like a famished ogre; it's the sea air." "But I never see your master on deck." "Never; he hasn't the least curiosity." "Do you know, Mr. Passepartout, that this pretended tour in eighty days may conceal some secret errand--perhaps a diplomatic mission?" "Faith, Monsieur Fix, I assure you I know nothing about it, nor would I give half a crown to find out." After this meeting, Passepartout and Fix got into the habit of chatting together, the latter making it a point to gain the worthy man's confidence. He frequently offered him a glass of whiskey or pale ale in the steamer bar-room, which Passepartout never failed to accept with graceful alacrity, mentally pronouncing Fix the best of good fellows. Meanwhile the Mongolia was pushing forward rapidly; on the 13th, Mocha, surrounded by its ruined walls whereon date-trees were growing, was sighted, and on the mountains beyond were espied vast coffee-fields. Passepartout was ravished to behold this celebrated place, and thought that, with its circular walls and dismantled fort, it looked like an immense coffee-cup and saucer. The following night they passed through the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, which means in Arabic The Bridge of Tears, and the next day they put in at Steamer Point, north-west of Aden harbour, to take in coal. This matter of fuelling steamers is a serious one at such distances from the coal-mines; it costs the Peninsular Company some eight hundred thousand pounds a year. In these distant seas, coal is worth three or four pounds sterling a ton. The Mongolia had still sixteen hundred and fifty miles to traverse before reaching Bombay, and was obliged to remain four hours at Steamer Point to coal up. But this delay, as it was foreseen, did not affect Phileas Fogg's programme; besides, the Mongolia, instead of reaching Aden on the morning of the 15th, when she was due, arrived there on the evening of the 14th, a gain of fifteen hours. Mr. Fogg and his servant went ashore at Aden to have the passport again visaed; Fix, unobserved, followed them. The visa procured, Mr. Fogg returned on board to resume his former habits; while Passepartout, according to custom, sauntered about among the mixed population of Somalis, Banyans, Parsees, Jews, Arabs, and Europeans who comprise the twenty-five thousand inhabitants of Aden. He gazed with wonder upon the fortifications which make this place the Gibraltar of the Indian Ocean, and the vast cisterns where the English engineers were still at work, two thousand years after the engineers of Solomon. "Very curious, very curious," said Passepartout to himself, on returning to the steamer. "I see that it is by no means useless to travel, if a man wants to see something new." At six p.m. the Mongolia slowly moved out of the roadstead, and was soon once more on the Indian Ocean. She had a hundred and sixty-eight hours in which to reach Bombay, and the sea was favourable, the wind being in the north-west, and all sails aiding the engine. The steamer rolled but little, the ladies, in fresh toilets, reappeared on deck, and the singing and dancing were resumed. The trip was being accomplished most successfully, and Passepartout was enchanted with the congenial companion which chance had secured him in the person of the delightful Fix. On Sunday, October 20th, towards noon, they came in sight of the Indian coast: two hours later the pilot came on board. A range of hills lay against the sky in the horizon, and soon the rows of palms which adorn Bombay came distinctly into view. The steamer entered the road formed by the islands in the bay, and at half-past four she hauled up at the quays of Bombay. Phileas Fogg was in the act of finishing the thirty-third rubber of the voyage, and his partner and himself having, by a bold stroke, captured all thirteen of the tricks, concluded this fine campaign with a brilliant victory. The Mongolia was due at Bombay on the 22nd; she arrived on the 20th. This was a gain to Phileas Fogg of two days since his departure from London, and he calmly entered the fact in the itinerary, in the column of gains.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 10 based on the provided context.

chapter 10|chapter 11

"In which Passepartout is only too glad to get off with the loss of his shoes" The narrator gives an introduction to the country of India, including its population of one hundred eighty million souls, over whom the British exercise "a real and despotic dominion" . Yet part of the interior of India remains free under the control of fierce rajahs. The country is constantly changing, the narrator warns. It was once difficult and dangerous to travel the roads of India, but now the Great Indian Peninsula Railway permits travel from Bombay to Calcutta in three days. In Bombay while waiting for the train, Passepartout goes on some errands for his master. The servant is dazzled by the sight of forts and mosques, a pagoda, and Armenian churches, but the master, unimpressed, waits at the railway station, having dinner. Fix goes to the Bombay police office to see if the arrest warrant is there; it is not, so he tries to get the Bombay office to issue a warrant, but they say it must come from London. Passepartout realizes that they are really going on from Bombay and begins to understand the bet to go around the world is in earnest. He purchases some clothing and then indulges in sightseeing. He sees all nationalities again as before--Europeans, Persians, Parsees. The wealthy Parsees are the merchants of Bombay, and they are in a religious procession with dancing girls in gauze. Passepartout follows them and tries to enter a religious temple with his shoes on. He thus doubly violates their traditions, for he is not allowed in their temple, and certainly not in his shoes. The British policy is to punish those westerners who desecrate native temples, but Passepartout is innocently enjoying himself and does not know the consequences. Three priests angrily tear off his shoes and chase him out of the temple. A few moments before the train leaves the Bombay station, Passepartout shows up apologetically to his master without shoes explaining his adventure in the temple. Fix is hiding nearby, hearing the servant's confession and decides to use it against Fogg, a way to have him detained, for his servant broke the law. Just at that moment the train Passepartout out of sight with Fogg and Passepartout on it.

----------CHAPTER 10--------- Everybody knows that the great reversed triangle of land, with its base in the north and its apex in the south, which is called India, embraces fourteen hundred thousand square miles, upon which is spread unequally a population of one hundred and eighty millions of souls. The British Crown exercises a real and despotic dominion over the larger portion of this vast country, and has a governor-general stationed at Calcutta, governors at Madras, Bombay, and in Bengal, and a lieutenant-governor at Agra. But British India, properly so called, only embraces seven hundred thousand square miles, and a population of from one hundred to one hundred and ten millions of inhabitants. A considerable portion of India is still free from British authority; and there are certain ferocious rajahs in the interior who are absolutely independent. The celebrated East India Company was all-powerful from 1756, when the English first gained a foothold on the spot where now stands the city of Madras, down to the time of the great Sepoy insurrection. It gradually annexed province after province, purchasing them of the native chiefs, whom it seldom paid, and appointed the governor-general and his subordinates, civil and military. But the East India Company has now passed away, leaving the British possessions in India directly under the control of the Crown. The aspect of the country, as well as the manners and distinctions of race, is daily changing. Formerly one was obliged to travel in India by the old cumbrous methods of going on foot or on horseback, in palanquins or unwieldy coaches; now fast steamboats ply on the Indus and the Ganges, and a great railway, with branch lines joining the main line at many points on its route, traverses the peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta in three days. This railway does not run in a direct line across India. The distance between Bombay and Calcutta, as the bird flies, is only from one thousand to eleven hundred miles; but the deflections of the road increase this distance by more than a third. The general route of the Great Indian Peninsula Railway is as follows: Leaving Bombay, it passes through Salcette, crossing to the continent opposite Tannah, goes over the chain of the Western Ghauts, runs thence north-east as far as Burhampoor, skirts the nearly independent territory of Bundelcund, ascends to Allahabad, turns thence eastwardly, meeting the Ganges at Benares, then departs from the river a little, and, descending south-eastward by Burdivan and the French town of Chandernagor, has its terminus at Calcutta. The passengers of the Mongolia went ashore at half-past four p.m.; at exactly eight the train would start for Calcutta. Mr. Fogg, after bidding good-bye to his whist partners, left the steamer, gave his servant several errands to do, urged it upon him to be at the station promptly at eight, and, with his regular step, which beat to the second, like an astronomical clock, directed his steps to the passport office. As for the wonders of Bombay--its famous city hall, its splendid library, its forts and docks, its bazaars, mosques, synagogues, its Armenian churches, and the noble pagoda on Malabar Hill, with its two polygonal towers--he cared not a straw to see them. He would not deign to examine even the masterpieces of Elephanta, or the mysterious hypogea, concealed south-east from the docks, or those fine remains of Buddhist architecture, the Kanherian grottoes of the island of Salcette. Having transacted his business at the passport office, Phileas Fogg repaired quietly to the railway station, where he ordered dinner. Among the dishes served up to him, the landlord especially recommended a certain giblet of "native rabbit," on which he prided himself. Mr. Fogg accordingly tasted the dish, but, despite its spiced sauce, found it far from palatable. He rang for the landlord, and, on his appearance, said, fixing his clear eyes upon him, "Is this rabbit, sir?" "Yes, my lord," the rogue boldly replied, "rabbit from the jungles." "And this rabbit did not mew when he was killed?" "Mew, my lord! What, a rabbit mew! I swear to you--" "Be so good, landlord, as not to swear, but remember this: cats were formerly considered, in India, as sacred animals. That was a good time." "For the cats, my lord?" "Perhaps for the travellers as well!" After which Mr. Fogg quietly continued his dinner. Fix had gone on shore shortly after Mr. Fogg, and his first destination was the headquarters of the Bombay police. He made himself known as a London detective, told his business at Bombay, and the position of affairs relative to the supposed robber, and nervously asked if a warrant had arrived from London. It had not reached the office; indeed, there had not yet been time for it to arrive. Fix was sorely disappointed, and tried to obtain an order of arrest from the director of the Bombay police. This the director refused, as the matter concerned the London office, which alone could legally deliver the warrant. Fix did not insist, and was fain to resign himself to await the arrival of the important document; but he was determined not to lose sight of the mysterious rogue as long as he stayed in Bombay. He did not doubt for a moment, any more than Passepartout, that Phileas Fogg would remain there, at least until it was time for the warrant to arrive. Passepartout, however, had no sooner heard his master's orders on leaving the Mongolia than he saw at once that they were to leave Bombay as they had done Suez and Paris, and that the journey would be extended at least as far as Calcutta, and perhaps beyond that place. He began to ask himself if this bet that Mr. Fogg talked about was not really in good earnest, and whether his fate was not in truth forcing him, despite his love of repose, around the world in eighty days! Having purchased the usual quota of shirts and shoes, he took a leisurely promenade about the streets, where crowds of people of many nationalities--Europeans, Persians with pointed caps, Banyas with round turbans, Sindes with square bonnets, Parsees with black mitres, and long-robed Armenians--were collected. It happened to be the day of a Parsee festival. These descendants of the sect of Zoroaster--the most thrifty, civilised, intelligent, and austere of the East Indians, among whom are counted the richest native merchants of Bombay--were celebrating a sort of religious carnival, with processions and shows, in the midst of which Indian dancing-girls, clothed in rose-coloured gauze, looped up with gold and silver, danced airily, but with perfect modesty, to the sound of viols and the clanging of tambourines. It is needless to say that Passepartout watched these curious ceremonies with staring eyes and gaping mouth, and that his countenance was that of the greenest booby imaginable. Unhappily for his master, as well as himself, his curiosity drew him unconsciously farther off than he intended to go. At last, having seen the Parsee carnival wind away in the distance, he was turning his steps towards the station, when he happened to espy the splendid pagoda on Malabar Hill, and was seized with an irresistible desire to see its interior. He was quite ignorant that it is forbidden to Christians to enter certain Indian temples, and that even the faithful must not go in without first leaving their shoes outside the door. It may be said here that the wise policy of the British Government severely punishes a disregard of the practices of the native religions. Passepartout, however, thinking no harm, went in like a simple tourist, and was soon lost in admiration of the splendid Brahmin ornamentation which everywhere met his eyes, when of a sudden he found himself sprawling on the sacred flagging. He looked up to behold three enraged priests, who forthwith fell upon him; tore off his shoes, and began to beat him with loud, savage exclamations. The agile Frenchman was soon upon his feet again, and lost no time in knocking down two of his long-gowned adversaries with his fists and a vigorous application of his toes; then, rushing out of the pagoda as fast as his legs could carry him, he soon escaped the third priest by mingling with the crowd in the streets. At five minutes before eight, Passepartout, hatless, shoeless, and having in the squabble lost his package of shirts and shoes, rushed breathlessly into the station. Fix, who had followed Mr. Fogg to the station, and saw that he was really going to leave Bombay, was there, upon the platform. He had resolved to follow the supposed robber to Calcutta, and farther, if necessary. Passepartout did not observe the detective, who stood in an obscure corner; but Fix heard him relate his adventures in a few words to Mr. Fogg. "I hope that this will not happen again," said Phileas Fogg coldly, as he got into the train. Poor Passepartout, quite crestfallen, followed his master without a word. Fix was on the point of entering another carriage, when an idea struck him which induced him to alter his plan. "No, I'll stay," muttered he. "An offence has been committed on Indian soil. I've got my man." Just then the locomotive gave a sharp screech, and the train passed out into the darkness of the night. ----------CHAPTER 11--------- The train had started punctually. Among the passengers were a number of officers, Government officials, and opium and indigo merchants, whose business called them to the eastern coast. Passepartout rode in the same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied a seat opposite to them. This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr. Fogg's whist partners on the Mongolia, now on his way to join his corps at Benares. Sir Francis was a tall, fair man of fifty, who had greatly distinguished himself in the last Sepoy revolt. He made India his home, only paying brief visits to England at rare intervals; and was almost as familiar as a native with the customs, history, and character of India and its people. But Phileas Fogg, who was not travelling, but only describing a circumference, took no pains to inquire into these subjects; he was a solid body, traversing an orbit around the terrestrial globe, according to the laws of rational mechanics. He was at this moment calculating in his mind the number of hours spent since his departure from London, and, had it been in his nature to make a useless demonstration, would have rubbed his hands for satisfaction. Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling companion--although the only opportunity he had for studying him had been while he was dealing the cards, and between two rubbers--and questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath this cold exterior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of nature. The brigadier-general was free to mentally confess that, of all the eccentric persons he had ever met, none was comparable to this product of the exact sciences. Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his design of going round the world, nor the circumstances under which he set out; and the general only saw in the wager a useless eccentricity and a lack of sound common sense. In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he would leave the world without having done any good to himself or anybody else. An hour after leaving Bombay the train had passed the viaducts and the Island of Salcette, and had got into the open country. At Callyan they reached the junction of the branch line which descends towards south-eastern India by Kandallah and Pounah; and, passing Pauwell, they entered the defiles of the mountains, with their basalt bases, and their summits crowned with thick and verdant forests. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time, and now Sir Francis, reviving the conversation, observed, "Some years ago, Mr. Fogg, you would have met with a delay at this point which would probably have lost you your wager." "How so, Sir Francis?" "Because the railway stopped at the base of these mountains, which the passengers were obliged to cross in palanquins or on ponies to Kandallah, on the other side." "Such a delay would not have deranged my plans in the least," said Mr. Fogg. "I have constantly foreseen the likelihood of certain obstacles." "But, Mr. Fogg," pursued Sir Francis, "you run the risk of having some difficulty about this worthy fellow's adventure at the pagoda." Passepartout, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling-blanket, was sound asleep and did not dream that anybody was talking about him. "The Government is very severe upon that kind of offence. It takes particular care that the religious customs of the Indians should be respected, and if your servant were caught--" "Very well, Sir Francis," replied Mr. Fogg; "if he had been caught he would have been condemned and punished, and then would have quietly returned to Europe. I don't see how this affair could have delayed his master." The conversation fell again. During the night the train left the mountains behind, and passed Nassik, and the next day proceeded over the flat, well-cultivated country of the Khandeish, with its straggling villages, above which rose the minarets of the pagodas. This fertile territory is watered by numerous small rivers and limpid streams, mostly tributaries of the Godavery. Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not realise that he was actually crossing India in a railway train. The locomotive, guided by an English engineer and fed with English coal, threw out its smoke upon cotton, coffee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations, while the steam curled in spirals around groups of palm-trees, in the midst of which were seen picturesque bungalows, viharis (sort of abandoned monasteries), and marvellous temples enriched by the exhaustless ornamentation of Indian architecture. Then they came upon vast tracts extending to the horizon, with jungles inhabited by snakes and tigers, which fled at the noise of the train; succeeded by forests penetrated by the railway, and still haunted by elephants which, with pensive eyes, gazed at the train as it passed. The travellers crossed, beyond Milligaum, the fatal country so often stained with blood by the sectaries of the goddess Kali. Not far off rose Ellora, with its graceful pagodas, and the famous Aurungabad, capital of the ferocious Aureng-Zeb, now the chief town of one of the detached provinces of the kingdom of the Nizam. It was thereabouts that Feringhea, the Thuggee chief, king of the stranglers, held his sway. These ruffians, united by a secret bond, strangled victims of every age in honour of the goddess Death, without ever shedding blood; there was a period when this part of the country could scarcely be travelled over without corpses being found in every direction. The English Government has succeeded in greatly diminishing these murders, though the Thuggees still exist, and pursue the exercise of their horrible rites. At half-past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor where Passepartout was able to purchase some Indian slippers, ornamented with false pearls, in which, with evident vanity, he proceeded to encase his feet. The travellers made a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur, after skirting for a little the banks of the small river Tapty, which empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat. Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing reverie. Up to his arrival at Bombay, he had entertained hopes that their journey would end there; but, now that they were plainly whirling across India at full speed, a sudden change had come over the spirit of his dreams. His old vagabond nature returned to him; the fantastic ideas of his youth once more took possession of him. He came to regard his master's project as intended in good earnest, believed in the reality of the bet, and therefore in the tour of the world and the necessity of making it without fail within the designated period. Already he began to worry about possible delays, and accidents which might happen on the way. He recognised himself as being personally interested in the wager, and trembled at the thought that he might have been the means of losing it by his unpardonable folly of the night before. Being much less cool-headed than Mr. Fogg, he was much more restless, counting and recounting the days passed over, uttering maledictions when the train stopped, and accusing it of sluggishness, and mentally blaming Mr. Fogg for not having bribed the engineer. The worthy fellow was ignorant that, while it was possible by such means to hasten the rate of a steamer, it could not be done on the railway. The train entered the defiles of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate the Khandeish from Bundelcund, towards evening. The next day Sir Francis Cromarty asked Passepartout what time it was; to which, on consulting his watch, he replied that it was three in the morning. This famous timepiece, always regulated on the Greenwich meridian, which was now some seventy-seven degrees westward, was at least four hours slow. Sir Francis corrected Passepartout's time, whereupon the latter made the same remark that he had done to Fix; and upon the general insisting that the watch should be regulated in each new meridian, since he was constantly going eastward, that is in the face of the sun, and therefore the days were shorter by four minutes for each degree gone over, Passepartout obstinately refused to alter his watch, which he kept at London time. It was an innocent delusion which could harm no one. The train stopped, at eight o'clock, in the midst of a glade some fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows, and workmen's cabins. The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted, "Passengers will get out here!" Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation; but the general could not tell what meant a halt in the midst of this forest of dates and acacias. Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out and speedily returned, crying: "Monsieur, no more railway!" "What do you mean?" asked Sir Francis. "I mean to say that the train isn't going on." The general at once stepped out, while Phileas Fogg calmly followed him, and they proceeded together to the conductor. "Where are we?" asked Sir Francis. "At the hamlet of Kholby." "Do we stop here?" "Certainly. The railway isn't finished." "What! not finished?" "No. There's still a matter of fifty miles to be laid from here to Allahabad, where the line begins again." "But the papers announced the opening of the railway throughout." "What would you have, officer? The papers were mistaken." "Yet you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta," retorted Sir Francis, who was growing warm. "No doubt," replied the conductor; "but the passengers know that they must provide means of transportation for themselves from Kholby to Allahabad." Sir Francis was furious. Passepartout would willingly have knocked the conductor down, and did not dare to look at his master. "Sir Francis," said Mr. Fogg quietly, "we will, if you please, look about for some means of conveyance to Allahabad." "Mr. Fogg, this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage." "No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen." "What! You knew that the way--" "Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or later arise on my route. Nothing, therefore, is lost. I have two days, which I have already gained, to sacrifice. A steamer leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th. This is the 22nd, and we shall reach Calcutta in time." There was nothing to say to so confident a response. It was but too true that the railway came to a termination at this point. The papers were like some watches, which have a way of getting too fast, and had been premature in their announcement of the completion of the line. The greater part of the travellers were aware of this interruption, and, leaving the train, they began to engage such vehicles as the village could provide four-wheeled palkigharis, waggons drawn by zebus, carriages that looked like perambulating pagodas, palanquins, ponies, and what not. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after searching the village from end to end, came back without having found anything. "I shall go afoot," said Phileas Fogg. Passepartout, who had now rejoined his master, made a wry grimace, as he thought of his magnificent, but too frail Indian shoes. Happily he too had been looking about him, and, after a moment's hesitation, said, "Monsieur, I think I have found a means of conveyance." "What?" "An elephant! An elephant that belongs to an Indian who lives but a hundred steps from here." "Let's go and see the elephant," replied Mr. Fogg. They soon reached a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high palings, was the animal in question. An Indian came out of the hut, and, at their request, conducted them within the enclosure. The elephant, which its owner had reared, not for a beast of burden, but for warlike purposes, was half domesticated. The Indian had begun already, by often irritating him, and feeding him every three months on sugar and butter, to impart to him a ferocity not in his nature, this method being often employed by those who train the Indian elephants for battle. Happily, however, for Mr. Fogg, the animal's instruction in this direction had not gone far, and the elephant still preserved his natural gentleness. Kiouni--this was the name of the beast--could doubtless travel rapidly for a long time, and, in default of any other means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him. But elephants are far from cheap in India, where they are becoming scarce, the males, which alone are suitable for circus shows, are much sought, especially as but few of them are domesticated. When therefore Mr. Fogg proposed to the Indian to hire Kiouni, he refused point-blank. Mr. Fogg persisted, offering the excessive sum of ten pounds an hour for the loan of the beast to Allahabad. Refused. Twenty pounds? Refused also. Forty pounds? Still refused. Passepartout jumped at each advance; but the Indian declined to be tempted. Yet the offer was an alluring one, for, supposing it took the elephant fifteen hours to reach Allahabad, his owner would receive no less than six hundred pounds sterling. Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to purchase the animal outright, and at first offered a thousand pounds for him. The Indian, perhaps thinking he was going to make a great bargain, still refused. Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside, and begged him to reflect before he went any further; to which that gentleman replied that he was not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds was at stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and that he would secure him if he had to pay twenty times his value. Returning to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes, glistening with avarice, betrayed that with him it was only a question of how great a price he could obtain. Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two thousand pounds. Passepartout, usually so rubicund, was fairly white with suspense. At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded. "What a price, good heavens!" cried Passepartout, "for an elephant." It only remained now to find a guide, which was comparatively easy. A young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr. Fogg accepted, promising so generous a reward as to materially stimulate his zeal. The elephant was led out and equipped. The Parsee, who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with a sort of saddle-cloth, and attached to each of his flanks some curiously uncomfortable howdahs. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with some banknotes which he extracted from the famous carpet-bag, a proceeding that seemed to deprive poor Passepartout of his vitals. Then he offered to carry Sir Francis to Allahabad, which the brigadier gratefully accepted, as one traveller the more would not be likely to fatigue the gigantic beast. Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and, while Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side, Passepartout got astride the saddle-cloth between them. The Parsee perched himself on the elephant's neck, and at nine o'clock they set out from the village, the animal marching off through the dense forest of palms by the shortest cut.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 13 based on the provided context.

chapter 12|chapter 13

"In which Passepartout receives a new proof that fortune favors the brave" Everyone realizes Fogg is risking his life, his liberty, and his bet to rescue the woman, for he is interfering in a local religion and doing something much worse than Passepartout did in the temple. Sir Francis goes along with the scheme and Passepartout is happy because he sees his master is good. He begins to love Fogg. The guide also wants to help because the woman is a Parsee as he is. He explains the princess is the daughter of a Bombay merchant and has had an English education. She could pass for European. Her name is Aouda. It is Passepartout who comes up with an idea, while the hour of the sacrifice arrives and Fogg is seen with a knife in his hand watching from a hidden place. As the pyre is lit with the princess next to the corpse of her husband, Fogg is about to rush to save her, but Sir Francis restrains him. At that moment the dead rajah appears to stand up and frightens the mourners. He lifts his wife in his arms and makes for the forest. It is Passepartout himself who has played the part of the rajah. The Indians pursue Fogg's party, now on the elephant making their escape.

----------CHAPTER 12--------- In order to shorten the journey, the guide passed to the left of the line where the railway was still in process of being built. This line, owing to the capricious turnings of the Vindhia Mountains, did not pursue a straight course. The Parsee, who was quite familiar with the roads and paths in the district, declared that they would gain twenty miles by striking directly through the forest. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, plunged to the neck in the peculiar howdahs provided for them, were horribly jostled by the swift trotting of the elephant, spurred on as he was by the skilful Parsee; but they endured the discomfort with true British phlegm, talking little, and scarcely able to catch a glimpse of each other. As for Passepartout, who was mounted on the beast's back, and received the direct force of each concussion as he trod along, he was very careful, in accordance with his master's advice, to keep his tongue from between his teeth, as it would otherwise have been bitten off short. The worthy fellow bounced from the elephant's neck to his rump, and vaulted like a clown on a spring-board; yet he laughed in the midst of his bouncing, and from time to time took a piece of sugar out of his pocket, and inserted it in Kiouni's trunk, who received it without in the least slackening his regular trot. After two hours the guide stopped the elephant, and gave him an hour for rest, during which Kiouni, after quenching his thirst at a neighbouring spring, set to devouring the branches and shrubs round about him. Neither Sir Francis nor Mr. Fogg regretted the delay, and both descended with a feeling of relief. "Why, he's made of iron!" exclaimed the general, gazing admiringly on Kiouni. "Of forged iron," replied Passepartout, as he set about preparing a hasty breakfast. At noon the Parsee gave the signal of departure. The country soon presented a very savage aspect. Copses of dates and dwarf-palms succeeded the dense forests; then vast, dry plains, dotted with scanty shrubs, and sown with great blocks of syenite. All this portion of Bundelcund, which is little frequented by travellers, is inhabited by a fanatical population, hardened in the most horrible practices of the Hindoo faith. The English have not been able to secure complete dominion over this territory, which is subjected to the influence of rajahs, whom it is almost impossible to reach in their inaccessible mountain fastnesses. The travellers several times saw bands of ferocious Indians, who, when they perceived the elephant striding across-country, made angry and threatening motions. The Parsee avoided them as much as possible. Few animals were observed on the route; even the monkeys hurried from their path with contortions and grimaces which convulsed Passepartout with laughter. In the midst of his gaiety, however, one thought troubled the worthy servant. What would Mr. Fogg do with the elephant when he got to Allahabad? Would he carry him on with him? Impossible! The cost of transporting him would make him ruinously expensive. Would he sell him, or set him free? The estimable beast certainly deserved some consideration. Should Mr. Fogg choose to make him, Passepartout, a present of Kiouni, he would be very much embarrassed; and these thoughts did not cease worrying him for a long time. The principal chain of the Vindhias was crossed by eight in the evening, and another halt was made on the northern slope, in a ruined bungalow. They had gone nearly twenty-five miles that day, and an equal distance still separated them from the station of Allahabad. The night was cold. The Parsee lit a fire in the bungalow with a few dry branches, and the warmth was very grateful, provisions purchased at Kholby sufficed for supper, and the travellers ate ravenously. The conversation, beginning with a few disconnected phrases, soon gave place to loud and steady snores. The guide watched Kiouni, who slept standing, bolstering himself against the trunk of a large tree. Nothing occurred during the night to disturb the slumberers, although occasional growls from panthers and chatterings of monkeys broke the silence; the more formidable beasts made no cries or hostile demonstration against the occupants of the bungalow. Sir Francis slept heavily, like an honest soldier overcome with fatigue. Passepartout was wrapped in uneasy dreams of the bouncing of the day before. As for Mr. Fogg, he slumbered as peacefully as if he had been in his serene mansion in Saville Row. The journey was resumed at six in the morning; the guide hoped to reach Allahabad by evening. In that case, Mr. Fogg would only lose a part of the forty-eight hours saved since the beginning of the tour. Kiouni, resuming his rapid gait, soon descended the lower spurs of the Vindhias, and towards noon they passed by the village of Kallenger, on the Cani, one of the branches of the Ganges. The guide avoided inhabited places, thinking it safer to keep the open country, which lies along the first depressions of the basin of the great river. Allahabad was now only twelve miles to the north-east. They stopped under a clump of bananas, the fruit of which, as healthy as bread and as succulent as cream, was amply partaken of and appreciated. At two o'clock the guide entered a thick forest which extended several miles; he preferred to travel under cover of the woods. They had not as yet had any unpleasant encounters, and the journey seemed on the point of being successfully accomplished, when the elephant, becoming restless, suddenly stopped. It was then four o'clock. "What's the matter?" asked Sir Francis, putting out his head. "I don't know, officer," replied the Parsee, listening attentively to a confused murmur which came through the thick branches. The murmur soon became more distinct; it now seemed like a distant concert of human voices accompanied by brass instruments. Passepartout was all eyes and ears. Mr. Fogg patiently waited without a word. The Parsee jumped to the ground, fastened the elephant to a tree, and plunged into the thicket. He soon returned, saying: "A procession of Brahmins is coming this way. We must prevent their seeing us, if possible." The guide unloosed the elephant and led him into a thicket, at the same time asking the travellers not to stir. He held himself ready to bestride the animal at a moment's notice, should flight become necessary; but he evidently thought that the procession of the faithful would pass without perceiving them amid the thick foliage, in which they were wholly concealed. The discordant tones of the voices and instruments drew nearer, and now droning songs mingled with the sound of the tambourines and cymbals. The head of the procession soon appeared beneath the trees, a hundred paces away; and the strange figures who performed the religious ceremony were easily distinguished through the branches. First came the priests, with mitres on their heads, and clothed in long lace robes. They were surrounded by men, women, and children, who sang a kind of lugubrious psalm, interrupted at regular intervals by the tambourines and cymbals; while behind them was drawn a car with large wheels, the spokes of which represented serpents entwined with each other. Upon the car, which was drawn by four richly caparisoned zebus, stood a hideous statue with four arms, the body coloured a dull red, with haggard eyes, dishevelled hair, protruding tongue, and lips tinted with betel. It stood upright upon the figure of a prostrate and headless giant. Sir Francis, recognising the statue, whispered, "The goddess Kali; the goddess of love and death." "Of death, perhaps," muttered back Passepartout, "but of love--that ugly old hag? Never!" The Parsee made a motion to keep silence. A group of old fakirs were capering and making a wild ado round the statue; these were striped with ochre, and covered with cuts whence their blood issued drop by drop--stupid fanatics, who, in the great Indian ceremonies, still throw themselves under the wheels of Juggernaut. Some Brahmins, clad in all the sumptuousness of Oriental apparel, and leading a woman who faltered at every step, followed. This woman was young, and as fair as a European. Her head and neck, shoulders, ears, arms, hands, and toes were loaded down with jewels and gems with bracelets, earrings, and rings; while a tunic bordered with gold, and covered with a light muslin robe, betrayed the outline of her form. The guards who followed the young woman presented a violent contrast to her, armed as they were with naked sabres hung at their waists, and long damascened pistols, and bearing a corpse on a palanquin. It was the body of an old man, gorgeously arrayed in the habiliments of a rajah, wearing, as in life, a turban embroidered with pearls, a robe of tissue of silk and gold, a scarf of cashmere sewed with diamonds, and the magnificent weapons of a Hindoo prince. Next came the musicians and a rearguard of capering fakirs, whose cries sometimes drowned the noise of the instruments; these closed the procession. Sir Francis watched the procession with a sad countenance, and, turning to the guide, said, "A suttee." The Parsee nodded, and put his finger to his lips. The procession slowly wound under the trees, and soon its last ranks disappeared in the depths of the wood. The songs gradually died away; occasionally cries were heard in the distance, until at last all was silence again. Phileas Fogg had heard what Sir Francis said, and, as soon as the procession had disappeared, asked: "What is a suttee?" "A suttee," returned the general, "is a human sacrifice, but a voluntary one. The woman you have just seen will be burned to-morrow at the dawn of day." "Oh, the scoundrels!" cried Passepartout, who could not repress his indignation. "And the corpse?" asked Mr. Fogg. "Is that of the prince, her husband," said the guide; "an independent rajah of Bundelcund." "Is it possible," resumed Phileas Fogg, his voice betraying not the least emotion, "that these barbarous customs still exist in India, and that the English have been unable to put a stop to them?" "These sacrifices do not occur in the larger portion of India," replied Sir Francis; "but we have no power over these savage territories, and especially here in Bundelcund. The whole district north of the Vindhias is the theatre of incessant murders and pillage." "The poor wretch!" exclaimed Passepartout, "to be burned alive!" "Yes," returned Sir Francis, "burned alive. And, if she were not, you cannot conceive what treatment she would be obliged to submit to from her relatives. They would shave off her hair, feed her on a scanty allowance of rice, treat her with contempt; she would be looked upon as an unclean creature, and would die in some corner, like a scurvy dog. The prospect of so frightful an existence drives these poor creatures to the sacrifice much more than love or religious fanaticism. Sometimes, however, the sacrifice is really voluntary, and it requires the active interference of the Government to prevent it. Several years ago, when I was living at Bombay, a young widow asked permission of the governor to be burned along with her husband's body; but, as you may imagine, he refused. The woman left the town, took refuge with an independent rajah, and there carried out her self-devoted purpose." While Sir Francis was speaking, the guide shook his head several times, and now said: "The sacrifice which will take place to-morrow at dawn is not a voluntary one." "How do you know?" "Everybody knows about this affair in Bundelcund." "But the wretched creature did not seem to be making any resistance," observed Sir Francis. "That was because they had intoxicated her with fumes of hemp and opium." "But where are they taking her?" "To the pagoda of Pillaji, two miles from here; she will pass the night there." "And the sacrifice will take place--" "To-morrow, at the first light of dawn." The guide now led the elephant out of the thicket, and leaped upon his neck. Just at the moment that he was about to urge Kiouni forward with a peculiar whistle, Mr. Fogg stopped him, and, turning to Sir Francis Cromarty, said, "Suppose we save this woman." "Save the woman, Mr. Fogg!" "I have yet twelve hours to spare; I can devote them to that." "Why, you are a man of heart!" "Sometimes," replied Phileas Fogg, quietly; "when I have the time." ----------CHAPTER 13--------- The project was a bold one, full of difficulty, perhaps impracticable. Mr. Fogg was going to risk life, or at least liberty, and therefore the success of his tour. But he did not hesitate, and he found in Sir Francis Cromarty an enthusiastic ally. As for Passepartout, he was ready for anything that might be proposed. His master's idea charmed him; he perceived a heart, a soul, under that icy exterior. He began to love Phileas Fogg. There remained the guide: what course would he adopt? Would he not take part with the Indians? In default of his assistance, it was necessary to be assured of his neutrality. Sir Francis frankly put the question to him. "Officers," replied the guide, "I am a Parsee, and this woman is a Parsee. Command me as you will." "Excellent!" said Mr. Fogg. "However," resumed the guide, "it is certain, not only that we shall risk our lives, but horrible tortures, if we are taken." "That is foreseen," replied Mr. Fogg. "I think we must wait till night before acting." "I think so," said the guide. The worthy Indian then gave some account of the victim, who, he said, was a celebrated beauty of the Parsee race, and the daughter of a wealthy Bombay merchant. She had received a thoroughly English education in that city, and, from her manners and intelligence, would be thought an European. Her name was Aouda. Left an orphan, she was married against her will to the old rajah of Bundelcund; and, knowing the fate that awaited her, she escaped, was retaken, and devoted by the rajah's relatives, who had an interest in her death, to the sacrifice from which it seemed she could not escape. The Parsee's narrative only confirmed Mr. Fogg and his companions in their generous design. It was decided that the guide should direct the elephant towards the pagoda of Pillaji, which he accordingly approached as quickly as possible. They halted, half an hour afterwards, in a copse, some five hundred feet from the pagoda, where they were well concealed; but they could hear the groans and cries of the fakirs distinctly. They then discussed the means of getting at the victim. The guide was familiar with the pagoda of Pillaji, in which, as he declared, the young woman was imprisoned. Could they enter any of its doors while the whole party of Indians was plunged in a drunken sleep, or was it safer to attempt to make a hole in the walls? This could only be determined at the moment and the place themselves; but it was certain that the abduction must be made that night, and not when, at break of day, the victim was led to her funeral pyre. Then no human intervention could save her. As soon as night fell, about six o'clock, they decided to make a reconnaissance around the pagoda. The cries of the fakirs were just ceasing; the Indians were in the act of plunging themselves into the drunkenness caused by liquid opium mingled with hemp, and it might be possible to slip between them to the temple itself. The Parsee, leading the others, noiselessly crept through the wood, and in ten minutes they found themselves on the banks of a small stream, whence, by the light of the rosin torches, they perceived a pyre of wood, on the top of which lay the embalmed body of the rajah, which was to be burned with his wife. The pagoda, whose minarets loomed above the trees in the deepening dusk, stood a hundred steps away. "Come!" whispered the guide. He slipped more cautiously than ever through the brush, followed by his companions; the silence around was only broken by the low murmuring of the wind among the branches. Soon the Parsee stopped on the borders of the glade, which was lit up by the torches. The ground was covered by groups of the Indians, motionless in their drunken sleep; it seemed a battlefield strewn with the dead. Men, women, and children lay together. In the background, among the trees, the pagoda of Pillaji loomed distinctly. Much to the guide's disappointment, the guards of the rajah, lighted by torches, were watching at the doors and marching to and fro with naked sabres; probably the priests, too, were watching within. The Parsee, now convinced that it was impossible to force an entrance to the temple, advanced no farther, but led his companions back again. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty also saw that nothing could be attempted in that direction. They stopped, and engaged in a whispered colloquy. "It is only eight now," said the brigadier, "and these guards may also go to sleep." "It is not impossible," returned the Parsee. They lay down at the foot of a tree, and waited. The time seemed long; the guide ever and anon left them to take an observation on the edge of the wood, but the guards watched steadily by the glare of the torches, and a dim light crept through the windows of the pagoda. They waited till midnight; but no change took place among the guards, and it became apparent that their yielding to sleep could not be counted on. The other plan must be carried out; an opening in the walls of the pagoda must be made. It remained to ascertain whether the priests were watching by the side of their victim as assiduously as were the soldiers at the door. After a last consultation, the guide announced that he was ready for the attempt, and advanced, followed by the others. They took a roundabout way, so as to get at the pagoda on the rear. They reached the walls about half-past twelve, without having met anyone; here there was no guard, nor were there either windows or doors. The night was dark. The moon, on the wane, scarcely left the horizon, and was covered with heavy clouds; the height of the trees deepened the darkness. It was not enough to reach the walls; an opening in them must be accomplished, and to attain this purpose the party only had their pocket-knives. Happily the temple walls were built of brick and wood, which could be penetrated with little difficulty; after one brick had been taken out, the rest would yield easily. They set noiselessly to work, and the Parsee on one side and Passepartout on the other began to loosen the bricks so as to make an aperture two feet wide. They were getting on rapidly, when suddenly a cry was heard in the interior of the temple, followed almost instantly by other cries replying from the outside. Passepartout and the guide stopped. Had they been heard? Was the alarm being given? Common prudence urged them to retire, and they did so, followed by Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis. They again hid themselves in the wood, and waited till the disturbance, whatever it might be, ceased, holding themselves ready to resume their attempt without delay. But, awkwardly enough, the guards now appeared at the rear of the temple, and there installed themselves, in readiness to prevent a surprise. It would be difficult to describe the disappointment of the party, thus interrupted in their work. They could not now reach the victim; how, then, could they save her? Sir Francis shook his fists, Passepartout was beside himself, and the guide gnashed his teeth with rage. The tranquil Fogg waited, without betraying any emotion. "We have nothing to do but to go away," whispered Sir Francis. "Nothing but to go away," echoed the guide. "Stop," said Fogg. "I am only due at Allahabad tomorrow before noon." "But what can you hope to do?" asked Sir Francis. "In a few hours it will be daylight, and--" "The chance which now seems lost may present itself at the last moment." Sir Francis would have liked to read Phileas Fogg's eyes. What was this cool Englishman thinking of? Was he planning to make a rush for the young woman at the very moment of the sacrifice, and boldly snatch her from her executioners? This would be utter folly, and it was hard to admit that Fogg was such a fool. Sir Francis consented, however, to remain to the end of this terrible drama. The guide led them to the rear of the glade, where they were able to observe the sleeping groups. Meanwhile Passepartout, who had perched himself on the lower branches of a tree, was resolving an idea which had at first struck him like a flash, and which was now firmly lodged in his brain. He had commenced by saying to himself, "What folly!" and then he repeated, "Why not, after all? It's a chance,--perhaps the only one; and with such sots!" Thinking thus, he slipped, with the suppleness of a serpent, to the lowest branches, the ends of which bent almost to the ground. The hours passed, and the lighter shades now announced the approach of day, though it was not yet light. This was the moment. The slumbering multitude became animated, the tambourines sounded, songs and cries arose; the hour of the sacrifice had come. The doors of the pagoda swung open, and a bright light escaped from its interior, in the midst of which Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis espied the victim. She seemed, having shaken off the stupor of intoxication, to be striving to escape from her executioner. Sir Francis's heart throbbed; and, convulsively seizing Mr. Fogg's hand, found in it an open knife. Just at this moment the crowd began to move. The young woman had again fallen into a stupor caused by the fumes of hemp, and passed among the fakirs, who escorted her with their wild, religious cries. Phileas Fogg and his companions, mingling in the rear ranks of the crowd, followed; and in two minutes they reached the banks of the stream, and stopped fifty paces from the pyre, upon which still lay the rajah's corpse. In the semi-obscurity they saw the victim, quite senseless, stretched out beside her husband's body. Then a torch was brought, and the wood, heavily soaked with oil, instantly took fire. At this moment Sir Francis and the guide seized Phileas Fogg, who, in an instant of mad generosity, was about to rush upon the pyre. But he had quickly pushed them aside, when the whole scene suddenly changed. A cry of terror arose. The whole multitude prostrated themselves, terror-stricken, on the ground. The old rajah was not dead, then, since he rose of a sudden, like a spectre, took up his wife in his arms, and descended from the pyre in the midst of the clouds of smoke, which only heightened his ghostly appearance. Fakirs and soldiers and priests, seized with instant terror, lay there, with their faces on the ground, not daring to lift their eyes and behold such a prodigy. The inanimate victim was borne along by the vigorous arms which supported her, and which she did not seem in the least to burden. Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis stood erect, the Parsee bowed his head, and Passepartout was, no doubt, scarcely less stupefied. The resuscitated rajah approached Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg, and, in an abrupt tone, said, "Let us be off!" It was Passepartout himself, who had slipped upon the pyre in the midst of the smoke and, profiting by the still overhanging darkness, had delivered the young woman from death! It was Passepartout who, playing his part with a happy audacity, had passed through the crowd amid the general terror. A moment after all four of the party had disappeared in the woods, and the elephant was bearing them away at a rapid pace. But the cries and noise, and a ball which whizzed through Phileas Fogg's hat, apprised them that the trick had been discovered. The old rajah's body, indeed, now appeared upon the burning pyre; and the priests, recovered from their terror, perceived that an abduction had taken place. They hastened into the forest, followed by the soldiers, who fired a volley after the fugitives; but the latter rapidly increased the distance between them, and ere long found themselves beyond the reach of the bullets and arrows.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 14 with the given context.

chapter 14|chapter 15

"In which Phileas Fogg descends the whole length of the beautiful valley of the Ganges without ever thinking of seeing it" Passepartout is delighted with his success, and his master is happy with him. He is the hero of the hour. The Indian woman is still doped up and unconscious. She is carried for many hours through the jungle before she can be roused. Sir Francis says she is in danger if she remains in India. In Allahabad they resume the train for Calcutta. They will be able to make the steamer leaving Calcutta on October 25th for Hong Kong. Passepartout goes out to buy the princess European clothes. As Aouda recovers consciousness, she is praised by the narrator as beautiful and of a soft, sweet nature. She speaks perfect English. Fogg gives the elephant Kiouni to the guide. Kiouni lifts Passepartout in his trunk as farewell. Sir Francis accompanies them as far as Benares and explains to the princess how she was rescued. She thanks them all with great emotion and fear, and Fogg, understanding how the princess feels, offers to take her with them to Hong Kong, an English city. At Benares, the brigadier general leaves them, with hope for success on their journey. The train passes through the valley of the Ganges, with jungles and mountains visible, elephants in the sacred river, and Indians doing their rites in the water. When Fogg reaches Calcutta, he is exactly on schedule, neither ahead nor behind.

----------CHAPTER 14--------- The rash exploit had been accomplished; and for an hour Passepartout laughed gaily at his success. Sir Francis pressed the worthy fellow's hand, and his master said, "Well done!" which, from him, was high commendation; to which Passepartout replied that all the credit of the affair belonged to Mr. Fogg. As for him, he had only been struck with a "queer" idea; and he laughed to think that for a few moments he, Passepartout, the ex-gymnast, ex-sergeant fireman, had been the spouse of a charming woman, a venerable, embalmed rajah! As for the young Indian woman, she had been unconscious throughout of what was passing, and now, wrapped up in a travelling-blanket, was reposing in one of the howdahs. The elephant, thanks to the skilful guidance of the Parsee, was advancing rapidly through the still darksome forest, and, an hour after leaving the pagoda, had crossed a vast plain. They made a halt at seven o'clock, the young woman being still in a state of complete prostration. The guide made her drink a little brandy and water, but the drowsiness which stupefied her could not yet be shaken off. Sir Francis, who was familiar with the effects of the intoxication produced by the fumes of hemp, reassured his companions on her account. But he was more disturbed at the prospect of her future fate. He told Phileas Fogg that, should Aouda remain in India, she would inevitably fall again into the hands of her executioners. These fanatics were scattered throughout the county, and would, despite the English police, recover their victim at Madras, Bombay, or Calcutta. She would only be safe by quitting India for ever. Phileas Fogg replied that he would reflect upon the matter. The station at Allahabad was reached about ten o'clock, and, the interrupted line of railway being resumed, would enable them to reach Calcutta in less than twenty-four hours. Phileas Fogg would thus be able to arrive in time to take the steamer which left Calcutta the next day, October 25th, at noon, for Hong Kong. The young woman was placed in one of the waiting-rooms of the station, whilst Passepartout was charged with purchasing for her various articles of toilet, a dress, shawl, and some furs; for which his master gave him unlimited credit. Passepartout started off forthwith, and found himself in the streets of Allahabad, that is, the City of God, one of the most venerated in India, being built at the junction of the two sacred rivers, Ganges and Jumna, the waters of which attract pilgrims from every part of the peninsula. The Ganges, according to the legends of the Ramayana, rises in heaven, whence, owing to Brahma's agency, it descends to the earth. Passepartout made it a point, as he made his purchases, to take a good look at the city. It was formerly defended by a noble fort, which has since become a state prison; its commerce has dwindled away, and Passepartout in vain looked about him for such a bazaar as he used to frequent in Regent Street. At last he came upon an elderly, crusty Jew, who sold second-hand articles, and from whom he purchased a dress of Scotch stuff, a large mantle, and a fine otter-skin pelisse, for which he did not hesitate to pay seventy-five pounds. He then returned triumphantly to the station. The influence to which the priests of Pillaji had subjected Aouda began gradually to yield, and she became more herself, so that her fine eyes resumed all their soft Indian expression. When the poet-king, Ucaf Uddaul, celebrates the charms of the queen of Ahmehnagara, he speaks thus: "Her shining tresses, divided in two parts, encircle the harmonious contour of her white and delicate cheeks, brilliant in their glow and freshness. Her ebony brows have the form and charm of the bow of Kama, the god of love, and beneath her long silken lashes the purest reflections and a celestial light swim, as in the sacred lakes of Himalaya, in the black pupils of her great clear eyes. Her teeth, fine, equal, and white, glitter between her smiling lips like dewdrops in a passion-flower's half-enveloped breast. Her delicately formed ears, her vermilion hands, her little feet, curved and tender as the lotus-bud, glitter with the brilliancy of the loveliest pearls of Ceylon, the most dazzling diamonds of Golconda. Her narrow and supple waist, which a hand may clasp around, sets forth the outline of her rounded figure and the beauty of her bosom, where youth in its flower displays the wealth of its treasures; and beneath the silken folds of her tunic she seems to have been modelled in pure silver by the godlike hand of Vicvarcarma, the immortal sculptor." It is enough to say, without applying this poetical rhapsody to Aouda, that she was a charming woman, in all the European acceptation of the phrase. She spoke English with great purity, and the guide had not exaggerated in saying that the young Parsee had been transformed by her bringing up. The train was about to start from Allahabad, and Mr. Fogg proceeded to pay the guide the price agreed upon for his service, and not a farthing more; which astonished Passepartout, who remembered all that his master owed to the guide's devotion. He had, indeed, risked his life in the adventure at Pillaji, and, if he should be caught afterwards by the Indians, he would with difficulty escape their vengeance. Kiouni, also, must be disposed of. What should be done with the elephant, which had been so dearly purchased? Phileas Fogg had already determined this question. "Parsee," said he to the guide, "you have been serviceable and devoted. I have paid for your service, but not for your devotion. Would you like to have this elephant? He is yours." The guide's eyes glistened. "Your honour is giving me a fortune!" cried he. "Take him, guide," returned Mr. Fogg, "and I shall still be your debtor." "Good!" exclaimed Passepartout. "Take him, friend. Kiouni is a brave and faithful beast." And, going up to the elephant, he gave him several lumps of sugar, saying, "Here, Kiouni, here, here." The elephant grunted out his satisfaction, and, clasping Passepartout around the waist with his trunk, lifted him as high as his head. Passepartout, not in the least alarmed, caressed the animal, which replaced him gently on the ground. Soon after, Phileas Fogg, Sir Francis Cromarty, and Passepartout, installed in a carriage with Aouda, who had the best seat, were whirling at full speed towards Benares. It was a run of eighty miles, and was accomplished in two hours. During the journey, the young woman fully recovered her senses. What was her astonishment to find herself in this carriage, on the railway, dressed in European habiliments, and with travellers who were quite strangers to her! Her companions first set about fully reviving her with a little liquor, and then Sir Francis narrated to her what had passed, dwelling upon the courage with which Phileas Fogg had not hesitated to risk his life to save her, and recounting the happy sequel of the venture, the result of Passepartout's rash idea. Mr. Fogg said nothing; while Passepartout, abashed, kept repeating that "it wasn't worth telling." Aouda pathetically thanked her deliverers, rather with tears than words; her fine eyes interpreted her gratitude better than her lips. Then, as her thoughts strayed back to the scene of the sacrifice, and recalled the dangers which still menaced her, she shuddered with terror. Phileas Fogg understood what was passing in Aouda's mind, and offered, in order to reassure her, to escort her to Hong Kong, where she might remain safely until the affair was hushed up--an offer which she eagerly and gratefully accepted. She had, it seems, a Parsee relation, who was one of the principal merchants of Hong Kong, which is wholly an English city, though on an island on the Chinese coast. At half-past twelve the train stopped at Benares. The Brahmin legends assert that this city is built on the site of the ancient Casi, which, like Mahomet's tomb, was once suspended between heaven and earth; though the Benares of to-day, which the Orientalists call the Athens of India, stands quite unpoetically on the solid earth, Passepartout caught glimpses of its brick houses and clay huts, giving an aspect of desolation to the place, as the train entered it. Benares was Sir Francis Cromarty's destination, the troops he was rejoining being encamped some miles northward of the city. He bade adieu to Phileas Fogg, wishing him all success, and expressing the hope that he would come that way again in a less original but more profitable fashion. Mr. Fogg lightly pressed him by the hand. The parting of Aouda, who did not forget what she owed to Sir Francis, betrayed more warmth; and, as for Passepartout, he received a hearty shake of the hand from the gallant general. The railway, on leaving Benares, passed for a while along the valley of the Ganges. Through the windows of their carriage the travellers had glimpses of the diversified landscape of Behar, with its mountains clothed in verdure, its fields of barley, wheat, and corn, its jungles peopled with green alligators, its neat villages, and its still thickly-leaved forests. Elephants were bathing in the waters of the sacred river, and groups of Indians, despite the advanced season and chilly air, were performing solemnly their pious ablutions. These were fervent Brahmins, the bitterest foes of Buddhism, their deities being Vishnu, the solar god, Shiva, the divine impersonation of natural forces, and Brahma, the supreme ruler of priests and legislators. What would these divinities think of India, anglicised as it is to-day, with steamers whistling and scudding along the Ganges, frightening the gulls which float upon its surface, the turtles swarming along its banks, and the faithful dwelling upon its borders? The panorama passed before their eyes like a flash, save when the steam concealed it fitfully from the view; the travellers could scarcely discern the fort of Chupenie, twenty miles south-westward from Benares, the ancient stronghold of the rajahs of Behar; or Ghazipur and its famous rose-water factories; or the tomb of Lord Cornwallis, rising on the left bank of the Ganges; the fortified town of Buxar, or Patna, a large manufacturing and trading-place, where is held the principal opium market of India; or Monghir, a more than European town, for it is as English as Manchester or Birmingham, with its iron foundries, edgetool factories, and high chimneys puffing clouds of black smoke heavenward. Night came on; the train passed on at full speed, in the midst of the roaring of the tigers, bears, and wolves which fled before the locomotive; and the marvels of Bengal, Golconda ruined Gour, Murshedabad, the ancient capital, Burdwan, Hugly, and the French town of Chandernagor, where Passepartout would have been proud to see his country's flag flying, were hidden from their view in the darkness. Calcutta was reached at seven in the morning, and the packet left for Hong Kong at noon; so that Phileas Fogg had five hours before him. According to his journal, he was due at Calcutta on the 25th of October, and that was the exact date of his actual arrival. He was therefore neither behind-hand nor ahead of time. The two days gained between London and Bombay had been lost, as has been seen, in the journey across India. But it is not to be supposed that Phileas Fogg regretted them. ----------CHAPTER 15--------- The train entered the station, and Passepartout jumping out first, was followed by Mr. Fogg, who assisted his fair companion to descend. Phileas Fogg intended to proceed at once to the Hong Kong steamer, in order to get Aouda comfortably settled for the voyage. He was unwilling to leave her while they were still on dangerous ground. Just as he was leaving the station a policeman came up to him, and said, "Mr. Phileas Fogg?" "I am he." "Is this man your servant?" added the policeman, pointing to Passepartout. "Yes." "Be so good, both of you, as to follow me." Mr. Fogg betrayed no surprise whatever. The policeman was a representative of the law, and law is sacred to an Englishman. Passepartout tried to reason about the matter, but the policeman tapped him with his stick, and Mr. Fogg made him a signal to obey. "May this young lady go with us?" asked he. "She may," replied the policeman. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout were conducted to a palkigahri, a sort of four-wheeled carriage, drawn by two horses, in which they took their places and were driven away. No one spoke during the twenty minutes which elapsed before they reached their destination. They first passed through the "black town," with its narrow streets, its miserable, dirty huts, and squalid population; then through the "European town," which presented a relief in its bright brick mansions, shaded by coconut-trees and bristling with masts, where, although it was early morning, elegantly dressed horsemen and handsome equipages were passing back and forth. The carriage stopped before a modest-looking house, which, however, did not have the appearance of a private mansion. The policeman having requested his prisoners--for so, truly, they might be called--to descend, conducted them into a room with barred windows, and said: "You will appear before Judge Obadiah at half-past eight." He then retired, and closed the door. "Why, we are prisoners!" exclaimed Passepartout, falling into a chair. Aouda, with an emotion she tried to conceal, said to Mr. Fogg: "Sir, you must leave me to my fate! It is on my account that you receive this treatment, it is for having saved me!" Phileas Fogg contented himself with saying that it was impossible. It was quite unlikely that he should be arrested for preventing a suttee. The complainants would not dare present themselves with such a charge. There was some mistake. Moreover, he would not, in any event, abandon Aouda, but would escort her to Hong Kong. "But the steamer leaves at noon!" observed Passepartout, nervously. "We shall be on board by noon," replied his master, placidly. It was said so positively that Passepartout could not help muttering to himself, "Parbleu that's certain! Before noon we shall be on board." But he was by no means reassured. At half-past eight the door opened, the policeman appeared, and, requesting them to follow him, led the way to an adjoining hall. It was evidently a court-room, and a crowd of Europeans and natives already occupied the rear of the apartment. Mr. Fogg and his two companions took their places on a bench opposite the desks of the magistrate and his clerk. Immediately after, Judge Obadiah, a fat, round man, followed by the clerk, entered. He proceeded to take down a wig which was hanging on a nail, and put it hurriedly on his head. "The first case," said he. Then, putting his hand to his head, he exclaimed, "Heh! This is not my wig!" "No, your worship," returned the clerk, "it is mine." "My dear Mr. Oysterpuff, how can a judge give a wise sentence in a clerk's wig?" The wigs were exchanged. Passepartout was getting nervous, for the hands on the face of the big clock over the judge seemed to go around with terrible rapidity. "The first case," repeated Judge Obadiah. "Phileas Fogg?" demanded Oysterpuff. "I am here," replied Mr. Fogg. "Passepartout?" "Present," responded Passepartout. "Good," said the judge. "You have been looked for, prisoners, for two days on the trains from Bombay." "But of what are we accused?" asked Passepartout, impatiently. "You are about to be informed." "I am an English subject, sir," said Mr. Fogg, "and I have the right--" "Have you been ill-treated?" "Not at all." "Very well; let the complainants come in." A door was swung open by order of the judge, and three Indian priests entered. "That's it," muttered Passepartout; "these are the rogues who were going to burn our young lady." The priests took their places in front of the judge, and the clerk proceeded to read in a loud voice a complaint of sacrilege against Phileas Fogg and his servant, who were accused of having violated a place held consecrated by the Brahmin religion. "You hear the charge?" asked the judge. "Yes, sir," replied Mr. Fogg, consulting his watch, "and I admit it." "You admit it?" "I admit it, and I wish to hear these priests admit, in their turn, what they were going to do at the pagoda of Pillaji." The priests looked at each other; they did not seem to understand what was said. "Yes," cried Passepartout, warmly; "at the pagoda of Pillaji, where they were on the point of burning their victim." The judge stared with astonishment, and the priests were stupefied. "What victim?" said Judge Obadiah. "Burn whom? In Bombay itself?" "Bombay?" cried Passepartout. "Certainly. We are not talking of the pagoda of Pillaji, but of the pagoda of Malabar Hill, at Bombay." "And as a proof," added the clerk, "here are the desecrator's very shoes, which he left behind him." Whereupon he placed a pair of shoes on his desk. "My shoes!" cried Passepartout, in his surprise permitting this imprudent exclamation to escape him. The confusion of master and man, who had quite forgotten the affair at Bombay, for which they were now detained at Calcutta, may be imagined. Fix the detective, had foreseen the advantage which Passepartout's escapade gave him, and, delaying his departure for twelve hours, had consulted the priests of Malabar Hill. Knowing that the English authorities dealt very severely with this kind of misdemeanour, he promised them a goodly sum in damages, and sent them forward to Calcutta by the next train. Owing to the delay caused by the rescue of the young widow, Fix and the priests reached the Indian capital before Mr. Fogg and his servant, the magistrates having been already warned by a dispatch to arrest them should they arrive. Fix's disappointment when he learned that Phileas Fogg had not made his appearance in Calcutta may be imagined. He made up his mind that the robber had stopped somewhere on the route and taken refuge in the southern provinces. For twenty-four hours Fix watched the station with feverish anxiety; at last he was rewarded by seeing Mr. Fogg and Passepartout arrive, accompanied by a young woman, whose presence he was wholly at a loss to explain. He hastened for a policeman; and this was how the party came to be arrested and brought before Judge Obadiah. Had Passepartout been a little less preoccupied, he would have espied the detective ensconced in a corner of the court-room, watching the proceedings with an interest easily understood; for the warrant had failed to reach him at Calcutta, as it had done at Bombay and Suez. Judge Obadiah had unfortunately caught Passepartout's rash exclamation, which the poor fellow would have given the world to recall. "The facts are admitted?" asked the judge. "Admitted," replied Mr. Fogg, coldly. "Inasmuch," resumed the judge, "as the English law protects equally and sternly the religions of the Indian people, and as the man Passepartout has admitted that he violated the sacred pagoda of Malabar Hill, at Bombay, on the 20th of October, I condemn the said Passepartout to imprisonment for fifteen days and a fine of three hundred pounds." "Three hundred pounds!" cried Passepartout, startled at the largeness of the sum. "Silence!" shouted the constable. "And inasmuch," continued the judge, "as it is not proved that the act was not done by the connivance of the master with the servant, and as the master in any case must be held responsible for the acts of his paid servant, I condemn Phileas Fogg to a week's imprisonment and a fine of one hundred and fifty pounds." Fix rubbed his hands softly with satisfaction; if Phileas Fogg could be detained in Calcutta a week, it would be more than time for the warrant to arrive. Passepartout was stupefied. This sentence ruined his master. A wager of twenty thousand pounds lost, because he, like a precious fool, had gone into that abominable pagoda! Phileas Fogg, as self-composed as if the judgment did not in the least concern him, did not even lift his eyebrows while it was being pronounced. Just as the clerk was calling the next case, he rose, and said, "I offer bail." "You have that right," returned the judge. Fix's blood ran cold, but he resumed his composure when he heard the judge announce that the bail required for each prisoner would be one thousand pounds. "I will pay it at once," said Mr. Fogg, taking a roll of bank-bills from the carpet-bag, which Passepartout had by him, and placing them on the clerk's desk. "This sum will be restored to you upon your release from prison," said the judge. "Meanwhile, you are liberated on bail." "Come!" said Phileas Fogg to his servant. "But let them at least give me back my shoes!" cried Passepartout angrily. "Ah, these are pretty dear shoes!" he muttered, as they were handed to him. "More than a thousand pounds apiece; besides, they pinch my feet." Mr. Fogg, offering his arm to Aouda, then departed, followed by the crestfallen Passepartout. Fix still nourished hopes that the robber would not, after all, leave the two thousand pounds behind him, but would decide to serve out his week in jail, and issued forth on Mr. Fogg's traces. That gentleman took a carriage, and the party were soon landed on one of the quays. The Rangoon was moored half a mile off in the harbour, its signal of departure hoisted at the mast-head. Eleven o'clock was striking; Mr. Fogg was an hour in advance of time. Fix saw them leave the carriage and push off in a boat for the steamer, and stamped his feet with disappointment. "The rascal is off, after all!" he exclaimed. "Two thousand pounds sacrificed! He's as prodigal as a thief! I'll follow him to the end of the world if necessary; but, at the rate he is going on, the stolen money will soon be exhausted." The detective was not far wrong in making this conjecture. Since leaving London, what with travelling expenses, bribes, the purchase of the elephant, bails, and fines, Mr. Fogg had already spent more than five thousand pounds on the way, and the percentage of the sum recovered from the bank robber promised to the detectives, was rapidly diminishing.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 16, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 16|chapter 17|chapter 18

"In which Fix does not seem to understand in the least what is said to him" The Rangoon on which the group sails to Hong Kong is a steamer as fast as the Mongolia but not so luxurious. The journey will take 10 to 12 days. Aouda becomes more grateful to her protector, Mr. Fogg, and he is attentive to her comfort. He spends much time talking to her, with great civility. Aouda does not know how to interpret his behavior, which is like that of an automaton. She tells him her history. She comes from the Parsee race, rich cotton merchants. A relative of hers had been made a baronet by the English government, and it was his cousin who lived in Hong Kong that she hopes will take her in. Detective Fix is hiding on board, hoping the arrest warrant will reach him at Hong Kong. If he doesn't make the arrest there, Fogg will be out of English territory. He decides to tell Passepartout the truth about his master to get him as an ally. But he has to be careful or the servant would tell his master about Fix. Fix is confused about the presence of the woman. The day before they reach Singapore, Fix meets Passepartout on deck and learns the history of Aouda and all that happened to the party since he saw them. Fix pretends not to know about the arrest and court appearance. They have a drink together.

----------CHAPTER 16--------- The Rangoon--one of the Peninsular and Oriental Company's boats plying in the Chinese and Japanese seas--was a screw steamer, built of iron, weighing about seventeen hundred and seventy tons, and with engines of four hundred horse-power. She was as fast, but not as well fitted up, as the Mongolia, and Aouda was not as comfortably provided for on board of her as Phileas Fogg could have wished. However, the trip from Calcutta to Hong Kong only comprised some three thousand five hundred miles, occupying from ten to twelve days, and the young woman was not difficult to please. During the first days of the journey Aouda became better acquainted with her protector, and constantly gave evidence of her deep gratitude for what he had done. The phlegmatic gentleman listened to her, apparently at least, with coldness, neither his voice nor his manner betraying the slightest emotion; but he seemed to be always on the watch that nothing should be wanting to Aouda's comfort. He visited her regularly each day at certain hours, not so much to talk himself, as to sit and hear her talk. He treated her with the strictest politeness, but with the precision of an automaton, the movements of which had been arranged for this purpose. Aouda did not quite know what to make of him, though Passepartout had given her some hints of his master's eccentricity, and made her smile by telling her of the wager which was sending him round the world. After all, she owed Phileas Fogg her life, and she always regarded him through the exalting medium of her gratitude. Aouda confirmed the Parsee guide's narrative of her touching history. She did, indeed, belong to the highest of the native races of India. Many of the Parsee merchants have made great fortunes there by dealing in cotton; and one of them, Sir Jametsee Jeejeebhoy, was made a baronet by the English government. Aouda was a relative of this great man, and it was his cousin, Jeejeeh, whom she hoped to join at Hong Kong. Whether she would find a protector in him she could not tell; but Mr. Fogg essayed to calm her anxieties, and to assure her that everything would be mathematically--he used the very word--arranged. Aouda fastened her great eyes, "clear as the sacred lakes of the Himalaya," upon him; but the intractable Fogg, as reserved as ever, did not seem at all inclined to throw himself into this lake. The first few days of the voyage passed prosperously, amid favourable weather and propitious winds, and they soon came in sight of the great Andaman, the principal of the islands in the Bay of Bengal, with its picturesque Saddle Peak, two thousand four hundred feet high, looming above the waters. The steamer passed along near the shores, but the savage Papuans, who are in the lowest scale of humanity, but are not, as has been asserted, cannibals, did not make their appearance. The panorama of the islands, as they steamed by them, was superb. Vast forests of palms, arecs, bamboo, teakwood, of the gigantic mimosa, and tree-like ferns covered the foreground, while behind, the graceful outlines of the mountains were traced against the sky; and along the coasts swarmed by thousands the precious swallows whose nests furnish a luxurious dish to the tables of the Celestial Empire. The varied landscape afforded by the Andaman Islands was soon passed, however, and the Rangoon rapidly approached the Straits of Malacca, which gave access to the China seas. What was detective Fix, so unluckily drawn on from country to country, doing all this while? He had managed to embark on the Rangoon at Calcutta without being seen by Passepartout, after leaving orders that, if the warrant should arrive, it should be forwarded to him at Hong Kong; and he hoped to conceal his presence to the end of the voyage. It would have been difficult to explain why he was on board without awakening Passepartout's suspicions, who thought him still at Bombay. But necessity impelled him, nevertheless, to renew his acquaintance with the worthy servant, as will be seen. All the detective's hopes and wishes were now centred on Hong Kong; for the steamer's stay at Singapore would be too brief to enable him to take any steps there. The arrest must be made at Hong Kong, or the robber would probably escape him for ever. Hong Kong was the last English ground on which he would set foot; beyond, China, Japan, America offered to Fogg an almost certain refuge. If the warrant should at last make its appearance at Hong Kong, Fix could arrest him and give him into the hands of the local police, and there would be no further trouble. But beyond Hong Kong, a simple warrant would be of no avail; an extradition warrant would be necessary, and that would result in delays and obstacles, of which the rascal would take advantage to elude justice. Fix thought over these probabilities during the long hours which he spent in his cabin, and kept repeating to himself, "Now, either the warrant will be at Hong Kong, in which case I shall arrest my man, or it will not be there; and this time it is absolutely necessary that I should delay his departure. I have failed at Bombay, and I have failed at Calcutta; if I fail at Hong Kong, my reputation is lost: Cost what it may, I must succeed! But how shall I prevent his departure, if that should turn out to be my last resource?" Fix made up his mind that, if worst came to worst, he would make a confidant of Passepartout, and tell him what kind of a fellow his master really was. That Passepartout was not Fogg's accomplice, he was very certain. The servant, enlightened by his disclosure, and afraid of being himself implicated in the crime, would doubtless become an ally of the detective. But this method was a dangerous one, only to be employed when everything else had failed. A word from Passepartout to his master would ruin all. The detective was therefore in a sore strait. But suddenly a new idea struck him. The presence of Aouda on the Rangoon, in company with Phileas Fogg, gave him new material for reflection. Who was this woman? What combination of events had made her Fogg's travelling companion? They had evidently met somewhere between Bombay and Calcutta; but where? Had they met accidentally, or had Fogg gone into the interior purposely in quest of this charming damsel? Fix was fairly puzzled. He asked himself whether there had not been a wicked elopement; and this idea so impressed itself upon his mind that he determined to make use of the supposed intrigue. Whether the young woman were married or not, he would be able to create such difficulties for Mr. Fogg at Hong Kong that he could not escape by paying any amount of money. But could he even wait till they reached Hong Kong? Fogg had an abominable way of jumping from one boat to another, and, before anything could be effected, might get full under way again for Yokohama. Fix decided that he must warn the English authorities, and signal the Rangoon before her arrival. This was easy to do, since the steamer stopped at Singapore, whence there is a telegraphic wire to Hong Kong. He finally resolved, moreover, before acting more positively, to question Passepartout. It would not be difficult to make him talk; and, as there was no time to lose, Fix prepared to make himself known. It was now the 30th of October, and on the following day the Rangoon was due at Singapore. Fix emerged from his cabin and went on deck. Passepartout was promenading up and down in the forward part of the steamer. The detective rushed forward with every appearance of extreme surprise, and exclaimed, "You here, on the Rangoon?" "What, Monsieur Fix, are you on board?" returned the really astonished Passepartout, recognising his crony of the Mongolia. "Why, I left you at Bombay, and here you are, on the way to Hong Kong! Are you going round the world too?" "No, no," replied Fix; "I shall stop at Hong Kong--at least for some days." "Hum!" said Passepartout, who seemed for an instant perplexed. "But how is it I have not seen you on board since we left Calcutta?" "Oh, a trifle of sea-sickness--I've been staying in my berth. The Gulf of Bengal does not agree with me as well as the Indian Ocean. And how is Mr. Fogg?" "As well and as punctual as ever, not a day behind time! But, Monsieur Fix, you don't know that we have a young lady with us." "A young lady?" replied the detective, not seeming to comprehend what was said. Passepartout thereupon recounted Aouda's history, the affair at the Bombay pagoda, the purchase of the elephant for two thousand pounds, the rescue, the arrest, and sentence of the Calcutta court, and the restoration of Mr. Fogg and himself to liberty on bail. Fix, who was familiar with the last events, seemed to be equally ignorant of all that Passepartout related; and the later was charmed to find so interested a listener. "But does your master propose to carry this young woman to Europe?" "Not at all. We are simply going to place her under the protection of one of her relatives, a rich merchant at Hong Kong." "Nothing to be done there," said Fix to himself, concealing his disappointment. "A glass of gin, Mr. Passepartout?" "Willingly, Monsieur Fix. We must at least have a friendly glass on board the Rangoon." ----------CHAPTER 17--------- The detective and Passepartout met often on deck after this interview, though Fix was reserved, and did not attempt to induce his companion to divulge any more facts concerning Mr. Fogg. He caught a glimpse of that mysterious gentleman once or twice; but Mr. Fogg usually confined himself to the cabin, where he kept Aouda company, or, according to his inveterate habit, took a hand at whist. Passepartout began very seriously to conjecture what strange chance kept Fix still on the route that his master was pursuing. It was really worth considering why this certainly very amiable and complacent person, whom he had first met at Suez, had then encountered on board the Mongolia, who disembarked at Bombay, which he announced as his destination, and now turned up so unexpectedly on the Rangoon, was following Mr. Fogg's tracks step by step. What was Fix's object? Passepartout was ready to wager his Indian shoes--which he religiously preserved--that Fix would also leave Hong Kong at the same time with them, and probably on the same steamer. Passepartout might have cudgelled his brain for a century without hitting upon the real object which the detective had in view. He never could have imagined that Phileas Fogg was being tracked as a robber around the globe. But, as it is in human nature to attempt the solution of every mystery, Passepartout suddenly discovered an explanation of Fix's movements, which was in truth far from unreasonable. Fix, he thought, could only be an agent of Mr. Fogg's friends at the Reform Club, sent to follow him up, and to ascertain that he really went round the world as had been agreed upon. "It's clear!" repeated the worthy servant to himself, proud of his shrewdness. "He's a spy sent to keep us in view! That isn't quite the thing, either, to be spying Mr. Fogg, who is so honourable a man! Ah, gentlemen of the Reform, this shall cost you dear!" Passepartout, enchanted with his discovery, resolved to say nothing to his master, lest he should be justly offended at this mistrust on the part of his adversaries. But he determined to chaff Fix, when he had the chance, with mysterious allusions, which, however, need not betray his real suspicions. During the afternoon of Wednesday, 30th October, the Rangoon entered the Strait of Malacca, which separates the peninsula of that name from Sumatra. The mountainous and craggy islets intercepted the beauties of this noble island from the view of the travellers. The Rangoon weighed anchor at Singapore the next day at four a.m., to receive coal, having gained half a day on the prescribed time of her arrival. Phileas Fogg noted this gain in his journal, and then, accompanied by Aouda, who betrayed a desire for a walk on shore, disembarked. Fix, who suspected Mr. Fogg's every movement, followed them cautiously, without being himself perceived; while Passepartout, laughing in his sleeve at Fix's manoeuvres, went about his usual errands. The island of Singapore is not imposing in aspect, for there are no mountains; yet its appearance is not without attractions. It is a park checkered by pleasant highways and avenues. A handsome carriage, drawn by a sleek pair of New Holland horses, carried Phileas Fogg and Aouda into the midst of rows of palms with brilliant foliage, and of clove-trees, whereof the cloves form the heart of a half-open flower. Pepper plants replaced the prickly hedges of European fields; sago-bushes, large ferns with gorgeous branches, varied the aspect of this tropical clime; while nutmeg-trees in full foliage filled the air with a penetrating perfume. Agile and grinning bands of monkeys skipped about in the trees, nor were tigers wanting in the jungles. After a drive of two hours through the country, Aouda and Mr. Fogg returned to the town, which is a vast collection of heavy-looking, irregular houses, surrounded by charming gardens rich in tropical fruits and plants; and at ten o'clock they re-embarked, closely followed by the detective, who had kept them constantly in sight. Passepartout, who had been purchasing several dozen mangoes--a fruit as large as good-sized apples, of a dark-brown colour outside and a bright red within, and whose white pulp, melting in the mouth, affords gourmands a delicious sensation--was waiting for them on deck. He was only too glad to offer some mangoes to Aouda, who thanked him very gracefully for them. At eleven o'clock the Rangoon rode out of Singapore harbour, and in a few hours the high mountains of Malacca, with their forests, inhabited by the most beautifully-furred tigers in the world, were lost to view. Singapore is distant some thirteen hundred miles from the island of Hong Kong, which is a little English colony near the Chinese coast. Phileas Fogg hoped to accomplish the journey in six days, so as to be in time for the steamer which would leave on the 6th of November for Yokohama, the principal Japanese port. The Rangoon had a large quota of passengers, many of whom disembarked at Singapore, among them a number of Indians, Ceylonese, Chinamen, Malays, and Portuguese, mostly second-class travellers. The weather, which had hitherto been fine, changed with the last quarter of the moon. The sea rolled heavily, and the wind at intervals rose almost to a storm, but happily blew from the south-west, and thus aided the steamer's progress. The captain as often as possible put up his sails, and under the double action of steam and sail the vessel made rapid progress along the coasts of Anam and Cochin China. Owing to the defective construction of the Rangoon, however, unusual precautions became necessary in unfavourable weather; but the loss of time which resulted from this cause, while it nearly drove Passepartout out of his senses, did not seem to affect his master in the least. Passepartout blamed the captain, the engineer, and the crew, and consigned all who were connected with the ship to the land where the pepper grows. Perhaps the thought of the gas, which was remorselessly burning at his expense in Saville Row, had something to do with his hot impatience. "You are in a great hurry, then," said Fix to him one day, "to reach Hong Kong?" "A very great hurry!" "Mr. Fogg, I suppose, is anxious to catch the steamer for Yokohama?" "Terribly anxious." "You believe in this journey around the world, then?" "Absolutely. Don't you, Mr. Fix?" "I? I don't believe a word of it." "You're a sly dog!" said Passepartout, winking at him. This expression rather disturbed Fix, without his knowing why. Had the Frenchman guessed his real purpose? He knew not what to think. But how could Passepartout have discovered that he was a detective? Yet, in speaking as he did, the man evidently meant more than he expressed. Passepartout went still further the next day; he could not hold his tongue. "Mr. Fix," said he, in a bantering tone, "shall we be so unfortunate as to lose you when we get to Hong Kong?" "Why," responded Fix, a little embarrassed, "I don't know; perhaps--" "Ah, if you would only go on with us! An agent of the Peninsular Company, you know, can't stop on the way! You were only going to Bombay, and here you are in China. America is not far off, and from America to Europe is only a step." Fix looked intently at his companion, whose countenance was as serene as possible, and laughed with him. But Passepartout persisted in chaffing him by asking him if he made much by his present occupation. "Yes, and no," returned Fix; "there is good and bad luck in such things. But you must understand that I don't travel at my own expense." "Oh, I am quite sure of that!" cried Passepartout, laughing heartily. Fix, fairly puzzled, descended to his cabin and gave himself up to his reflections. He was evidently suspected; somehow or other the Frenchman had found out that he was a detective. But had he told his master? What part was he playing in all this: was he an accomplice or not? Was the game, then, up? Fix spent several hours turning these things over in his mind, sometimes thinking that all was lost, then persuading himself that Fogg was ignorant of his presence, and then undecided what course it was best to take. Nevertheless, he preserved his coolness of mind, and at last resolved to deal plainly with Passepartout. If he did not find it practicable to arrest Fogg at Hong Kong, and if Fogg made preparations to leave that last foothold of English territory, he, Fix, would tell Passepartout all. Either the servant was the accomplice of his master, and in this case the master knew of his operations, and he should fail; or else the servant knew nothing about the robbery, and then his interest would be to abandon the robber. Such was the situation between Fix and Passepartout. Meanwhile Phileas Fogg moved about above them in the most majestic and unconscious indifference. He was passing methodically in his orbit around the world, regardless of the lesser stars which gravitated around him. Yet there was near by what the astronomers would call a disturbing star, which might have produced an agitation in this gentleman's heart. But no! the charms of Aouda failed to act, to Passepartout's great surprise; and the disturbances, if they existed, would have been more difficult to calculate than those of Uranus which led to the discovery of Neptune. It was every day an increasing wonder to Passepartout, who read in Aouda's eyes the depths of her gratitude to his master. Phileas Fogg, though brave and gallant, must be, he thought, quite heartless. As to the sentiment which this journey might have awakened in him, there was clearly no trace of such a thing; while poor Passepartout existed in perpetual reveries. One day he was leaning on the railing of the engine-room, and was observing the engine, when a sudden pitch of the steamer threw the screw out of the water. The steam came hissing out of the valves; and this made Passepartout indignant. "The valves are not sufficiently charged!" he exclaimed. "We are not going. Oh, these English! If this was an American craft, we should blow up, perhaps, but we should at all events go faster!" ----------CHAPTER 18--------- The weather was bad during the latter days of the voyage. The wind, obstinately remaining in the north-west, blew a gale, and retarded the steamer. The Rangoon rolled heavily and the passengers became impatient of the long, monstrous waves which the wind raised before their path. A sort of tempest arose on the 3rd of November, the squall knocking the vessel about with fury, and the waves running high. The Rangoon reefed all her sails, and even the rigging proved too much, whistling and shaking amid the squall. The steamer was forced to proceed slowly, and the captain estimated that she would reach Hong Kong twenty hours behind time, and more if the storm lasted. Phileas Fogg gazed at the tempestuous sea, which seemed to be struggling especially to delay him, with his habitual tranquillity. He never changed countenance for an instant, though a delay of twenty hours, by making him too late for the Yokohama boat, would almost inevitably cause the loss of the wager. But this man of nerve manifested neither impatience nor annoyance; it seemed as if the storm were a part of his programme, and had been foreseen. Aouda was amazed to find him as calm as he had been from the first time she saw him. Fix did not look at the state of things in the same light. The storm greatly pleased him. His satisfaction would have been complete had the Rangoon been forced to retreat before the violence of wind and waves. Each delay filled him with hope, for it became more and more probable that Fogg would be obliged to remain some days at Hong Kong; and now the heavens themselves became his allies, with the gusts and squalls. It mattered not that they made him sea-sick--he made no account of this inconvenience; and, whilst his body was writhing under their effects, his spirit bounded with hopeful exultation. Passepartout was enraged beyond expression by the unpropitious weather. Everything had gone so well till now! Earth and sea had seemed to be at his master's service; steamers and railways obeyed him; wind and steam united to speed his journey. Had the hour of adversity come? Passepartout was as much excited as if the twenty thousand pounds were to come from his own pocket. The storm exasperated him, the gale made him furious, and he longed to lash the obstinate sea into obedience. Poor fellow! Fix carefully concealed from him his own satisfaction, for, had he betrayed it, Passepartout could scarcely have restrained himself from personal violence. Passepartout remained on deck as long as the tempest lasted, being unable to remain quiet below, and taking it into his head to aid the progress of the ship by lending a hand with the crew. He overwhelmed the captain, officers, and sailors, who could not help laughing at his impatience, with all sorts of questions. He wanted to know exactly how long the storm was going to last; whereupon he was referred to the barometer, which seemed to have no intention of rising. Passepartout shook it, but with no perceptible effect; for neither shaking nor maledictions could prevail upon it to change its mind. On the 4th, however, the sea became more calm, and the storm lessened its violence; the wind veered southward, and was once more favourable. Passepartout cleared up with the weather. Some of the sails were unfurled, and the Rangoon resumed its most rapid speed. The time lost could not, however, be regained. Land was not signalled until five o'clock on the morning of the 6th; the steamer was due on the 5th. Phileas Fogg was twenty-four hours behind-hand, and the Yokohama steamer would, of course, be missed. The pilot went on board at six, and took his place on the bridge, to guide the Rangoon through the channels to the port of Hong Kong. Passepartout longed to ask him if the steamer had left for Yokohama; but he dared not, for he wished to preserve the spark of hope, which still remained till the last moment. He had confided his anxiety to Fix who--the sly rascal!--tried to console him by saying that Mr. Fogg would be in time if he took the next boat; but this only put Passepartout in a passion. Mr. Fogg, bolder than his servant, did not hesitate to approach the pilot, and tranquilly ask him if he knew when a steamer would leave Hong Kong for Yokohama. "At high tide to-morrow morning," answered the pilot. "Ah!" said Mr. Fogg, without betraying any astonishment. Passepartout, who heard what passed, would willingly have embraced the pilot, while Fix would have been glad to twist his neck. "What is the steamer's name?" asked Mr. Fogg. "The Carnatic." "Ought she not to have gone yesterday?" "Yes, sir; but they had to repair one of her boilers, and so her departure was postponed till to-morrow." "Thank you," returned Mr. Fogg, descending mathematically to the saloon. Passepartout clasped the pilot's hand and shook it heartily in his delight, exclaiming, "Pilot, you are the best of good fellows!" The pilot probably does not know to this day why his responses won him this enthusiastic greeting. He remounted the bridge, and guided the steamer through the flotilla of junks, tankas, and fishing boats which crowd the harbour of Hong Kong. At one o'clock the Rangoon was at the quay, and the passengers were going ashore. Chance had strangely favoured Phileas Fogg, for had not the Carnatic been forced to lie over for repairing her boilers, she would have left on the 6th of November, and the passengers for Japan would have been obliged to await for a week the sailing of the next steamer. Mr. Fogg was, it is true, twenty-four hours behind his time; but this could not seriously imperil the remainder of his tour. The steamer which crossed the Pacific from Yokohama to San Francisco made a direct connection with that from Hong Kong, and it could not sail until the latter reached Yokohama; and if Mr. Fogg was twenty-four hours late on reaching Yokohama, this time would no doubt be easily regained in the voyage of twenty-two days across the Pacific. He found himself, then, about twenty-four hours behind-hand, thirty-five days after leaving London. The Carnatic was announced to leave Hong Kong at five the next morning. Mr. Fogg had sixteen hours in which to attend to his business there, which was to deposit Aouda safely with her wealthy relative. On landing, he conducted her to a palanquin, in which they repaired to the Club Hotel. A room was engaged for the young woman, and Mr. Fogg, after seeing that she wanted for nothing, set out in search of her cousin Jeejeeh. He instructed Passepartout to remain at the hotel until his return, that Aouda might not be left entirely alone. Mr. Fogg repaired to the Exchange, where, he did not doubt, every one would know so wealthy and considerable a personage as the Parsee merchant. Meeting a broker, he made the inquiry, to learn that Jeejeeh had left China two years before, and, retiring from business with an immense fortune, had taken up his residence in Europe--in Holland the broker thought, with the merchants of which country he had principally traded. Phileas Fogg returned to the hotel, begged a moment's conversation with Aouda, and without more ado, apprised her that Jeejeeh was no longer at Hong Kong, but probably in Holland. Aouda at first said nothing. She passed her hand across her forehead, and reflected a few moments. Then, in her sweet, soft voice, she said: "What ought I to do, Mr. Fogg?" "It is very simple," responded the gentleman. "Go on to Europe." "But I cannot intrude--" "You do not intrude, nor do you in the least embarrass my project. Passepartout!" "Monsieur." "Go to the Carnatic, and engage three cabins." Passepartout, delighted that the young woman, who was very gracious to him, was going to continue the journey with them, went off at a brisk gait to obey his master's order.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 20 using the context provided.

chapter 19|chapter 20

"In which Fix comes face to face with Phileas Fogg" Mr. Fogg conducts Aouda around Hong Kong to make purchases for her for the long journey. He tells her it is part of his plan when she says she doesn't want to be any trouble. They return to the hotel for the night, not knowing the steamer Carnatic is leaving that evening. Fogg is surprised when Passepartout does not show up either that evening or the next morning when they have to leave. They go to the quay and learn that the Carnatic has already sailed. Fogg, however, takes the disappearance of his servant and the ship with his usual calm, calling it "an accident" . Just then a strange man approaches Fogg and asks if he was a passenger on the Rangoon. Fogg says yes. The man is Fix who says he thought he would find Fogg's servant with him. Aouda anxiously asks if Fix knows where he is, and he says no; he must wait for another steamer because the Carnatic left early, and no other steamer will leave for a week. Fix is happy that Fogg will be detained now. Fogg takes Aouda's arm and says there are other vessels. He wanders around the docks looking for a boat to charter to Yokohama. He finds a boat, the Tankadere, but the sailor, John Bunsby, says he can't go as far as Japan. Fogg offers him a hundred pounds per day, plus two hundred if they get to Yokohama on time. Fogg asks Aouda if she would be afraid, and she says no. The pilot says he cannot go directly to Yokohama, but he could go to Nagasaki or Shanghai, and the San Francisco steamer starts from Shanghai anyway. It leaves Shanghai four days hence, and if the sea is calm they will get there in time. Fogg goes to the Hong Kong police station and leaves a description of Passepartout and some money to search for him. He does the same at the French consulate. John Bunsby and four seamen man the Tankadere, which is like a racing yacht. Fogg offers to take Fix with him so he can also reach his destination. Fix feels shame that he has to take Fogg's kindness and worries that Passepartout will show up to denounce him. He does not and the Tankadere leaves port.

----------CHAPTER 19--------- Hong Kong is an island which came into the possession of the English by the Treaty of Nankin, after the war of 1842; and the colonising genius of the English has created upon it an important city and an excellent port. The island is situated at the mouth of the Canton River, and is separated by about sixty miles from the Portuguese town of Macao, on the opposite coast. Hong Kong has beaten Macao in the struggle for the Chinese trade, and now the greater part of the transportation of Chinese goods finds its depot at the former place. Docks, hospitals, wharves, a Gothic cathedral, a government house, macadamised streets, give to Hong Kong the appearance of a town in Kent or Surrey transferred by some strange magic to the antipodes. Passepartout wandered, with his hands in his pockets, towards the Victoria port, gazing as he went at the curious palanquins and other modes of conveyance, and the groups of Chinese, Japanese, and Europeans who passed to and fro in the streets. Hong Kong seemed to him not unlike Bombay, Calcutta, and Singapore, since, like them, it betrayed everywhere the evidence of English supremacy. At the Victoria port he found a confused mass of ships of all nations: English, French, American, and Dutch, men-of-war and trading vessels, Japanese and Chinese junks, sempas, tankas, and flower-boats, which formed so many floating parterres. Passepartout noticed in the crowd a number of the natives who seemed very old and were dressed in yellow. On going into a barber's to get shaved he learned that these ancient men were all at least eighty years old, at which age they are permitted to wear yellow, which is the Imperial colour. Passepartout, without exactly knowing why, thought this very funny. On reaching the quay where they were to embark on the Carnatic, he was not astonished to find Fix walking up and down. The detective seemed very much disturbed and disappointed. "This is bad," muttered Passepartout, "for the gentlemen of the Reform Club!" He accosted Fix with a merry smile, as if he had not perceived that gentleman's chagrin. The detective had, indeed, good reasons to inveigh against the bad luck which pursued him. The warrant had not come! It was certainly on the way, but as certainly it could not now reach Hong Kong for several days; and, this being the last English territory on Mr. Fogg's route, the robber would escape, unless he could manage to detain him. "Well, Monsieur Fix," said Passepartout, "have you decided to go with us so far as America?" "Yes," returned Fix, through his set teeth. "Good!" exclaimed Passepartout, laughing heartily. "I knew you could not persuade yourself to separate from us. Come and engage your berth." They entered the steamer office and secured cabins for four persons. The clerk, as he gave them the tickets, informed them that, the repairs on the Carnatic having been completed, the steamer would leave that very evening, and not next morning, as had been announced. "That will suit my master all the better," said Passepartout. "I will go and let him know." Fix now decided to make a bold move; he resolved to tell Passepartout all. It seemed to be the only possible means of keeping Phileas Fogg several days longer at Hong Kong. He accordingly invited his companion into a tavern which caught his eye on the quay. On entering, they found themselves in a large room handsomely decorated, at the end of which was a large camp-bed furnished with cushions. Several persons lay upon this bed in a deep sleep. At the small tables which were arranged about the room some thirty customers were drinking English beer, porter, gin, and brandy; smoking, the while, long red clay pipes stuffed with little balls of opium mingled with essence of rose. From time to time one of the smokers, overcome with the narcotic, would slip under the table, whereupon the waiters, taking him by the head and feet, carried and laid him upon the bed. The bed already supported twenty of these stupefied sots. Fix and Passepartout saw that they were in a smoking-house haunted by those wretched, cadaverous, idiotic creatures to whom the English merchants sell every year the miserable drug called opium, to the amount of one million four hundred thousand pounds--thousands devoted to one of the most despicable vices which afflict humanity! The Chinese government has in vain attempted to deal with the evil by stringent laws. It passed gradually from the rich, to whom it was at first exclusively reserved, to the lower classes, and then its ravages could not be arrested. Opium is smoked everywhere, at all times, by men and women, in the Celestial Empire; and, once accustomed to it, the victims cannot dispense with it, except by suffering horrible bodily contortions and agonies. A great smoker can smoke as many as eight pipes a day; but he dies in five years. It was in one of these dens that Fix and Passepartout, in search of a friendly glass, found themselves. Passepartout had no money, but willingly accepted Fix's invitation in the hope of returning the obligation at some future time. They ordered two bottles of port, to which the Frenchman did ample justice, whilst Fix observed him with close attention. They chatted about the journey, and Passepartout was especially merry at the idea that Fix was going to continue it with them. When the bottles were empty, however, he rose to go and tell his master of the change in the time of the sailing of the Carnatic. Fix caught him by the arm, and said, "Wait a moment." "What for, Mr. Fix?" "I want to have a serious talk with you." "A serious talk!" cried Passepartout, drinking up the little wine that was left in the bottom of his glass. "Well, we'll talk about it to-morrow; I haven't time now." "Stay! What I have to say concerns your master." Passepartout, at this, looked attentively at his companion. Fix's face seemed to have a singular expression. He resumed his seat. "What is it that you have to say?" Fix placed his hand upon Passepartout's arm, and, lowering his voice, said, "You have guessed who I am?" "Parbleu!" said Passepartout, smiling. "Then I'm going to tell you everything--" "Now that I know everything, my friend! Ah! that's very good. But go on, go on. First, though, let me tell you that those gentlemen have put themselves to a useless expense." "Useless!" said Fix. "You speak confidently. It's clear that you don't know how large the sum is." "Of course I do," returned Passepartout. "Twenty thousand pounds." "Fifty-five thousand!" answered Fix, pressing his companion's hand. "What!" cried the Frenchman. "Has Monsieur Fogg dared--fifty-five thousand pounds! Well, there's all the more reason for not losing an instant," he continued, getting up hastily. Fix pushed Passepartout back in his chair, and resumed: "Fifty-five thousand pounds; and if I succeed, I get two thousand pounds. If you'll help me, I'll let you have five hundred of them." "Help you?" cried Passepartout, whose eyes were standing wide open. "Yes; help me keep Mr. Fogg here for two or three days." "Why, what are you saying? Those gentlemen are not satisfied with following my master and suspecting his honour, but they must try to put obstacles in his way! I blush for them!" "What do you mean?" "I mean that it is a piece of shameful trickery. They might as well waylay Mr. Fogg and put his money in their pockets!" "That's just what we count on doing." "It's a conspiracy, then," cried Passepartout, who became more and more excited as the liquor mounted in his head, for he drank without perceiving it. "A real conspiracy! And gentlemen, too. Bah!" Fix began to be puzzled. "Members of the Reform Club!" continued Passepartout. "You must know, Monsieur Fix, that my master is an honest man, and that, when he makes a wager, he tries to win it fairly!" "But who do you think I am?" asked Fix, looking at him intently. "Parbleu! An agent of the members of the Reform Club, sent out here to interrupt my master's journey. But, though I found you out some time ago, I've taken good care to say nothing about it to Mr. Fogg." "He knows nothing, then?" "Nothing," replied Passepartout, again emptying his glass. The detective passed his hand across his forehead, hesitating before he spoke again. What should he do? Passepartout's mistake seemed sincere, but it made his design more difficult. It was evident that the servant was not the master's accomplice, as Fix had been inclined to suspect. "Well," said the detective to himself, "as he is not an accomplice, he will help me." He had no time to lose: Fogg must be detained at Hong Kong, so he resolved to make a clean breast of it. "Listen to me," said Fix abruptly. "I am not, as you think, an agent of the members of the Reform Club--" "Bah!" retorted Passepartout, with an air of raillery. "I am a police detective, sent out here by the London office." "You, a detective?" "I will prove it. Here is my commission." Passepartout was speechless with astonishment when Fix displayed this document, the genuineness of which could not be doubted. "Mr. Fogg's wager," resumed Fix, "is only a pretext, of which you and the gentlemen of the Reform are dupes. He had a motive for securing your innocent complicity." "But why?" "Listen. On the 28th of last September a robbery of fifty-five thousand pounds was committed at the Bank of England by a person whose description was fortunately secured. Here is his description; it answers exactly to that of Mr. Phileas Fogg." "What nonsense!" cried Passepartout, striking the table with his fist. "My master is the most honourable of men!" "How can you tell? You know scarcely anything about him. You went into his service the day he came away; and he came away on a foolish pretext, without trunks, and carrying a large amount in banknotes. And yet you are bold enough to assert that he is an honest man!" "Yes, yes," repeated the poor fellow, mechanically. "Would you like to be arrested as his accomplice?" Passepartout, overcome by what he had heard, held his head between his hands, and did not dare to look at the detective. Phileas Fogg, the saviour of Aouda, that brave and generous man, a robber! And yet how many presumptions there were against him! Passepartout essayed to reject the suspicions which forced themselves upon his mind; he did not wish to believe that his master was guilty. "Well, what do you want of me?" said he, at last, with an effort. "See here," replied Fix; "I have tracked Mr. Fogg to this place, but as yet I have failed to receive the warrant of arrest for which I sent to London. You must help me to keep him here in Hong Kong--" "I! But I--" "I will share with you the two thousand pounds reward offered by the Bank of England." "Never!" replied Passepartout, who tried to rise, but fell back, exhausted in mind and body. "Mr. Fix," he stammered, "even should what you say be true--if my master is really the robber you are seeking for--which I deny--I have been, am, in his service; I have seen his generosity and goodness; and I will never betray him--not for all the gold in the world. I come from a village where they don't eat that kind of bread!" "You refuse?" "I refuse." "Consider that I've said nothing," said Fix; "and let us drink." "Yes; let us drink!" Passepartout felt himself yielding more and more to the effects of the liquor. Fix, seeing that he must, at all hazards, be separated from his master, wished to entirely overcome him. Some pipes full of opium lay upon the table. Fix slipped one into Passepartout's hand. He took it, put it between his lips, lit it, drew several puffs, and his head, becoming heavy under the influence of the narcotic, fell upon the table. "At last!" said Fix, seeing Passepartout unconscious. "Mr. Fogg will not be informed of the Carnatic's departure; and, if he is, he will have to go without this cursed Frenchman!" And, after paying his bill, Fix left the tavern. ----------CHAPTER 20--------- While these events were passing at the opium-house, Mr. Fogg, unconscious of the danger he was in of losing the steamer, was quietly escorting Aouda about the streets of the English quarter, making the necessary purchases for the long voyage before them. It was all very well for an Englishman like Mr. Fogg to make the tour of the world with a carpet-bag; a lady could not be expected to travel comfortably under such conditions. He acquitted his task with characteristic serenity, and invariably replied to the remonstrances of his fair companion, who was confused by his patience and generosity: "It is in the interest of my journey--a part of my programme." The purchases made, they returned to the hotel, where they dined at a sumptuously served table-d'hote; after which Aouda, shaking hands with her protector after the English fashion, retired to her room for rest. Mr. Fogg absorbed himself throughout the evening in the perusal of The Times and Illustrated London News. Had he been capable of being astonished at anything, it would have been not to see his servant return at bedtime. But, knowing that the steamer was not to leave for Yokohama until the next morning, he did not disturb himself about the matter. When Passepartout did not appear the next morning to answer his master's bell, Mr. Fogg, not betraying the least vexation, contented himself with taking his carpet-bag, calling Aouda, and sending for a palanquin. It was then eight o'clock; at half-past nine, it being then high tide, the Carnatic would leave the harbour. Mr. Fogg and Aouda got into the palanquin, their luggage being brought after on a wheelbarrow, and half an hour later stepped upon the quay whence they were to embark. Mr. Fogg then learned that the Carnatic had sailed the evening before. He had expected to find not only the steamer, but his domestic, and was forced to give up both; but no sign of disappointment appeared on his face, and he merely remarked to Aouda, "It is an accident, madam; nothing more." At this moment a man who had been observing him attentively approached. It was Fix, who, bowing, addressed Mr. Fogg: "Were you not, like me, sir, a passenger by the Rangoon, which arrived yesterday?" "I was, sir," replied Mr. Fogg coldly. "But I have not the honour--" "Pardon me; I thought I should find your servant here." "Do you know where he is, sir?" asked Aouda anxiously. "What!" responded Fix, feigning surprise. "Is he not with you?" "No," said Aouda. "He has not made his appearance since yesterday. Could he have gone on board the Carnatic without us?" "Without you, madam?" answered the detective. "Excuse me, did you intend to sail in the Carnatic?" "Yes, sir." "So did I, madam, and I am excessively disappointed. The Carnatic, its repairs being completed, left Hong Kong twelve hours before the stated time, without any notice being given; and we must now wait a week for another steamer." As he said "a week" Fix felt his heart leap for joy. Fogg detained at Hong Kong for a week! There would be time for the warrant to arrive, and fortune at last favoured the representative of the law. His horror may be imagined when he heard Mr. Fogg say, in his placid voice, "But there are other vessels besides the Carnatic, it seems to me, in the harbour of Hong Kong." And, offering his arm to Aouda, he directed his steps toward the docks in search of some craft about to start. Fix, stupefied, followed; it seemed as if he were attached to Mr. Fogg by an invisible thread. Chance, however, appeared really to have abandoned the man it had hitherto served so well. For three hours Phileas Fogg wandered about the docks, with the determination, if necessary, to charter a vessel to carry him to Yokohama; but he could only find vessels which were loading or unloading, and which could not therefore set sail. Fix began to hope again. But Mr. Fogg, far from being discouraged, was continuing his search, resolved not to stop if he had to resort to Macao, when he was accosted by a sailor on one of the wharves. "Is your honour looking for a boat?" "Have you a boat ready to sail?" "Yes, your honour; a pilot-boat--No. 43--the best in the harbour." "Does she go fast?" "Between eight and nine knots the hour. Will you look at her?" "Yes." "Your honour will be satisfied with her. Is it for a sea excursion?" "No; for a voyage." "A voyage?" "Yes, will you agree to take me to Yokohama?" The sailor leaned on the railing, opened his eyes wide, and said, "Is your honour joking?" "No. I have missed the Carnatic, and I must get to Yokohama by the 14th at the latest, to take the boat for San Francisco." "I am sorry," said the sailor; "but it is impossible." "I offer you a hundred pounds per day, and an additional reward of two hundred pounds if I reach Yokohama in time." "Are you in earnest?" "Very much so." The pilot walked away a little distance, and gazed out to sea, evidently struggling between the anxiety to gain a large sum and the fear of venturing so far. Fix was in mortal suspense. Mr. Fogg turned to Aouda and asked her, "You would not be afraid, would you, madam?" "Not with you, Mr. Fogg," was her answer. The pilot now returned, shuffling his hat in his hands. "Well, pilot?" said Mr. Fogg. "Well, your honour," replied he, "I could not risk myself, my men, or my little boat of scarcely twenty tons on so long a voyage at this time of year. Besides, we could not reach Yokohama in time, for it is sixteen hundred and sixty miles from Hong Kong." "Only sixteen hundred," said Mr. Fogg. "It's the same thing." Fix breathed more freely. "But," added the pilot, "it might be arranged another way." Fix ceased to breathe at all. "How?" asked Mr. Fogg. "By going to Nagasaki, at the extreme south of Japan, or even to Shanghai, which is only eight hundred miles from here. In going to Shanghai we should not be forced to sail wide of the Chinese coast, which would be a great advantage, as the currents run northward, and would aid us." "Pilot," said Mr. Fogg, "I must take the American steamer at Yokohama, and not at Shanghai or Nagasaki." "Why not?" returned the pilot. "The San Francisco steamer does not start from Yokohama. It puts in at Yokohama and Nagasaki, but it starts from Shanghai." "You are sure of that?" "Perfectly." "And when does the boat leave Shanghai?" "On the 11th, at seven in the evening. We have, therefore, four days before us, that is ninety-six hours; and in that time, if we had good luck and a south-west wind, and the sea was calm, we could make those eight hundred miles to Shanghai." "And you could go--" "In an hour; as soon as provisions could be got aboard and the sails put up." "It is a bargain. Are you the master of the boat?" "Yes; John Bunsby, master of the Tankadere." "Would you like some earnest-money?" "If it would not put your honour out--" "Here are two hundred pounds on account sir," added Phileas Fogg, turning to Fix, "if you would like to take advantage--" "Thanks, sir; I was about to ask the favour." "Very well. In half an hour we shall go on board." "But poor Passepartout?" urged Aouda, who was much disturbed by the servant's disappearance. "I shall do all I can to find him," replied Phileas Fogg. While Fix, in a feverish, nervous state, repaired to the pilot-boat, the others directed their course to the police-station at Hong Kong. Phileas Fogg there gave Passepartout's description, and left a sum of money to be spent in the search for him. The same formalities having been gone through at the French consulate, and the palanquin having stopped at the hotel for the luggage, which had been sent back there, they returned to the wharf. It was now three o'clock; and pilot-boat No. 43, with its crew on board, and its provisions stored away, was ready for departure. The Tankadere was a neat little craft of twenty tons, as gracefully built as if she were a racing yacht. Her shining copper sheathing, her galvanised iron-work, her deck, white as ivory, betrayed the pride taken by John Bunsby in making her presentable. Her two masts leaned a trifle backward; she carried brigantine, foresail, storm-jib, and standing-jib, and was well rigged for running before the wind; and she seemed capable of brisk speed, which, indeed, she had already proved by gaining several prizes in pilot-boat races. The crew of the Tankadere was composed of John Bunsby, the master, and four hardy mariners, who were familiar with the Chinese seas. John Bunsby, himself, a man of forty-five or thereabouts, vigorous, sunburnt, with a sprightly expression of the eye, and energetic and self-reliant countenance, would have inspired confidence in the most timid. Phileas Fogg and Aouda went on board, where they found Fix already installed. Below deck was a square cabin, of which the walls bulged out in the form of cots, above a circular divan; in the centre was a table provided with a swinging lamp. The accommodation was confined, but neat. "I am sorry to have nothing better to offer you," said Mr. Fogg to Fix, who bowed without responding. The detective had a feeling akin to humiliation in profiting by the kindness of Mr. Fogg. "It's certain," thought he, "though rascal as he is, he is a polite one!" The sails and the English flag were hoisted at ten minutes past three. Mr. Fogg and Aouda, who were seated on deck, cast a last glance at the quay, in the hope of espying Passepartout. Fix was not without his fears lest chance should direct the steps of the unfortunate servant, whom he had so badly treated, in this direction; in which case an explanation the reverse of satisfactory to the detective must have ensued. But the Frenchman did not appear, and, without doubt, was still lying under the stupefying influence of the opium. John Bunsby, master, at length gave the order to start, and the Tankadere, taking the wind under her brigantine, foresail, and standing-jib, bounded briskly forward over the waves.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 22 based on the provided context.

chapter 21|chapter 22

"In which Passepartout finds out that, even at the antipodes, it is convenient to have some money in one's pocket" The Carnatic left Hong Kong for Japan with Passepartout aboard. He came to in his cabin after staggering to the boat in his drug stupor and collapsing. The next day he remembers the plot of Fix to drug him and follow his master. He considers once more whether to tell Fogg about Fix but thinks perhaps he will wait till they arrive in England and then have a laugh about it. When he goes to find his master on board, he is surprised that neither he nor Aouda are there. Finally he remembers that he did not deliver the message to Fogg that the departure time had changed. He berates himself for ruining his master and vows he will get Fix. Realizing he has no money when he gets to Japan, he eats enough for three people on the journey. Passepartout wanders around in Yokohama seeing all races of people, finally ending up in the Japanese quarter called Benten. Yokohama is a main traffic route in the Pacific, and surely he can find some help there while he looks for Fogg. He is hungry, but there is no food in sight for him, as he spends the night near the harbor.

----------CHAPTER 21--------- This voyage of eight hundred miles was a perilous venture on a craft of twenty tons, and at that season of the year. The Chinese seas are usually boisterous, subject to terrible gales of wind, and especially during the equinoxes; and it was now early November. It would clearly have been to the master's advantage to carry his passengers to Yokohama, since he was paid a certain sum per day; but he would have been rash to attempt such a voyage, and it was imprudent even to attempt to reach Shanghai. But John Bunsby believed in the Tankadere, which rode on the waves like a seagull; and perhaps he was not wrong. Late in the day they passed through the capricious channels of Hong Kong, and the Tankadere, impelled by favourable winds, conducted herself admirably. "I do not need, pilot," said Phileas Fogg, when they got into the open sea, "to advise you to use all possible speed." "Trust me, your honour. We are carrying all the sail the wind will let us. The poles would add nothing, and are only used when we are going into port." "It's your trade, not mine, pilot, and I confide in you." Phileas Fogg, with body erect and legs wide apart, standing like a sailor, gazed without staggering at the swelling waters. The young woman, who was seated aft, was profoundly affected as she looked out upon the ocean, darkening now with the twilight, on which she had ventured in so frail a vessel. Above her head rustled the white sails, which seemed like great white wings. The boat, carried forward by the wind, seemed to be flying in the air. Night came. The moon was entering her first quarter, and her insufficient light would soon die out in the mist on the horizon. Clouds were rising from the east, and already overcast a part of the heavens. The pilot had hung out his lights, which was very necessary in these seas crowded with vessels bound landward; for collisions are not uncommon occurrences, and, at the speed she was going, the least shock would shatter the gallant little craft. Fix, seated in the bow, gave himself up to meditation. He kept apart from his fellow-travellers, knowing Mr. Fogg's taciturn tastes; besides, he did not quite like to talk to the man whose favours he had accepted. He was thinking, too, of the future. It seemed certain that Fogg would not stop at Yokohama, but would at once take the boat for San Francisco; and the vast extent of America would ensure him impunity and safety. Fogg's plan appeared to him the simplest in the world. Instead of sailing directly from England to the United States, like a common villain, he had traversed three quarters of the globe, so as to gain the American continent more surely; and there, after throwing the police off his track, he would quietly enjoy himself with the fortune stolen from the bank. But, once in the United States, what should he, Fix, do? Should he abandon this man? No, a hundred times no! Until he had secured his extradition, he would not lose sight of him for an hour. It was his duty, and he would fulfil it to the end. At all events, there was one thing to be thankful for; Passepartout was not with his master; and it was above all important, after the confidences Fix had imparted to him, that the servant should never have speech with his master. Phileas Fogg was also thinking of Passepartout, who had so strangely disappeared. Looking at the matter from every point of view, it did not seem to him impossible that, by some mistake, the man might have embarked on the Carnatic at the last moment; and this was also Aouda's opinion, who regretted very much the loss of the worthy fellow to whom she owed so much. They might then find him at Yokohama; for, if the Carnatic was carrying him thither, it would be easy to ascertain if he had been on board. A brisk breeze arose about ten o'clock; but, though it might have been prudent to take in a reef, the pilot, after carefully examining the heavens, let the craft remain rigged as before. The Tankadere bore sail admirably, as she drew a great deal of water, and everything was prepared for high speed in case of a gale. Mr. Fogg and Aouda descended into the cabin at midnight, having been already preceded by Fix, who had lain down on one of the cots. The pilot and crew remained on deck all night. At sunrise the next day, which was 8th November, the boat had made more than one hundred miles. The log indicated a mean speed of between eight and nine miles. The Tankadere still carried all sail, and was accomplishing her greatest capacity of speed. If the wind held as it was, the chances would be in her favour. During the day she kept along the coast, where the currents were favourable; the coast, irregular in profile, and visible sometimes across the clearings, was at most five miles distant. The sea was less boisterous, since the wind came off land--a fortunate circumstance for the boat, which would suffer, owing to its small tonnage, by a heavy surge on the sea. The breeze subsided a little towards noon, and set in from the south-west. The pilot put up his poles, but took them down again within two hours, as the wind freshened up anew. Mr. Fogg and Aouda, happily unaffected by the roughness of the sea, ate with a good appetite, Fix being invited to share their repast, which he accepted with secret chagrin. To travel at this man's expense and live upon his provisions was not palatable to him. Still, he was obliged to eat, and so he ate. When the meal was over, he took Mr. Fogg apart, and said, "sir"--this "sir" scorched his lips, and he had to control himself to avoid collaring this "gentleman"--"sir, you have been very kind to give me a passage on this boat. But, though my means will not admit of my expending them as freely as you, I must ask to pay my share--" "Let us not speak of that, sir," replied Mr. Fogg. "But, if I insist--" "No, sir," repeated Mr. Fogg, in a tone which did not admit of a reply. "This enters into my general expenses." Fix, as he bowed, had a stifled feeling, and, going forward, where he ensconced himself, did not open his mouth for the rest of the day. Meanwhile they were progressing famously, and John Bunsby was in high hope. He several times assured Mr. Fogg that they would reach Shanghai in time; to which that gentleman responded that he counted upon it. The crew set to work in good earnest, inspired by the reward to be gained. There was not a sheet which was not tightened, not a sail which was not vigorously hoisted; not a lurch could be charged to the man at the helm. They worked as desperately as if they were contesting in a Royal yacht regatta. By evening, the log showed that two hundred and twenty miles had been accomplished from Hong Kong, and Mr. Fogg might hope that he would be able to reach Yokohama without recording any delay in his journal; in which case, the many misadventures which had overtaken him since he left London would not seriously affect his journey. The Tankadere entered the Straits of Fo-Kien, which separate the island of Formosa from the Chinese coast, in the small hours of the night, and crossed the Tropic of Cancer. The sea was very rough in the straits, full of eddies formed by the counter-currents, and the chopping waves broke her course, whilst it became very difficult to stand on deck. At daybreak the wind began to blow hard again, and the heavens seemed to predict a gale. The barometer announced a speedy change, the mercury rising and falling capriciously; the sea also, in the south-east, raised long surges which indicated a tempest. The sun had set the evening before in a red mist, in the midst of the phosphorescent scintillations of the ocean. John Bunsby long examined the threatening aspect of the heavens, muttering indistinctly between his teeth. At last he said in a low voice to Mr. Fogg, "Shall I speak out to your honour?" "Of course." "Well, we are going to have a squall." "Is the wind north or south?" asked Mr. Fogg quietly. "South. Look! a typhoon is coming up." "Glad it's a typhoon from the south, for it will carry us forward." "Oh, if you take it that way," said John Bunsby, "I've nothing more to say." John Bunsby's suspicions were confirmed. At a less advanced season of the year the typhoon, according to a famous meteorologist, would have passed away like a luminous cascade of electric flame; but in the winter equinox it was to be feared that it would burst upon them with great violence. The pilot took his precautions in advance. He reefed all sail, the pole-masts were dispensed with; all hands went forward to the bows. A single triangular sail, of strong canvas, was hoisted as a storm-jib, so as to hold the wind from behind. Then they waited. John Bunsby had requested his passengers to go below; but this imprisonment in so narrow a space, with little air, and the boat bouncing in the gale, was far from pleasant. Neither Mr. Fogg, Fix, nor Aouda consented to leave the deck. The storm of rain and wind descended upon them towards eight o'clock. With but its bit of sail, the Tankadere was lifted like a feather by a wind, an idea of whose violence can scarcely be given. To compare her speed to four times that of a locomotive going on full steam would be below the truth. The boat scudded thus northward during the whole day, borne on by monstrous waves, preserving always, fortunately, a speed equal to theirs. Twenty times she seemed almost to be submerged by these mountains of water which rose behind her; but the adroit management of the pilot saved her. The passengers were often bathed in spray, but they submitted to it philosophically. Fix cursed it, no doubt; but Aouda, with her eyes fastened upon her protector, whose coolness amazed her, showed herself worthy of him, and bravely weathered the storm. As for Phileas Fogg, it seemed just as if the typhoon were a part of his programme. Up to this time the Tankadere had always held her course to the north; but towards evening the wind, veering three quarters, bore down from the north-west. The boat, now lying in the trough of the waves, shook and rolled terribly; the sea struck her with fearful violence. At night the tempest increased in violence. John Bunsby saw the approach of darkness and the rising of the storm with dark misgivings. He thought awhile, and then asked his crew if it was not time to slacken speed. After a consultation he approached Mr. Fogg, and said, "I think, your honour, that we should do well to make for one of the ports on the coast." "I think so too." "Ah!" said the pilot. "But which one?" "I know of but one," returned Mr. Fogg tranquilly. "And that is--" "Shanghai." The pilot, at first, did not seem to comprehend; he could scarcely realise so much determination and tenacity. Then he cried, "Well--yes! Your honour is right. To Shanghai!" So the Tankadere kept steadily on her northward track. The night was really terrible; it would be a miracle if the craft did not founder. Twice it could have been all over with her if the crew had not been constantly on the watch. Aouda was exhausted, but did not utter a complaint. More than once Mr. Fogg rushed to protect her from the violence of the waves. Day reappeared. The tempest still raged with undiminished fury; but the wind now returned to the south-east. It was a favourable change, and the Tankadere again bounded forward on this mountainous sea, though the waves crossed each other, and imparted shocks and counter-shocks which would have crushed a craft less solidly built. From time to time the coast was visible through the broken mist, but no vessel was in sight. The Tankadere was alone upon the sea. There were some signs of a calm at noon, and these became more distinct as the sun descended toward the horizon. The tempest had been as brief as terrific. The passengers, thoroughly exhausted, could now eat a little, and take some repose. The night was comparatively quiet. Some of the sails were again hoisted, and the speed of the boat was very good. The next morning at dawn they espied the coast, and John Bunsby was able to assert that they were not one hundred miles from Shanghai. A hundred miles, and only one day to traverse them! That very evening Mr. Fogg was due at Shanghai, if he did not wish to miss the steamer to Yokohama. Had there been no storm, during which several hours were lost, they would be at this moment within thirty miles of their destination. The wind grew decidedly calmer, and happily the sea fell with it. All sails were now hoisted, and at noon the Tankadere was within forty-five miles of Shanghai. There remained yet six hours in which to accomplish that distance. All on board feared that it could not be done, and every one--Phileas Fogg, no doubt, excepted--felt his heart beat with impatience. The boat must keep up an average of nine miles an hour, and the wind was becoming calmer every moment! It was a capricious breeze, coming from the coast, and after it passed the sea became smooth. Still, the Tankadere was so light, and her fine sails caught the fickle zephyrs so well, that, with the aid of the currents John Bunsby found himself at six o'clock not more than ten miles from the mouth of Shanghai River. Shanghai itself is situated at least twelve miles up the stream. At seven they were still three miles from Shanghai. The pilot swore an angry oath; the reward of two hundred pounds was evidently on the point of escaping him. He looked at Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was perfectly tranquil; and yet his whole fortune was at this moment at stake. At this moment, also, a long black funnel, crowned with wreaths of smoke, appeared on the edge of the waters. It was the American steamer, leaving for Yokohama at the appointed time. "Confound her!" cried John Bunsby, pushing back the rudder with a desperate jerk. "Signal her!" said Phileas Fogg quietly. A small brass cannon stood on the forward deck of the Tankadere, for making signals in the fogs. It was loaded to the muzzle; but just as the pilot was about to apply a red-hot coal to the touchhole, Mr. Fogg said, "Hoist your flag!" The flag was run up at half-mast, and, this being the signal of distress, it was hoped that the American steamer, perceiving it, would change her course a little, so as to succour the pilot-boat. "Fire!" said Mr. Fogg. And the booming of the little cannon resounded in the air. ----------CHAPTER 22--------- The Carnatic, setting sail from Hong Kong at half-past six on the 7th of November, directed her course at full steam towards Japan. She carried a large cargo and a well-filled cabin of passengers. Two state-rooms in the rear were, however, unoccupied--those which had been engaged by Phileas Fogg. The next day a passenger with a half-stupefied eye, staggering gait, and disordered hair, was seen to emerge from the second cabin, and to totter to a seat on deck. It was Passepartout; and what had happened to him was as follows: Shortly after Fix left the opium den, two waiters had lifted the unconscious Passepartout, and had carried him to the bed reserved for the smokers. Three hours later, pursued even in his dreams by a fixed idea, the poor fellow awoke, and struggled against the stupefying influence of the narcotic. The thought of a duty unfulfilled shook off his torpor, and he hurried from the abode of drunkenness. Staggering and holding himself up by keeping against the walls, falling down and creeping up again, and irresistibly impelled by a kind of instinct, he kept crying out, "The Carnatic! the Carnatic!" The steamer lay puffing alongside the quay, on the point of starting. Passepartout had but few steps to go; and, rushing upon the plank, he crossed it, and fell unconscious on the deck, just as the Carnatic was moving off. Several sailors, who were evidently accustomed to this sort of scene, carried the poor Frenchman down into the second cabin, and Passepartout did not wake until they were one hundred and fifty miles away from China. Thus he found himself the next morning on the deck of the Carnatic, and eagerly inhaling the exhilarating sea-breeze. The pure air sobered him. He began to collect his sense, which he found a difficult task; but at last he recalled the events of the evening before, Fix's revelation, and the opium-house. "It is evident," said he to himself, "that I have been abominably drunk! What will Mr. Fogg say? At least I have not missed the steamer, which is the most important thing." Then, as Fix occurred to him: "As for that rascal, I hope we are well rid of him, and that he has not dared, as he proposed, to follow us on board the Carnatic. A detective on the track of Mr. Fogg, accused of robbing the Bank of England! Pshaw! Mr. Fogg is no more a robber than I am a murderer." Should he divulge Fix's real errand to his master? Would it do to tell the part the detective was playing? Would it not be better to wait until Mr. Fogg reached London again, and then impart to him that an agent of the metropolitan police had been following him round the world, and have a good laugh over it? No doubt; at least, it was worth considering. The first thing to do was to find Mr. Fogg, and apologise for his singular behaviour. Passepartout got up and proceeded, as well as he could with the rolling of the steamer, to the after-deck. He saw no one who resembled either his master or Aouda. "Good!" muttered he; "Aouda has not got up yet, and Mr. Fogg has probably found some partners at whist." He descended to the saloon. Mr. Fogg was not there. Passepartout had only, however, to ask the purser the number of his master's state-room. The purser replied that he did not know any passenger by the name of Fogg. "I beg your pardon," said Passepartout persistently. "He is a tall gentleman, quiet, and not very talkative, and has with him a young lady--" "There is no young lady on board," interrupted the purser. "Here is a list of the passengers; you may see for yourself." Passepartout scanned the list, but his master's name was not upon it. All at once an idea struck him. "Ah! am I on the Carnatic?" "Yes." "On the way to Yokohama?" "Certainly." Passepartout had for an instant feared that he was on the wrong boat; but, though he was really on the Carnatic, his master was not there. He fell thunderstruck on a seat. He saw it all now. He remembered that the time of sailing had been changed, that he should have informed his master of that fact, and that he had not done so. It was his fault, then, that Mr. Fogg and Aouda had missed the steamer. Yes, but it was still more the fault of the traitor who, in order to separate him from his master, and detain the latter at Hong Kong, had inveigled him into getting drunk! He now saw the detective's trick; and at this moment Mr. Fogg was certainly ruined, his bet was lost, and he himself perhaps arrested and imprisoned! At this thought Passepartout tore his hair. Ah, if Fix ever came within his reach, what a settling of accounts there would be! After his first depression, Passepartout became calmer, and began to study his situation. It was certainly not an enviable one. He found himself on the way to Japan, and what should he do when he got there? His pocket was empty; he had not a solitary shilling, not so much as a penny. His passage had fortunately been paid for in advance; and he had five or six days in which to decide upon his future course. He fell to at meals with an appetite, and ate for Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and himself. He helped himself as generously as if Japan were a desert, where nothing to eat was to be looked for. At dawn on the 13th the Carnatic entered the port of Yokohama. This is an important port of call in the Pacific, where all the mail-steamers, and those carrying travellers between North America, China, Japan, and the Oriental islands put in. It is situated in the bay of Yeddo, and at but a short distance from that second capital of the Japanese Empire, and the residence of the Tycoon, the civil Emperor, before the Mikado, the spiritual Emperor, absorbed his office in his own. The Carnatic anchored at the quay near the custom-house, in the midst of a crowd of ships bearing the flags of all nations. Passepartout went timidly ashore on this so curious territory of the Sons of the Sun. He had nothing better to do than, taking chance for his guide, to wander aimlessly through the streets of Yokohama. He found himself at first in a thoroughly European quarter, the houses having low fronts, and being adorned with verandas, beneath which he caught glimpses of neat peristyles. This quarter occupied, with its streets, squares, docks, and warehouses, all the space between the "promontory of the Treaty" and the river. Here, as at Hong Kong and Calcutta, were mixed crowds of all races, Americans and English, Chinamen and Dutchmen, mostly merchants ready to buy or sell anything. The Frenchman felt himself as much alone among them as if he had dropped down in the midst of Hottentots. He had, at least, one resource,--to call on the French and English consuls at Yokohama for assistance. But he shrank from telling the story of his adventures, intimately connected as it was with that of his master; and, before doing so, he determined to exhaust all other means of aid. As chance did not favour him in the European quarter, he penetrated that inhabited by the native Japanese, determined, if necessary, to push on to Yeddo. The Japanese quarter of Yokohama is called Benten, after the goddess of the sea, who is worshipped on the islands round about. There Passepartout beheld beautiful fir and cedar groves, sacred gates of a singular architecture, bridges half hid in the midst of bamboos and reeds, temples shaded by immense cedar-trees, holy retreats where were sheltered Buddhist priests and sectaries of Confucius, and interminable streets, where a perfect harvest of rose-tinted and red-cheeked children, who looked as if they had been cut out of Japanese screens, and who were playing in the midst of short-legged poodles and yellowish cats, might have been gathered. The streets were crowded with people. Priests were passing in processions, beating their dreary tambourines; police and custom-house officers with pointed hats encrusted with lac and carrying two sabres hung to their waists; soldiers, clad in blue cotton with white stripes, and bearing guns; the Mikado's guards, enveloped in silken doubles, hauberks and coats of mail; and numbers of military folk of all ranks--for the military profession is as much respected in Japan as it is despised in China--went hither and thither in groups and pairs. Passepartout saw, too, begging friars, long-robed pilgrims, and simple civilians, with their warped and jet-black hair, big heads, long busts, slender legs, short stature, and complexions varying from copper-colour to a dead white, but never yellow, like the Chinese, from whom the Japanese widely differ. He did not fail to observe the curious equipages--carriages and palanquins, barrows supplied with sails, and litters made of bamboo; nor the women--whom he thought not especially handsome--who took little steps with their little feet, whereon they wore canvas shoes, straw sandals, and clogs of worked wood, and who displayed tight-looking eyes, flat chests, teeth fashionably blackened, and gowns crossed with silken scarfs, tied in an enormous knot behind an ornament which the modern Parisian ladies seem to have borrowed from the dames of Japan. Passepartout wandered for several hours in the midst of this motley crowd, looking in at the windows of the rich and curious shops, the jewellery establishments glittering with quaint Japanese ornaments, the restaurants decked with streamers and banners, the tea-houses, where the odorous beverage was being drunk with saki, a liquor concocted from the fermentation of rice, and the comfortable smoking-houses, where they were puffing, not opium, which is almost unknown in Japan, but a very fine, stringy tobacco. He went on till he found himself in the fields, in the midst of vast rice plantations. There he saw dazzling camellias expanding themselves, with flowers which were giving forth their last colours and perfumes, not on bushes, but on trees, and within bamboo enclosures, cherry, plum, and apple trees, which the Japanese cultivate rather for their blossoms than their fruit, and which queerly-fashioned, grinning scarecrows protected from the sparrows, pigeons, ravens, and other voracious birds. On the branches of the cedars were perched large eagles; amid the foliage of the weeping willows were herons, solemnly standing on one leg; and on every hand were crows, ducks, hawks, wild birds, and a multitude of cranes, which the Japanese consider sacred, and which to their minds symbolise long life and prosperity. As he was strolling along, Passepartout espied some violets among the shrubs. "Good!" said he; "I'll have some supper." But, on smelling them, he found that they were odourless. "No chance there," thought he. The worthy fellow had certainly taken good care to eat as hearty a breakfast as possible before leaving the Carnatic; but, as he had been walking about all day, the demands of hunger were becoming importunate. He observed that the butchers stalls contained neither mutton, goat, nor pork; and, knowing also that it is a sacrilege to kill cattle, which are preserved solely for farming, he made up his mind that meat was far from plentiful in Yokohama--nor was he mistaken; and, in default of butcher's meat, he could have wished for a quarter of wild boar or deer, a partridge, or some quails, some game or fish, which, with rice, the Japanese eat almost exclusively. But he found it necessary to keep up a stout heart, and to postpone the meal he craved till the following morning. Night came, and Passepartout re-entered the native quarter, where he wandered through the streets, lit by vari-coloured lanterns, looking on at the dancers, who were executing skilful steps and boundings, and the astrologers who stood in the open air with their telescopes. Then he came to the harbour, which was lit up by the resin torches of the fishermen, who were fishing from their boats. The streets at last became quiet, and the patrol, the officers of which, in their splendid costumes, and surrounded by their suites, Passepartout thought seemed like ambassadors, succeeded the bustling crowd. Each time a company passed, Passepartout chuckled, and said to himself: "Good! another Japanese embassy departing for Europe!"

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 24, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 23|chapter 24

"During which Mr. Fogg and party cross the Pacific Ocean" We left Fogg and Aouda on the Tankadere firing a cannon and flying the flag half-mast as a signal to the American steamer as it leaves Shanghai. Thus, Fogg and Aouda are able to stop and board the steamer as it makes for Nagasaki and Yokohama on the way to San Francisco. When they get to Yokohama on November 14 they board the Carnatic, and find that Passepartout had been on it and is now in Yokohama. The San Francisco boat would leave that evening, so Fogg and Aouda lose no time in finding Passepartout. They try the French and English consulates first and then wander the streets, looking for their friend. "Chance" leads Fogg to the circus. He did not recognize Passepartout in his long nose, but the servant spied the master, and they are reunited. Aouda tells their story to Passepartout as they voyage on the steamer to America. Passepartout does not divulge anything about Mr. Fix. He feels it is not time to reveal the secret, so he blames himself for being drunk and having smoked opium at a tavern and thus was unable to tell them about the ship leaving. Fogg hears this excuse with coldness but does not reprimand his servant. He gives him money to buy new clothes. The American ship is called the General Grant, a large paddle-wheel steamer. She makes twelve miles an hour and can cross the ocean in twenty-one days. Fogg hopes to reach San Francisco by December 2, New York by the 11th, and London by the 20th, with time to spare till the deadline of the 21st. There is a full ship of English, Americans, and Chinese. Fogg is calm as usual, and Aouda is becoming quite attached to him. She becomes friends with Passepartout who sees the state of her heart. He praises his master to her and tells her the worst part of the journey is over. On the 23rd of November, Fogg is at the antipodes of London, in the Pacific, having spent 52 of his 80 days. He has only 28 days to get half way around the world. Yet he has finished two-thirds of the trip because of long necessary detours. The rest of the journey will be a straight one. No one yet knows Fix is on board. Fix had finally received the arrest warrant in Yokohama when it was too late. The irony is that the warrant came from Bombay on the Carnatic, the ship Fix would have been on had he not sabotaged Fogg from getting on it. Fix decides he will have to wait until London to use it, so he is forced into following Fogg to America first. When he sees Passepartout, he decides to hide in his cabin, but he runs into him on deck and Passepartout beats Fix up. Afterwards, Fix persuades Passepartout that he is on Fogg's side now. He admits to all the things he did to ruin the journey, but now he wants him to get to London on time and will help him. Passepartout believes him but warns him if he betrays them, he will beat him up again. The ship reaches San Francisco on December 3, and Fogg is happy. He has neither gained nor lost a day.

----------CHAPTER 23--------- The next morning poor, jaded, famished Passepartout said to himself that he must get something to eat at all hazards, and the sooner he did so the better. He might, indeed, sell his watch; but he would have starved first. Now or never he must use the strong, if not melodious voice which nature had bestowed upon him. He knew several French and English songs, and resolved to try them upon the Japanese, who must be lovers of music, since they were for ever pounding on their cymbals, tam-tams, and tambourines, and could not but appreciate European talent. It was, perhaps, rather early in the morning to get up a concert, and the audience prematurely aroused from their slumbers, might not possibly pay their entertainer with coin bearing the Mikado's features. Passepartout therefore decided to wait several hours; and, as he was sauntering along, it occurred to him that he would seem rather too well dressed for a wandering artist. The idea struck him to change his garments for clothes more in harmony with his project; by which he might also get a little money to satisfy the immediate cravings of hunger. The resolution taken, it remained to carry it out. It was only after a long search that Passepartout discovered a native dealer in old clothes, to whom he applied for an exchange. The man liked the European costume, and ere long Passepartout issued from his shop accoutred in an old Japanese coat, and a sort of one-sided turban, faded with long use. A few small pieces of silver, moreover, jingled in his pocket. "Good!" thought he. "I will imagine I am at the Carnival!" His first care, after being thus "Japanesed," was to enter a tea-house of modest appearance, and, upon half a bird and a little rice, to breakfast like a man for whom dinner was as yet a problem to be solved. "Now," thought he, when he had eaten heartily, "I mustn't lose my head. I can't sell this costume again for one still more Japanese. I must consider how to leave this country of the Sun, of which I shall not retain the most delightful of memories, as quickly as possible." It occurred to him to visit the steamers which were about to leave for America. He would offer himself as a cook or servant, in payment of his passage and meals. Once at San Francisco, he would find some means of going on. The difficulty was, how to traverse the four thousand seven hundred miles of the Pacific which lay between Japan and the New World. Passepartout was not the man to let an idea go begging, and directed his steps towards the docks. But, as he approached them, his project, which at first had seemed so simple, began to grow more and more formidable to his mind. What need would they have of a cook or servant on an American steamer, and what confidence would they put in him, dressed as he was? What references could he give? As he was reflecting in this wise, his eyes fell upon an immense placard which a sort of clown was carrying through the streets. This placard, which was in English, read as follows: ACROBATIC JAPANESE TROUPE, HONOURABLE WILLIAM BATULCAR, PROPRIETOR, LAST REPRESENTATIONS, PRIOR TO THEIR DEPARTURE TO THE UNITED STATES, OF THE LONG NOSES! LONG NOSES! UNDER THE DIRECT PATRONAGE OF THE GOD TINGOU! GREAT ATTRACTION! "The United States!" said Passepartout; "that's just what I want!" He followed the clown, and soon found himself once more in the Japanese quarter. A quarter of an hour later he stopped before a large cabin, adorned with several clusters of streamers, the exterior walls of which were designed to represent, in violent colours and without perspective, a company of jugglers. This was the Honourable William Batulcar's establishment. That gentleman was a sort of Barnum, the director of a troupe of mountebanks, jugglers, clowns, acrobats, equilibrists, and gymnasts, who, according to the placard, was giving his last performances before leaving the Empire of the Sun for the States of the Union. Passepartout entered and asked for Mr. Batulcar, who straightway appeared in person. "What do you want?" said he to Passepartout, whom he at first took for a native. "Would you like a servant, sir?" asked Passepartout. "A servant!" cried Mr. Batulcar, caressing the thick grey beard which hung from his chin. "I already have two who are obedient and faithful, have never left me, and serve me for their nourishment and here they are," added he, holding out his two robust arms, furrowed with veins as large as the strings of a bass-viol. "So I can be of no use to you?" "None." "The devil! I should so like to cross the Pacific with you!" "Ah!" said the Honourable Mr. Batulcar. "You are no more a Japanese than I am a monkey! Who are you dressed up in that way?" "A man dresses as he can." "That's true. You are a Frenchman, aren't you?" "Yes; a Parisian of Paris." "Then you ought to know how to make grimaces?" "Why," replied Passepartout, a little vexed that his nationality should cause this question, "we Frenchmen know how to make grimaces, it is true but not any better than the Americans do." "True. Well, if I can't take you as a servant, I can as a clown. You see, my friend, in France they exhibit foreign clowns, and in foreign parts French clowns." "Ah!" "You are pretty strong, eh?" "Especially after a good meal." "And you can sing?" "Yes," returned Passepartout, who had formerly been wont to sing in the streets. "But can you sing standing on your head, with a top spinning on your left foot, and a sabre balanced on your right?" "Humph! I think so," replied Passepartout, recalling the exercises of his younger days. "Well, that's enough," said the Honourable William Batulcar. The engagement was concluded there and then. Passepartout had at last found something to do. He was engaged to act in the celebrated Japanese troupe. It was not a very dignified position, but within a week he would be on his way to San Francisco. The performance, so noisily announced by the Honourable Mr. Batulcar, was to commence at three o'clock, and soon the deafening instruments of a Japanese orchestra resounded at the door. Passepartout, though he had not been able to study or rehearse a part, was designated to lend the aid of his sturdy shoulders in the great exhibition of the "human pyramid," executed by the Long Noses of the god Tingou. This "great attraction" was to close the performance. Before three o'clock the large shed was invaded by the spectators, comprising Europeans and natives, Chinese and Japanese, men, women and children, who precipitated themselves upon the narrow benches and into the boxes opposite the stage. The musicians took up a position inside, and were vigorously performing on their gongs, tam-tams, flutes, bones, tambourines, and immense drums. The performance was much like all acrobatic displays; but it must be confessed that the Japanese are the first equilibrists in the world. One, with a fan and some bits of paper, performed the graceful trick of the butterflies and the flowers; another traced in the air, with the odorous smoke of his pipe, a series of blue words, which composed a compliment to the audience; while a third juggled with some lighted candles, which he extinguished successively as they passed his lips, and relit again without interrupting for an instant his juggling. Another reproduced the most singular combinations with a spinning-top; in his hands the revolving tops seemed to be animated with a life of their own in their interminable whirling; they ran over pipe-stems, the edges of sabres, wires and even hairs stretched across the stage; they turned around on the edges of large glasses, crossed bamboo ladders, dispersed into all the corners, and produced strange musical effects by the combination of their various pitches of tone. The jugglers tossed them in the air, threw them like shuttlecocks with wooden battledores, and yet they kept on spinning; they put them into their pockets, and took them out still whirling as before. It is useless to describe the astonishing performances of the acrobats and gymnasts. The turning on ladders, poles, balls, barrels, &c., was executed with wonderful precision. But the principal attraction was the exhibition of the Long Noses, a show to which Europe is as yet a stranger. The Long Noses form a peculiar company, under the direct patronage of the god Tingou. Attired after the fashion of the Middle Ages, they bore upon their shoulders a splendid pair of wings; but what especially distinguished them was the long noses which were fastened to their faces, and the uses which they made of them. These noses were made of bamboo, and were five, six, and even ten feet long, some straight, others curved, some ribboned, and some having imitation warts upon them. It was upon these appendages, fixed tightly on their real noses, that they performed their gymnastic exercises. A dozen of these sectaries of Tingou lay flat upon their backs, while others, dressed to represent lightning-rods, came and frolicked on their noses, jumping from one to another, and performing the most skilful leapings and somersaults. As a last scene, a "human pyramid" had been announced, in which fifty Long Noses were to represent the Car of Juggernaut. But, instead of forming a pyramid by mounting each other's shoulders, the artists were to group themselves on top of the noses. It happened that the performer who had hitherto formed the base of the Car had quitted the troupe, and as, to fill this part, only strength and adroitness were necessary, Passepartout had been chosen to take his place. The poor fellow really felt sad when--melancholy reminiscence of his youth!--he donned his costume, adorned with vari-coloured wings, and fastened to his natural feature a false nose six feet long. But he cheered up when he thought that this nose was winning him something to eat. He went upon the stage, and took his place beside the rest who were to compose the base of the Car of Juggernaut. They all stretched themselves on the floor, their noses pointing to the ceiling. A second group of artists disposed themselves on these long appendages, then a third above these, then a fourth, until a human monument reaching to the very cornices of the theatre soon arose on top of the noses. This elicited loud applause, in the midst of which the orchestra was just striking up a deafening air, when the pyramid tottered, the balance was lost, one of the lower noses vanished from the pyramid, and the human monument was shattered like a castle built of cards! It was Passepartout's fault. Abandoning his position, clearing the footlights without the aid of his wings, and, clambering up to the right-hand gallery, he fell at the feet of one of the spectators, crying, "Ah, my master! my master!" "You here?" "Myself." "Very well; then let us go to the steamer, young man!" Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout passed through the lobby of the theatre to the outside, where they encountered the Honourable Mr. Batulcar, furious with rage. He demanded damages for the "breakage" of the pyramid; and Phileas Fogg appeased him by giving him a handful of banknotes. At half-past six, the very hour of departure, Mr. Fogg and Aouda, followed by Passepartout, who in his hurry had retained his wings, and nose six feet long, stepped upon the American steamer. ----------CHAPTER 24--------- What happened when the pilot-boat came in sight of Shanghai will be easily guessed. The signals made by the Tankadere had been seen by the captain of the Yokohama steamer, who, espying the flag at half-mast, had directed his course towards the little craft. Phileas Fogg, after paying the stipulated price of his passage to John Busby, and rewarding that worthy with the additional sum of five hundred and fifty pounds, ascended the steamer with Aouda and Fix; and they started at once for Nagasaki and Yokohama. They reached their destination on the morning of the 14th of November. Phileas Fogg lost no time in going on board the Carnatic, where he learned, to Aouda's great delight--and perhaps to his own, though he betrayed no emotion--that Passepartout, a Frenchman, had really arrived on her the day before. The San Francisco steamer was announced to leave that very evening, and it became necessary to find Passepartout, if possible, without delay. Mr. Fogg applied in vain to the French and English consuls, and, after wandering through the streets a long time, began to despair of finding his missing servant. Chance, or perhaps a kind of presentiment, at last led him into the Honourable Mr. Batulcar's theatre. He certainly would not have recognised Passepartout in the eccentric mountebank's costume; but the latter, lying on his back, perceived his master in the gallery. He could not help starting, which so changed the position of his nose as to bring the "pyramid" pell-mell upon the stage. All this Passepartout learned from Aouda, who recounted to him what had taken place on the voyage from Hong Kong to Shanghai on the Tankadere, in company with one Mr. Fix. Passepartout did not change countenance on hearing this name. He thought that the time had not yet arrived to divulge to his master what had taken place between the detective and himself; and, in the account he gave of his absence, he simply excused himself for having been overtaken by drunkenness, in smoking opium at a tavern in Hong Kong. Mr. Fogg heard this narrative coldly, without a word; and then furnished his man with funds necessary to obtain clothing more in harmony with his position. Within an hour the Frenchman had cut off his nose and parted with his wings, and retained nothing about him which recalled the sectary of the god Tingou. The steamer which was about to depart from Yokohama to San Francisco belonged to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, and was named the General Grant. She was a large paddle-wheel steamer of two thousand five hundred tons; well equipped and very fast. The massive walking-beam rose and fell above the deck; at one end a piston-rod worked up and down; and at the other was a connecting-rod which, in changing the rectilinear motion to a circular one, was directly connected with the shaft of the paddles. The General Grant was rigged with three masts, giving a large capacity for sails, and thus materially aiding the steam power. By making twelve miles an hour, she would cross the ocean in twenty-one days. Phileas Fogg was therefore justified in hoping that he would reach San Francisco by the 2nd of December, New York by the 11th, and London on the 20th--thus gaining several hours on the fatal date of the 21st of December. There was a full complement of passengers on board, among them English, many Americans, a large number of coolies on their way to California, and several East Indian officers, who were spending their vacation in making the tour of the world. Nothing of moment happened on the voyage; the steamer, sustained on its large paddles, rolled but little, and the Pacific almost justified its name. Mr. Fogg was as calm and taciturn as ever. His young companion felt herself more and more attached to him by other ties than gratitude; his silent but generous nature impressed her more than she thought; and it was almost unconsciously that she yielded to emotions which did not seem to have the least effect upon her protector. Aouda took the keenest interest in his plans, and became impatient at any incident which seemed likely to retard his journey. She often chatted with Passepartout, who did not fail to perceive the state of the lady's heart; and, being the most faithful of domestics, he never exhausted his eulogies of Phileas Fogg's honesty, generosity, and devotion. He took pains to calm Aouda's doubts of a successful termination of the journey, telling her that the most difficult part of it had passed, that now they were beyond the fantastic countries of Japan and China, and were fairly on their way to civilised places again. A railway train from San Francisco to New York, and a transatlantic steamer from New York to Liverpool, would doubtless bring them to the end of this impossible journey round the world within the period agreed upon. On the ninth day after leaving Yokohama, Phileas Fogg had traversed exactly one half of the terrestrial globe. The General Grant passed, on the 23rd of November, the one hundred and eightieth meridian, and was at the very antipodes of London. Mr. Fogg had, it is true, exhausted fifty-two of the eighty days in which he was to complete the tour, and there were only twenty-eight left. But, though he was only half-way by the difference of meridians, he had really gone over two-thirds of the whole journey; for he had been obliged to make long circuits from London to Aden, from Aden to Bombay, from Calcutta to Singapore, and from Singapore to Yokohama. Could he have followed without deviation the fiftieth parallel, which is that of London, the whole distance would only have been about twelve thousand miles; whereas he would be forced, by the irregular methods of locomotion, to traverse twenty-six thousand, of which he had, on the 23rd of November, accomplished seventeen thousand five hundred. And now the course was a straight one, and Fix was no longer there to put obstacles in their way! It happened also, on the 23rd of November, that Passepartout made a joyful discovery. It will be remembered that the obstinate fellow had insisted on keeping his famous family watch at London time, and on regarding that of the countries he had passed through as quite false and unreliable. Now, on this day, though he had not changed the hands, he found that his watch exactly agreed with the ship's chronometers. His triumph was hilarious. He would have liked to know what Fix would say if he were aboard! "The rogue told me a lot of stories," repeated Passepartout, "about the meridians, the sun, and the moon! Moon, indeed! moonshine more likely! If one listened to that sort of people, a pretty sort of time one would keep! I was sure that the sun would some day regulate itself by my watch!" Passepartout was ignorant that, if the face of his watch had been divided into twenty-four hours, like the Italian clocks, he would have no reason for exultation; for the hands of his watch would then, instead of as now indicating nine o'clock in the morning, indicate nine o'clock in the evening, that is, the twenty-first hour after midnight precisely the difference between London time and that of the one hundred and eightieth meridian. But if Fix had been able to explain this purely physical effect, Passepartout would not have admitted, even if he had comprehended it. Moreover, if the detective had been on board at that moment, Passepartout would have joined issue with him on a quite different subject, and in an entirely different manner. Where was Fix at that moment? He was actually on board the General Grant. On reaching Yokohama, the detective, leaving Mr. Fogg, whom he expected to meet again during the day, had repaired at once to the English consulate, where he at last found the warrant of arrest. It had followed him from Bombay, and had come by the Carnatic, on which steamer he himself was supposed to be. Fix's disappointment may be imagined when he reflected that the warrant was now useless. Mr. Fogg had left English ground, and it was now necessary to procure his extradition! "Well," thought Fix, after a moment of anger, "my warrant is not good here, but it will be in England. The rogue evidently intends to return to his own country, thinking he has thrown the police off his track. Good! I will follow him across the Atlantic. As for the money, heaven grant there may be some left! But the fellow has already spent in travelling, rewards, trials, bail, elephants, and all sorts of charges, more than five thousand pounds. Yet, after all, the Bank is rich!" His course decided on, he went on board the General Grant, and was there when Mr. Fogg and Aouda arrived. To his utter amazement, he recognised Passepartout, despite his theatrical disguise. He quickly concealed himself in his cabin, to avoid an awkward explanation, and hoped--thanks to the number of passengers--to remain unperceived by Mr. Fogg's servant. On that very day, however, he met Passepartout face to face on the forward deck. The latter, without a word, made a rush for him, grasped him by the throat, and, much to the amusement of a group of Americans, who immediately began to bet on him, administered to the detective a perfect volley of blows, which proved the great superiority of French over English pugilistic skill. When Passepartout had finished, he found himself relieved and comforted. Fix got up in a somewhat rumpled condition, and, looking at his adversary, coldly said, "Have you done?" "For this time--yes." "Then let me have a word with you." "But I--" "In your master's interests." Passepartout seemed to be vanquished by Fix's coolness, for he quietly followed him, and they sat down aside from the rest of the passengers. "You have given me a thrashing," said Fix. "Good, I expected it. Now, listen to me. Up to this time I have been Mr. Fogg's adversary. I am now in his game." "Aha!" cried Passepartout; "you are convinced he is an honest man?" "No," replied Fix coldly, "I think him a rascal. Sh! don't budge, and let me speak. As long as Mr. Fogg was on English ground, it was for my interest to detain him there until my warrant of arrest arrived. I did everything I could to keep him back. I sent the Bombay priests after him, I got you intoxicated at Hong Kong, I separated you from him, and I made him miss the Yokohama steamer." Passepartout listened, with closed fists. "Now," resumed Fix, "Mr. Fogg seems to be going back to England. Well, I will follow him there. But hereafter I will do as much to keep obstacles out of his way as I have done up to this time to put them in his path. I've changed my game, you see, and simply because it was for my interest to change it. Your interest is the same as mine; for it is only in England that you will ascertain whether you are in the service of a criminal or an honest man." Passepartout listened very attentively to Fix, and was convinced that he spoke with entire good faith. "Are we friends?" asked the detective. "Friends?--no," replied Passepartout; "but allies, perhaps. At the least sign of treason, however, I'll twist your neck for you." "Agreed," said the detective quietly. Eleven days later, on the 3rd of December, the General Grant entered the bay of the Golden Gate, and reached San Francisco. Mr. Fogg had neither gained nor lost a single day.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 26 based on the provided context.

chapter 25|chapter 26

"In which Phileas Fogg and party travel by the Pacific Railroad" The American Railroad stretches from coast to coast, cutting a formerly six-month journey down to seven days. The Pacific Railroad goes from San Francisco to Ogden, Utah; the Union Pacific from Ogden to Omaha. From Omaha there are five lines to New York. Yet between Omaha and the west coast, the country is full of wild Indians and beasts. Fogg has to get to New York by December 11th. He rides in a car with no compartments, but there are special cars for dining and smoking. Fix and Passepartout sit next to each other but do not talk. The train goes only 20 miles an hour, and the passengers sleep during the night, as the car is transformed into a sleeping car with berths. It begins to snow as the train enters the Sierra Nevada. It goes around the mountains. In the day, they see herds of buffalos, one head of twelve thousand strong stops the train as they take hours to cross the tracks. Fogg waits "philosophically" in his seat, but Passepartout is furious. He swears and wonders if Fogg had foreseen this in his progamme! In the evening they reach Utah and near the Great Salt Lake.

----------CHAPTER 25--------- It was seven in the morning when Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout set foot upon the American continent, if this name can be given to the floating quay upon which they disembarked. These quays, rising and falling with the tide, thus facilitate the loading and unloading of vessels. Alongside them were clippers of all sizes, steamers of all nationalities, and the steamboats, with several decks rising one above the other, which ply on the Sacramento and its tributaries. There were also heaped up the products of a commerce which extends to Mexico, Chili, Peru, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and all the Pacific islands. Passepartout, in his joy on reaching at last the American continent, thought he would manifest it by executing a perilous vault in fine style; but, tumbling upon some worm-eaten planks, he fell through them. Put out of countenance by the manner in which he thus "set foot" upon the New World, he uttered a loud cry, which so frightened the innumerable cormorants and pelicans that are always perched upon these movable quays, that they flew noisily away. Mr. Fogg, on reaching shore, proceeded to find out at what hour the first train left for New York, and learned that this was at six o'clock p.m.; he had, therefore, an entire day to spend in the Californian capital. Taking a carriage at a charge of three dollars, he and Aouda entered it, while Passepartout mounted the box beside the driver, and they set out for the International Hotel. From his exalted position Passepartout observed with much curiosity the wide streets, the low, evenly ranged houses, the Anglo-Saxon Gothic churches, the great docks, the palatial wooden and brick warehouses, the numerous conveyances, omnibuses, horse-cars, and upon the side-walks, not only Americans and Europeans, but Chinese and Indians. Passepartout was surprised at all he saw. San Francisco was no longer the legendary city of 1849--a city of banditti, assassins, and incendiaries, who had flocked hither in crowds in pursuit of plunder; a paradise of outlaws, where they gambled with gold-dust, a revolver in one hand and a bowie-knife in the other: it was now a great commercial emporium. The lofty tower of its City Hall overlooked the whole panorama of the streets and avenues, which cut each other at right-angles, and in the midst of which appeared pleasant, verdant squares, while beyond appeared the Chinese quarter, seemingly imported from the Celestial Empire in a toy-box. Sombreros and red shirts and plumed Indians were rarely to be seen; but there were silk hats and black coats everywhere worn by a multitude of nervously active, gentlemanly-looking men. Some of the streets--especially Montgomery Street, which is to San Francisco what Regent Street is to London, the Boulevard des Italiens to Paris, and Broadway to New York--were lined with splendid and spacious stores, which exposed in their windows the products of the entire world. When Passepartout reached the International Hotel, it did not seem to him as if he had left England at all. The ground floor of the hotel was occupied by a large bar, a sort of restaurant freely open to all passers-by, who might partake of dried beef, oyster soup, biscuits, and cheese, without taking out their purses. Payment was made only for the ale, porter, or sherry which was drunk. This seemed "very American" to Passepartout. The hotel refreshment-rooms were comfortable, and Mr. Fogg and Aouda, installing themselves at a table, were abundantly served on diminutive plates by negroes of darkest hue. After breakfast, Mr. Fogg, accompanied by Aouda, started for the English consulate to have his passport visaed. As he was going out, he met Passepartout, who asked him if it would not be well, before taking the train, to purchase some dozens of Enfield rifles and Colt's revolvers. He had been listening to stories of attacks upon the trains by the Sioux and Pawnees. Mr. Fogg thought it a useless precaution, but told him to do as he thought best, and went on to the consulate. He had not proceeded two hundred steps, however, when, "by the greatest chance in the world," he met Fix. The detective seemed wholly taken by surprise. What! Had Mr. Fogg and himself crossed the Pacific together, and not met on the steamer! At least Fix felt honoured to behold once more the gentleman to whom he owed so much, and, as his business recalled him to Europe, he should be delighted to continue the journey in such pleasant company. Mr. Fogg replied that the honour would be his; and the detective--who was determined not to lose sight of him--begged permission to accompany them in their walk about San Francisco--a request which Mr. Fogg readily granted. They soon found themselves in Montgomery Street, where a great crowd was collected; the side-walks, street, horsecar rails, the shop-doors, the windows of the houses, and even the roofs, were full of people. Men were going about carrying large posters, and flags and streamers were floating in the wind; while loud cries were heard on every hand. "Hurrah for Camerfield!" "Hurrah for Mandiboy!" It was a political meeting; at least so Fix conjectured, who said to Mr. Fogg, "Perhaps we had better not mingle with the crowd. There may be danger in it." "Yes," returned Mr. Fogg; "and blows, even if they are political are still blows." Fix smiled at this remark; and, in order to be able to see without being jostled about, the party took up a position on the top of a flight of steps situated at the upper end of Montgomery Street. Opposite them, on the other side of the street, between a coal wharf and a petroleum warehouse, a large platform had been erected in the open air, towards which the current of the crowd seemed to be directed. For what purpose was this meeting? What was the occasion of this excited assemblage? Phileas Fogg could not imagine. Was it to nominate some high official--a governor or member of Congress? It was not improbable, so agitated was the multitude before them. Just at this moment there was an unusual stir in the human mass. All the hands were raised in the air. Some, tightly closed, seemed to disappear suddenly in the midst of the cries--an energetic way, no doubt, of casting a vote. The crowd swayed back, the banners and flags wavered, disappeared an instant, then reappeared in tatters. The undulations of the human surge reached the steps, while all the heads floundered on the surface like a sea agitated by a squall. Many of the black hats disappeared, and the greater part of the crowd seemed to have diminished in height. "It is evidently a meeting," said Fix, "and its object must be an exciting one. I should not wonder if it were about the Alabama, despite the fact that that question is settled." "Perhaps," replied Mr. Fogg, simply. "At least, there are two champions in presence of each other, the Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy." Aouda, leaning upon Mr. Fogg's arm, observed the tumultuous scene with surprise, while Fix asked a man near him what the cause of it all was. Before the man could reply, a fresh agitation arose; hurrahs and excited shouts were heard; the staffs of the banners began to be used as offensive weapons; and fists flew about in every direction. Thumps were exchanged from the tops of the carriages and omnibuses which had been blocked up in the crowd. Boots and shoes went whirling through the air, and Mr. Fogg thought he even heard the crack of revolvers mingling in the din, the rout approached the stairway, and flowed over the lower step. One of the parties had evidently been repulsed; but the mere lookers-on could not tell whether Mandiboy or Camerfield had gained the upper hand. "It would be prudent for us to retire," said Fix, who was anxious that Mr. Fogg should not receive any injury, at least until they got back to London. "If there is any question about England in all this, and we were recognised, I fear it would go hard with us." "An English subject--" began Mr. Fogg. He did not finish his sentence; for a terrific hubbub now arose on the terrace behind the flight of steps where they stood, and there were frantic shouts of, "Hurrah for Mandiboy! Hip, hip, hurrah!" It was a band of voters coming to the rescue of their allies, and taking the Camerfield forces in flank. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix found themselves between two fires; it was too late to escape. The torrent of men, armed with loaded canes and sticks, was irresistible. Phileas Fogg and Fix were roughly hustled in their attempts to protect their fair companion; the former, as cool as ever, tried to defend himself with the weapons which nature has placed at the end of every Englishman's arm, but in vain. A big brawny fellow with a red beard, flushed face, and broad shoulders, who seemed to be the chief of the band, raised his clenched fist to strike Mr. Fogg, whom he would have given a crushing blow, had not Fix rushed in and received it in his stead. An enormous bruise immediately made its appearance under the detective's silk hat, which was completely smashed in. "Yankee!" exclaimed Mr. Fogg, darting a contemptuous look at the ruffian. "Englishman!" returned the other. "We will meet again!" "When you please." "What is your name?" "Phileas Fogg. And yours?" "Colonel Stamp Proctor." The human tide now swept by, after overturning Fix, who speedily got upon his feet again, though with tattered clothes. Happily, he was not seriously hurt. His travelling overcoat was divided into two unequal parts, and his trousers resembled those of certain Indians, which fit less compactly than they are easy to put on. Aouda had escaped unharmed, and Fix alone bore marks of the fray in his black and blue bruise. "Thanks," said Mr. Fogg to the detective, as soon as they were out of the crowd. "No thanks are necessary," replied. Fix; "but let us go." "Where?" "To a tailor's." Such a visit was, indeed, opportune. The clothing of both Mr. Fogg and Fix was in rags, as if they had themselves been actively engaged in the contest between Camerfield and Mandiboy. An hour after, they were once more suitably attired, and with Aouda returned to the International Hotel. Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen six-barrelled revolvers. When he perceived Fix, he knit his brows; but Aouda having, in a few words, told him of their adventure, his countenance resumed its placid expression. Fix evidently was no longer an enemy, but an ally; he was faithfully keeping his word. Dinner over, the coach which was to convey the passengers and their luggage to the station drew up to the door. As he was getting in, Mr. Fogg said to Fix, "You have not seen this Colonel Proctor again?" "No." "I will come back to America to find him," said Phileas Fogg calmly. "It would not be right for an Englishman to permit himself to be treated in that way, without retaliating." The detective smiled, but did not reply. It was clear that Mr. Fogg was one of those Englishmen who, while they do not tolerate duelling at home, fight abroad when their honour is attacked. At a quarter before six the travellers reached the station, and found the train ready to depart. As he was about to enter it, Mr. Fogg called a porter, and said to him: "My friend, was there not some trouble to-day in San Francisco?" "It was a political meeting, sir," replied the porter. "But I thought there was a great deal of disturbance in the streets." "It was only a meeting assembled for an election." "The election of a general-in-chief, no doubt?" asked Mr. Fogg. "No, sir; of a justice of the peace." Phileas Fogg got into the train, which started off at full speed. ----------CHAPTER 26--------- "From ocean to ocean"--so say the Americans; and these four words compose the general designation of the "great trunk line" which crosses the entire width of the United States. The Pacific Railroad is, however, really divided into two distinct lines: the Central Pacific, between San Francisco and Ogden, and the Union Pacific, between Ogden and Omaha. Five main lines connect Omaha with New York. New York and San Francisco are thus united by an uninterrupted metal ribbon, which measures no less than three thousand seven hundred and eighty-six miles. Between Omaha and the Pacific the railway crosses a territory which is still infested by Indians and wild beasts, and a large tract which the Mormons, after they were driven from Illinois in 1845, began to colonise. The journey from New York to San Francisco consumed, formerly, under the most favourable conditions, at least six months. It is now accomplished in seven days. It was in 1862 that, in spite of the Southern Members of Congress, who wished a more southerly route, it was decided to lay the road between the forty-first and forty-second parallels. President Lincoln himself fixed the end of the line at Omaha, in Nebraska. The work was at once commenced, and pursued with true American energy; nor did the rapidity with which it went on injuriously affect its good execution. The road grew, on the prairies, a mile and a half a day. A locomotive, running on the rails laid down the evening before, brought the rails to be laid on the morrow, and advanced upon them as fast as they were put in position. The Pacific Railroad is joined by several branches in Iowa, Kansas, Colorado, and Oregon. On leaving Omaha, it passes along the left bank of the Platte River as far as the junction of its northern branch, follows its southern branch, crosses the Laramie territory and the Wahsatch Mountains, turns the Great Salt Lake, and reaches Salt Lake City, the Mormon capital, plunges into the Tuilla Valley, across the American Desert, Cedar and Humboldt Mountains, the Sierra Nevada, and descends, via Sacramento, to the Pacific--its grade, even on the Rocky Mountains, never exceeding one hundred and twelve feet to the mile. Such was the road to be traversed in seven days, which would enable Phileas Fogg--at least, so he hoped--to take the Atlantic steamer at New York on the 11th for Liverpool. The car which he occupied was a sort of long omnibus on eight wheels, and with no compartments in the interior. It was supplied with two rows of seats, perpendicular to the direction of the train on either side of an aisle which conducted to the front and rear platforms. These platforms were found throughout the train, and the passengers were able to pass from one end of the train to the other. It was supplied with saloon cars, balcony cars, restaurants, and smoking-cars; theatre cars alone were wanting, and they will have these some day. Book and news dealers, sellers of edibles, drinkables, and cigars, who seemed to have plenty of customers, were continually circulating in the aisles. The train left Oakland station at six o'clock. It was already night, cold and cheerless, the heavens being overcast with clouds which seemed to threaten snow. The train did not proceed rapidly; counting the stoppages, it did not run more than twenty miles an hour, which was a sufficient speed, however, to enable it to reach Omaha within its designated time. There was but little conversation in the car, and soon many of the passengers were overcome with sleep. Passepartout found himself beside the detective; but he did not talk to him. After recent events, their relations with each other had grown somewhat cold; there could no longer be mutual sympathy or intimacy between them. Fix's manner had not changed; but Passepartout was very reserved, and ready to strangle his former friend on the slightest provocation. Snow began to fall an hour after they started, a fine snow, however, which happily could not obstruct the train; nothing could be seen from the windows but a vast, white sheet, against which the smoke of the locomotive had a greyish aspect. At eight o'clock a steward entered the car and announced that the time for going to bed had arrived; and in a few minutes the car was transformed into a dormitory. The backs of the seats were thrown back, bedsteads carefully packed were rolled out by an ingenious system, berths were suddenly improvised, and each traveller had soon at his disposition a comfortable bed, protected from curious eyes by thick curtains. The sheets were clean and the pillows soft. It only remained to go to bed and sleep which everybody did--while the train sped on across the State of California. The country between San Francisco and Sacramento is not very hilly. The Central Pacific, taking Sacramento for its starting-point, extends eastward to meet the road from Omaha. The line from San Francisco to Sacramento runs in a north-easterly direction, along the American River, which empties into San Pablo Bay. The one hundred and twenty miles between these cities were accomplished in six hours, and towards midnight, while fast asleep, the travellers passed through Sacramento; so that they saw nothing of that important place, the seat of the State government, with its fine quays, its broad streets, its noble hotels, squares, and churches. The train, on leaving Sacramento, and passing the junction, Roclin, Auburn, and Colfax, entered the range of the Sierra Nevada. 'Cisco was reached at seven in the morning; and an hour later the dormitory was transformed into an ordinary car, and the travellers could observe the picturesque beauties of the mountain region through which they were steaming. The railway track wound in and out among the passes, now approaching the mountain-sides, now suspended over precipices, avoiding abrupt angles by bold curves, plunging into narrow defiles, which seemed to have no outlet. The locomotive, its great funnel emitting a weird light, with its sharp bell, and its cow-catcher extended like a spur, mingled its shrieks and bellowings with the noise of torrents and cascades, and twined its smoke among the branches of the gigantic pines. There were few or no bridges or tunnels on the route. The railway turned around the sides of the mountains, and did not attempt to violate nature by taking the shortest cut from one point to another. The train entered the State of Nevada through the Carson Valley about nine o'clock, going always northeasterly; and at midday reached Reno, where there was a delay of twenty minutes for breakfast. From this point the road, running along Humboldt River, passed northward for several miles by its banks; then it turned eastward, and kept by the river until it reached the Humboldt Range, nearly at the extreme eastern limit of Nevada. Having breakfasted, Mr. Fogg and his companions resumed their places in the car, and observed the varied landscape which unfolded itself as they passed along the vast prairies, the mountains lining the horizon, and the creeks, with their frothy, foaming streams. Sometimes a great herd of buffaloes, massing together in the distance, seemed like a moveable dam. These innumerable multitudes of ruminating beasts often form an insurmountable obstacle to the passage of the trains; thousands of them have been seen passing over the track for hours together, in compact ranks. The locomotive is then forced to stop and wait till the road is once more clear. This happened, indeed, to the train in which Mr. Fogg was travelling. About twelve o'clock a troop of ten or twelve thousand head of buffalo encumbered the track. The locomotive, slackening its speed, tried to clear the way with its cow-catcher; but the mass of animals was too great. The buffaloes marched along with a tranquil gait, uttering now and then deafening bellowings. There was no use of interrupting them, for, having taken a particular direction, nothing can moderate and change their course; it is a torrent of living flesh which no dam could contain. The travellers gazed on this curious spectacle from the platforms; but Phileas Fogg, who had the most reason of all to be in a hurry, remained in his seat, and waited philosophically until it should please the buffaloes to get out of the way. Passepartout was furious at the delay they occasioned, and longed to discharge his arsenal of revolvers upon them. "What a country!" cried he. "Mere cattle stop the trains, and go by in a procession, just as if they were not impeding travel! Parbleu! I should like to know if Mr. Fogg foresaw this mishap in his programme! And here's an engineer who doesn't dare to run the locomotive into this herd of beasts!" The engineer did not try to overcome the obstacle, and he was wise. He would have crushed the first buffaloes, no doubt, with the cow-catcher; but the locomotive, however powerful, would soon have been checked, the train would inevitably have been thrown off the track, and would then have been helpless. The best course was to wait patiently, and regain the lost time by greater speed when the obstacle was removed. The procession of buffaloes lasted three full hours, and it was night before the track was clear. The last ranks of the herd were now passing over the rails, while the first had already disappeared below the southern horizon. It was eight o'clock when the train passed through the defiles of the Humboldt Range, and half-past nine when it penetrated Utah, the region of the Great Salt Lake, the singular colony of the Mormons.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 28 using the context provided.

chapter 27|chapter 28

"In which Passepartout does not succeed in making anybody listen to reason" The train is now 900 miles from San Francisco, going through mountainous terrain, and Passepartout is impatient. Even Fix wants to get out of the difficult terrain of Wyoming Territory. Aouda recognizes Colonel Stamp Proctor on the train, the one who insulted Mr. Fogg in San Francisco. She is worried for Fogg's safety and quite attached to Fogg, who seems equally devoted to her welfare. She thinks she feels gratitude to him, but it is more than that. She tells Fix and Passepartout about Stamp, and they decide to keep the two apart. Fix himself would like to fight Stamp for he was the one hit by him. To distract Fogg, Fix offers to play whist with him. Soon, the company is playing cards, and Aouda surprisingly knows how to play the game because of her English education. They play whist all across the Rocky Mountains and begin to think the journey will be easy. Suddenly the train stops. The engineer and conductor are afraid to cross the shaky suspension bridge at Medicine Bow. The conductor has wired Omaha for another train to come to Medicine Bow, but it will take 6 hours. They cannot cross the rapids on foot, however, to get to Medicine Bow. Colonel Proctor is furious, but Fogg stays in the car and has not yet seen him. Meanwhile, the engineer, a Yankee called Forster, proposes they can make it across the bridge if they go at the highest speed possible. Colonel Proctor urges the engineer to try it. Though Passepartout wants to go ahead, he is astounded at the rashness of the Americans and tries to dissuade them, but he is not heard. Proctor goads him, asking if he is afraid. Passepartout decides he must defend French honor, but he doesn't understand why they can't walk across the bridge and let the train come after. Everyone takes their places, and the train backs up to gain speed, then rushes over the bridge at 100 miles an hour. They do not even see the bridge as they pass over, but it completely falls to pieces behind them.

----------CHAPTER 27--------- During the night of the 5th of December, the train ran south-easterly for about fifty miles; then rose an equal distance in a north-easterly direction, towards the Great Salt Lake. Passepartout, about nine o'clock, went out upon the platform to take the air. The weather was cold, the heavens grey, but it was not snowing. The sun's disc, enlarged by the mist, seemed an enormous ring of gold, and Passepartout was amusing himself by calculating its value in pounds sterling, when he was diverted from this interesting study by a strange-looking personage who made his appearance on the platform. This personage, who had taken the train at Elko, was tall and dark, with black moustache, black stockings, a black silk hat, a black waistcoat, black trousers, a white cravat, and dogskin gloves. He might have been taken for a clergyman. He went from one end of the train to the other, and affixed to the door of each car a notice written in manuscript. Passepartout approached and read one of these notices, which stated that Elder William Hitch, Mormon missionary, taking advantage of his presence on train No. 48, would deliver a lecture on Mormonism in car No. 117, from eleven to twelve o'clock; and that he invited all who were desirous of being instructed concerning the mysteries of the religion of the "Latter Day Saints" to attend. "I'll go," said Passepartout to himself. He knew nothing of Mormonism except the custom of polygamy, which is its foundation. The news quickly spread through the train, which contained about one hundred passengers, thirty of whom, at most, attracted by the notice, ensconced themselves in car No. 117. Passepartout took one of the front seats. Neither Mr. Fogg nor Fix cared to attend. At the appointed hour Elder William Hitch rose, and, in an irritated voice, as if he had already been contradicted, said, "I tell you that Joe Smith is a martyr, that his brother Hiram is a martyr, and that the persecutions of the United States Government against the prophets will also make a martyr of Brigham Young. Who dares to say the contrary?" No one ventured to gainsay the missionary, whose excited tone contrasted curiously with his naturally calm visage. No doubt his anger arose from the hardships to which the Mormons were actually subjected. The government had just succeeded, with some difficulty, in reducing these independent fanatics to its rule. It had made itself master of Utah, and subjected that territory to the laws of the Union, after imprisoning Brigham Young on a charge of rebellion and polygamy. The disciples of the prophet had since redoubled their efforts, and resisted, by words at least, the authority of Congress. Elder Hitch, as is seen, was trying to make proselytes on the very railway trains. Then, emphasising his words with his loud voice and frequent gestures, he related the history of the Mormons from Biblical times: how that, in Israel, a Mormon prophet of the tribe of Joseph published the annals of the new religion, and bequeathed them to his son Mormon; how, many centuries later, a translation of this precious book, which was written in Egyptian, was made by Joseph Smith, junior, a Vermont farmer, who revealed himself as a mystical prophet in 1825; and how, in short, the celestial messenger appeared to him in an illuminated forest, and gave him the annals of the Lord. Several of the audience, not being much interested in the missionary's narrative, here left the car; but Elder Hitch, continuing his lecture, related how Smith, junior, with his father, two brothers, and a few disciples, founded the church of the "Latter Day Saints," which, adopted not only in America, but in England, Norway and Sweden, and Germany, counts many artisans, as well as men engaged in the liberal professions, among its members; how a colony was established in Ohio, a temple erected there at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, and a town built at Kirkland; how Smith became an enterprising banker, and received from a simple mummy showman a papyrus scroll written by Abraham and several famous Egyptians. The Elder's story became somewhat wearisome, and his audience grew gradually less, until it was reduced to twenty passengers. But this did not disconcert the enthusiast, who proceeded with the story of Joseph Smith's bankruptcy in 1837, and how his ruined creditors gave him a coat of tar and feathers; his reappearance some years afterwards, more honourable and honoured than ever, at Independence, Missouri, the chief of a flourishing colony of three thousand disciples, and his pursuit thence by outraged Gentiles, and retirement into the Far West. Ten hearers only were now left, among them honest Passepartout, who was listening with all his ears. Thus he learned that, after long persecutions, Smith reappeared in Illinois, and in 1839 founded a community at Nauvoo, on the Mississippi, numbering twenty-five thousand souls, of which he became mayor, chief justice, and general-in-chief; that he announced himself, in 1843, as a candidate for the Presidency of the United States; and that finally, being drawn into ambuscade at Carthage, he was thrown into prison, and assassinated by a band of men disguised in masks. Passepartout was now the only person left in the car, and the Elder, looking him full in the face, reminded him that, two years after the assassination of Joseph Smith, the inspired prophet, Brigham Young, his successor, left Nauvoo for the banks of the Great Salt Lake, where, in the midst of that fertile region, directly on the route of the emigrants who crossed Utah on their way to California, the new colony, thanks to the polygamy practised by the Mormons, had flourished beyond expectations. "And this," added Elder William Hitch, "this is why the jealousy of Congress has been aroused against us! Why have the soldiers of the Union invaded the soil of Utah? Why has Brigham Young, our chief, been imprisoned, in contempt of all justice? Shall we yield to force? Never! Driven from Vermont, driven from Illinois, driven from Ohio, driven from Missouri, driven from Utah, we shall yet find some independent territory on which to plant our tents. And you, my brother," continued the Elder, fixing his angry eyes upon his single auditor, "will you not plant yours there, too, under the shadow of our flag?" "No!" replied Passepartout courageously, in his turn retiring from the car, and leaving the Elder to preach to vacancy. During the lecture the train had been making good progress, and towards half-past twelve it reached the northwest border of the Great Salt Lake. Thence the passengers could observe the vast extent of this interior sea, which is also called the Dead Sea, and into which flows an American Jordan. It is a picturesque expanse, framed in lofty crags in large strata, encrusted with white salt--a superb sheet of water, which was formerly of larger extent than now, its shores having encroached with the lapse of time, and thus at once reduced its breadth and increased its depth. The Salt Lake, seventy miles long and thirty-five wide, is situated three miles eight hundred feet above the sea. Quite different from Lake Asphaltite, whose depression is twelve hundred feet below the sea, it contains considerable salt, and one quarter of the weight of its water is solid matter, its specific weight being 1,170, and, after being distilled, 1,000. Fishes are, of course, unable to live in it, and those which descend through the Jordan, the Weber, and other streams soon perish. The country around the lake was well cultivated, for the Mormons are mostly farmers; while ranches and pens for domesticated animals, fields of wheat, corn, and other cereals, luxuriant prairies, hedges of wild rose, clumps of acacias and milk-wort, would have been seen six months later. Now the ground was covered with a thin powdering of snow. The train reached Ogden at two o'clock, where it rested for six hours, Mr. Fogg and his party had time to pay a visit to Salt Lake City, connected with Ogden by a branch road; and they spent two hours in this strikingly American town, built on the pattern of other cities of the Union, like a checker-board, "with the sombre sadness of right-angles," as Victor Hugo expresses it. The founder of the City of the Saints could not escape from the taste for symmetry which distinguishes the Anglo-Saxons. In this strange country, where the people are certainly not up to the level of their institutions, everything is done "squarely"--cities, houses, and follies. The travellers, then, were promenading, at three o'clock, about the streets of the town built between the banks of the Jordan and the spurs of the Wahsatch Range. They saw few or no churches, but the prophet's mansion, the court-house, and the arsenal, blue-brick houses with verandas and porches, surrounded by gardens bordered with acacias, palms, and locusts. A clay and pebble wall, built in 1853, surrounded the town; and in the principal street were the market and several hotels adorned with pavilions. The place did not seem thickly populated. The streets were almost deserted, except in the vicinity of the temple, which they only reached after having traversed several quarters surrounded by palisades. There were many women, which was easily accounted for by the "peculiar institution" of the Mormons; but it must not be supposed that all the Mormons are polygamists. They are free to marry or not, as they please; but it is worth noting that it is mainly the female citizens of Utah who are anxious to marry, as, according to the Mormon religion, maiden ladies are not admitted to the possession of its highest joys. These poor creatures seemed to be neither well off nor happy. Some--the more well-to-do, no doubt--wore short, open, black silk dresses, under a hood or modest shawl; others were habited in Indian fashion. Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women, charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a vocation, and he imagined--perhaps he was mistaken--that the fair ones of Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person. Happily, his stay there was but brief. At four the party found themselves again at the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels began to move, cries of "Stop! stop!" were heard. Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers. He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train, and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats. Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast, approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken flight after an unpleasant domestic scene. When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least. "One, sir," replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward--"one, and that was enough!" ----------CHAPTER 28--------- The train, on leaving Great Salt Lake at Ogden, passed northward for an hour as far as Weber River, having completed nearly nine hundred miles from San Francisco. From this point it took an easterly direction towards the jagged Wahsatch Mountains. It was in the section included between this range and the Rocky Mountains that the American engineers found the most formidable difficulties in laying the road, and that the government granted a subsidy of forty-eight thousand dollars per mile, instead of sixteen thousand allowed for the work done on the plains. But the engineers, instead of violating nature, avoided its difficulties by winding around, instead of penetrating the rocks. One tunnel only, fourteen thousand feet in length, was pierced in order to arrive at the great basin. The track up to this time had reached its highest elevation at the Great Salt Lake. From this point it described a long curve, descending towards Bitter Creek Valley, to rise again to the dividing ridge of the waters between the Atlantic and the Pacific. There were many creeks in this mountainous region, and it was necessary to cross Muddy Creek, Green Creek, and others, upon culverts. Passepartout grew more and more impatient as they went on, while Fix longed to get out of this difficult region, and was more anxious than Phileas Fogg himself to be beyond the danger of delays and accidents, and set foot on English soil. At ten o'clock at night the train stopped at Fort Bridger station, and twenty minutes later entered Wyoming Territory, following the valley of Bitter Creek throughout. The next day, 7th December, they stopped for a quarter of an hour at Green River station. Snow had fallen abundantly during the night, but, being mixed with rain, it had half melted, and did not interrupt their progress. The bad weather, however, annoyed Passepartout; for the accumulation of snow, by blocking the wheels of the cars, would certainly have been fatal to Mr. Fogg's tour. "What an idea!" he said to himself. "Why did my master make this journey in winter? Couldn't he have waited for the good season to increase his chances?" While the worthy Frenchman was absorbed in the state of the sky and the depression of the temperature, Aouda was experiencing fears from a totally different cause. Several passengers had got off at Green River, and were walking up and down the platforms; and among these Aouda recognised Colonel Stamp Proctor, the same who had so grossly insulted Phileas Fogg at the San Francisco meeting. Not wishing to be recognised, the young woman drew back from the window, feeling much alarm at her discovery. She was attached to the man who, however coldly, gave her daily evidences of the most absolute devotion. She did not comprehend, perhaps, the depth of the sentiment with which her protector inspired her, which she called gratitude, but which, though she was unconscious of it, was really more than that. Her heart sank within her when she recognised the man whom Mr. Fogg desired, sooner or later, to call to account for his conduct. Chance alone, it was clear, had brought Colonel Proctor on this train; but there he was, and it was necessary, at all hazards, that Phileas Fogg should not perceive his adversary. Aouda seized a moment when Mr. Fogg was asleep to tell Fix and Passepartout whom she had seen. "That Proctor on this train!" cried Fix. "Well, reassure yourself, madam; before he settles with Mr. Fogg; he has got to deal with me! It seems to me that I was the more insulted of the two." "And, besides," added Passepartout, "I'll take charge of him, colonel as he is." "Mr. Fix," resumed Aouda, "Mr. Fogg will allow no one to avenge him. He said that he would come back to America to find this man. Should he perceive Colonel Proctor, we could not prevent a collision which might have terrible results. He must not see him." "You are right, madam," replied Fix; "a meeting between them might ruin all. Whether he were victorious or beaten, Mr. Fogg would be delayed, and--" "And," added Passepartout, "that would play the game of the gentlemen of the Reform Club. In four days we shall be in New York. Well, if my master does not leave this car during those four days, we may hope that chance will not bring him face to face with this confounded American. We must, if possible, prevent his stirring out of it." The conversation dropped. Mr. Fogg had just woke up, and was looking out of the window. Soon after Passepartout, without being heard by his master or Aouda, whispered to the detective, "Would you really fight for him?" "I would do anything," replied Fix, in a tone which betrayed determined will, "to get him back living to Europe!" Passepartout felt something like a shudder shoot through his frame, but his confidence in his master remained unbroken. Was there any means of detaining Mr. Fogg in the car, to avoid a meeting between him and the colonel? It ought not to be a difficult task, since that gentleman was naturally sedentary and little curious. The detective, at least, seemed to have found a way; for, after a few moments, he said to Mr. Fogg, "These are long and slow hours, sir, that we are passing on the railway." "Yes," replied Mr. Fogg; "but they pass." "You were in the habit of playing whist," resumed Fix, "on the steamers." "Yes; but it would be difficult to do so here. I have neither cards nor partners." "Oh, but we can easily buy some cards, for they are sold on all the American trains. And as for partners, if madam plays--" "Certainly, sir," Aouda quickly replied; "I understand whist. It is part of an English education." "I myself have some pretensions to playing a good game. Well, here are three of us, and a dummy--" "As you please, sir," replied Phileas Fogg, heartily glad to resume his favourite pastime even on the railway. Passepartout was dispatched in search of the steward, and soon returned with two packs of cards, some pins, counters, and a shelf covered with cloth. The game commenced. Aouda understood whist sufficiently well, and even received some compliments on her playing from Mr. Fogg. As for the detective, he was simply an adept, and worthy of being matched against his present opponent. "Now," thought Passepartout, "we've got him. He won't budge." At eleven in the morning the train had reached the dividing ridge of the waters at Bridger Pass, seven thousand five hundred and twenty-four feet above the level of the sea, one of the highest points attained by the track in crossing the Rocky Mountains. After going about two hundred miles, the travellers at last found themselves on one of those vast plains which extend to the Atlantic, and which nature has made so propitious for laying the iron road. On the declivity of the Atlantic basin the first streams, branches of the North Platte River, already appeared. The whole northern and eastern horizon was bounded by the immense semi-circular curtain which is formed by the southern portion of the Rocky Mountains, the highest being Laramie Peak. Between this and the railway extended vast plains, plentifully irrigated. On the right rose the lower spurs of the mountainous mass which extends southward to the sources of the Arkansas River, one of the great tributaries of the Missouri. At half-past twelve the travellers caught sight for an instant of Fort Halleck, which commands that section; and in a few more hours the Rocky Mountains were crossed. There was reason to hope, then, that no accident would mark the journey through this difficult country. The snow had ceased falling, and the air became crisp and cold. Large birds, frightened by the locomotive, rose and flew off in the distance. No wild beast appeared on the plain. It was a desert in its vast nakedness. After a comfortable breakfast, served in the car, Mr. Fogg and his partners had just resumed whist, when a violent whistling was heard, and the train stopped. Passepartout put his head out of the door, but saw nothing to cause the delay; no station was in view. Aouda and Fix feared that Mr. Fogg might take it into his head to get out; but that gentleman contented himself with saying to his servant, "See what is the matter." Passepartout rushed out of the car. Thirty or forty passengers had already descended, amongst them Colonel Stamp Proctor. The train had stopped before a red signal which blocked the way. The engineer and conductor were talking excitedly with a signal-man, whom the station-master at Medicine Bow, the next stopping place, had sent on before. The passengers drew around and took part in the discussion, in which Colonel Proctor, with his insolent manner, was conspicuous. Passepartout, joining the group, heard the signal-man say, "No! you can't pass. The bridge at Medicine Bow is shaky, and would not bear the weight of the train." This was a suspension-bridge thrown over some rapids, about a mile from the place where they now were. According to the signal-man, it was in a ruinous condition, several of the iron wires being broken; and it was impossible to risk the passage. He did not in any way exaggerate the condition of the bridge. It may be taken for granted that, rash as the Americans usually are, when they are prudent there is good reason for it. Passepartout, not daring to apprise his master of what he heard, listened with set teeth, immovable as a statue. "Hum!" cried Colonel Proctor; "but we are not going to stay here, I imagine, and take root in the snow?" "Colonel," replied the conductor, "we have telegraphed to Omaha for a train, but it is not likely that it will reach Medicine Bow in less than six hours." "Six hours!" cried Passepartout. "Certainly," returned the conductor, "besides, it will take us as long as that to reach Medicine Bow on foot." "But it is only a mile from here," said one of the passengers. "Yes, but it's on the other side of the river." "And can't we cross that in a boat?" asked the colonel. "That's impossible. The creek is swelled by the rains. It is a rapid, and we shall have to make a circuit of ten miles to the north to find a ford." The colonel launched a volley of oaths, denouncing the railway company and the conductor; and Passepartout, who was furious, was not disinclined to make common cause with him. Here was an obstacle, indeed, which all his master's banknotes could not remove. There was a general disappointment among the passengers, who, without reckoning the delay, saw themselves compelled to trudge fifteen miles over a plain covered with snow. They grumbled and protested, and would certainly have thus attracted Phileas Fogg's attention if he had not been completely absorbed in his game. Passepartout found that he could not avoid telling his master what had occurred, and, with hanging head, he was turning towards the car, when the engineer, a true Yankee, named Forster called out, "Gentlemen, perhaps there is a way, after all, to get over." "On the bridge?" asked a passenger. "On the bridge." "With our train?" "With our train." Passepartout stopped short, and eagerly listened to the engineer. "But the bridge is unsafe," urged the conductor. "No matter," replied Forster; "I think that by putting on the very highest speed we might have a chance of getting over." "The devil!" muttered Passepartout. But a number of the passengers were at once attracted by the engineer's proposal, and Colonel Proctor was especially delighted, and found the plan a very feasible one. He told stories about engineers leaping their trains over rivers without bridges, by putting on full steam; and many of those present avowed themselves of the engineer's mind. "We have fifty chances out of a hundred of getting over," said one. "Eighty! ninety!" Passepartout was astounded, and, though ready to attempt anything to get over Medicine Creek, thought the experiment proposed a little too American. "Besides," thought he, "there's a still more simple way, and it does not even occur to any of these people! Sir," said he aloud to one of the passengers, "the engineer's plan seems to me a little dangerous, but--" "Eighty chances!" replied the passenger, turning his back on him. "I know it," said Passepartout, turning to another passenger, "but a simple idea--" "Ideas are no use," returned the American, shrugging his shoulders, "as the engineer assures us that we can pass." "Doubtless," urged Passepartout, "we can pass, but perhaps it would be more prudent--" "What! Prudent!" cried Colonel Proctor, whom this word seemed to excite prodigiously. "At full speed, don't you see, at full speed!" "I know--I see," repeated Passepartout; "but it would be, if not more prudent, since that word displeases you, at least more natural--" "Who! What! What's the matter with this fellow?" cried several. The poor fellow did not know to whom to address himself. "Are you afraid?" asked Colonel Proctor. "I afraid? Very well; I will show these people that a Frenchman can be as American as they!" "All aboard!" cried the conductor. "Yes, all aboard!" repeated Passepartout, and immediately. "But they can't prevent me from thinking that it would be more natural for us to cross the bridge on foot, and let the train come after!" But no one heard this sage reflection, nor would anyone have acknowledged its justice. The passengers resumed their places in the cars. Passepartout took his seat without telling what had passed. The whist-players were quite absorbed in their game. The locomotive whistled vigorously; the engineer, reversing the steam, backed the train for nearly a mile--retiring, like a jumper, in order to take a longer leap. Then, with another whistle, he began to move forward; the train increased its speed, and soon its rapidity became frightful; a prolonged screech issued from the locomotive; the piston worked up and down twenty strokes to the second. They perceived that the whole train, rushing on at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, hardly bore upon the rails at all. And they passed over! It was like a flash. No one saw the bridge. The train leaped, so to speak, from one bank to the other, and the engineer could not stop it until it had gone five miles beyond the station. But scarcely had the train passed the river, when the bridge, completely ruined, fell with a crash into the rapids of Medicine Bow.

cliffnotes

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chapter 29|chapter 30

"In which Phileas Fogg simply does his duty" Passepartout and two other people had disappeared from the train. Others were wounded but no one killed. Colonel Proctor was wounded by a bullet to the groin. Fogg, though in the thick of the fight was not hurt. Aouda weeps at the loss of Passepartout. Fogg now has to decide whether to go on or to rescue Passepartout from the Sioux. He tells Aouda he will find his servant no matter the cost. Aouda is grateful. Fogg tries to get the soldiers to go with him, but they refuse until he insists he will go alone. Thirty volunteers decide to go with him. Fix wants to go to keep Fogg in view, but Fogg asks him to look after Aouda in case anything happens to him. Aouda holds the carpet bag, and Fogg promises 5,000 dollars among the soldiers who save the prisoners. Fix and Aouda wait all day at the station platform at Ft. Kearney. It begins to snow, and late in the afternoon a locomotive approaches. It was the one that got detached from their train. The engineer and his stoker were not taken by Indians and managed to get the locomotive back to the station and hooked to the train. They want to start at once towards Omaha since they are three hours late. Another train will not come until tomorrow night. Aouda knows that will be too late and feels Fogg has lost the bet, but she refuses to get on the train. Fix is tempted to leave, but he is stubborn and waits also. Night falls, and it is very cold. Aouda wanders about the station. At dawn, finally they hear gunshots, and the soldiers reappear with Passepartout and the two other passengers. They had fought the Indians and released their prisoners. Fogg rewards the soldiers, and Passepartout regrets once more he has cost his master so much.

----------CHAPTER 29--------- The train pursued its course, that evening, without interruption, passing Fort Saunders, crossing Cheyne Pass, and reaching Evans Pass. The road here attained the highest elevation of the journey, eight thousand and ninety-two feet above the level of the sea. The travellers had now only to descend to the Atlantic by limitless plains, levelled by nature. A branch of the "grand trunk" led off southward to Denver, the capital of Colorado. The country round about is rich in gold and silver, and more than fifty thousand inhabitants are already settled there. Thirteen hundred and eighty-two miles had been passed over from San Francisco, in three days and three nights; four days and nights more would probably bring them to New York. Phileas Fogg was not as yet behind-hand. During the night Camp Walbach was passed on the left; Lodge Pole Creek ran parallel with the road, marking the boundary between the territories of Wyoming and Colorado. They entered Nebraska at eleven, passed near Sedgwick, and touched at Julesburg, on the southern branch of the Platte River. It was here that the Union Pacific Railroad was inaugurated on the 23rd of October, 1867, by the chief engineer, General Dodge. Two powerful locomotives, carrying nine cars of invited guests, amongst whom was Thomas C. Durant, vice-president of the road, stopped at this point; cheers were given, the Sioux and Pawnees performed an imitation Indian battle, fireworks were let off, and the first number of the Railway Pioneer was printed by a press brought on the train. Thus was celebrated the inauguration of this great railroad, a mighty instrument of progress and civilisation, thrown across the desert, and destined to link together cities and towns which do not yet exist. The whistle of the locomotive, more powerful than Amphion's lyre, was about to bid them rise from American soil. Fort McPherson was left behind at eight in the morning, and three hundred and fifty-seven miles had yet to be traversed before reaching Omaha. The road followed the capricious windings of the southern branch of the Platte River, on its left bank. At nine the train stopped at the important town of North Platte, built between the two arms of the river, which rejoin each other around it and form a single artery, a large tributary, whose waters empty into the Missouri a little above Omaha. The one hundred and first meridian was passed. Mr. Fogg and his partners had resumed their game; no one--not even the dummy--complained of the length of the trip. Fix had begun by winning several guineas, which he seemed likely to lose; but he showed himself a not less eager whist-player than Mr. Fogg. During the morning, chance distinctly favoured that gentleman. Trumps and honours were showered upon his hands. Once, having resolved on a bold stroke, he was on the point of playing a spade, when a voice behind him said, "I should play a diamond." Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix raised their heads, and beheld Colonel Proctor. Stamp Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognised each other at once. "Ah! it's you, is it, Englishman?" cried the colonel; "it's you who are going to play a spade!" "And who plays it," replied Phileas Fogg coolly, throwing down the ten of spades. "Well, it pleases me to have it diamonds," replied Colonel Proctor, in an insolent tone. He made a movement as if to seize the card which had just been played, adding, "You don't understand anything about whist." "Perhaps I do, as well as another," said Phileas Fogg, rising. "You have only to try, son of John Bull," replied the colonel. Aouda turned pale, and her blood ran cold. She seized Mr. Fogg's arm and gently pulled him back. Passepartout was ready to pounce upon the American, who was staring insolently at his opponent. But Fix got up, and, going to Colonel Proctor said, "You forget that it is I with whom you have to deal, sir; for it was I whom you not only insulted, but struck!" "Mr. Fix," said Mr. Fogg, "pardon me, but this affair is mine, and mine only. The colonel has again insulted me, by insisting that I should not play a spade, and he shall give me satisfaction for it." "When and where you will," replied the American, "and with whatever weapon you choose." Aouda in vain attempted to retain Mr. Fogg; as vainly did the detective endeavour to make the quarrel his. Passepartout wished to throw the colonel out of the window, but a sign from his master checked him. Phileas Fogg left the car, and the American followed him upon the platform. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg to his adversary, "I am in a great hurry to get back to Europe, and any delay whatever will be greatly to my disadvantage." "Well, what's that to me?" replied Colonel Proctor. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg, very politely, "after our meeting at San Francisco, I determined to return to America and find you as soon as I had completed the business which called me to England." "Really!" "Will you appoint a meeting for six months hence?" "Why not ten years hence?" "I say six months," returned Phileas Fogg; "and I shall be at the place of meeting promptly." "All this is an evasion," cried Stamp Proctor. "Now or never!" "Very good. You are going to New York?" "No." "To Chicago?" "No." "To Omaha?" "What difference is it to you? Do you know Plum Creek?" "No," replied Mr. Fogg. "It's the next station. The train will be there in an hour, and will stop there ten minutes. In ten minutes several revolver-shots could be exchanged." "Very well," said Mr. Fogg. "I will stop at Plum Creek." "And I guess you'll stay there too," added the American insolently. "Who knows?" replied Mr. Fogg, returning to the car as coolly as usual. He began to reassure Aouda, telling her that blusterers were never to be feared, and begged Fix to be his second at the approaching duel, a request which the detective could not refuse. Mr. Fogg resumed the interrupted game with perfect calmness. At eleven o'clock the locomotive's whistle announced that they were approaching Plum Creek station. Mr. Fogg rose, and, followed by Fix, went out upon the platform. Passepartout accompanied him, carrying a pair of revolvers. Aouda remained in the car, as pale as death. The door of the next car opened, and Colonel Proctor appeared on the platform, attended by a Yankee of his own stamp as his second. But just as the combatants were about to step from the train, the conductor hurried up, and shouted, "You can't get off, gentlemen!" "Why not?" asked the colonel. "We are twenty minutes late, and we shall not stop." "But I am going to fight a duel with this gentleman." "I am sorry," said the conductor; "but we shall be off at once. There's the bell ringing now." The train started. "I'm really very sorry, gentlemen," said the conductor. "Under any other circumstances I should have been happy to oblige you. But, after all, as you have not had time to fight here, why not fight as we go along?" "That wouldn't be convenient, perhaps, for this gentleman," said the colonel, in a jeering tone. "It would be perfectly so," replied Phileas Fogg. "Well, we are really in America," thought Passepartout, "and the conductor is a gentleman of the first order!" So muttering, he followed his master. The two combatants, their seconds, and the conductor passed through the cars to the rear of the train. The last car was only occupied by a dozen passengers, whom the conductor politely asked if they would not be so kind as to leave it vacant for a few moments, as two gentlemen had an affair of honour to settle. The passengers granted the request with alacrity, and straightway disappeared on the platform. The car, which was some fifty feet long, was very convenient for their purpose. The adversaries might march on each other in the aisle, and fire at their ease. Never was duel more easily arranged. Mr. Fogg and Colonel Proctor, each provided with two six-barrelled revolvers, entered the car. The seconds, remaining outside, shut them in. They were to begin firing at the first whistle of the locomotive. After an interval of two minutes, what remained of the two gentlemen would be taken from the car. Nothing could be more simple. Indeed, it was all so simple that Fix and Passepartout felt their hearts beating as if they would crack. They were listening for the whistle agreed upon, when suddenly savage cries resounded in the air, accompanied by reports which certainly did not issue from the car where the duellists were. The reports continued in front and the whole length of the train. Cries of terror proceeded from the interior of the cars. Colonel Proctor and Mr. Fogg, revolvers in hand, hastily quitted their prison, and rushed forward where the noise was most clamorous. They then perceived that the train was attacked by a band of Sioux. This was not the first attempt of these daring Indians, for more than once they had waylaid trains on the road. A hundred of them had, according to their habit, jumped upon the steps without stopping the train, with the ease of a clown mounting a horse at full gallop. The Sioux were armed with guns, from which came the reports, to which the passengers, who were almost all armed, responded by revolver-shots. The Indians had first mounted the engine, and half stunned the engineer and stoker with blows from their muskets. A Sioux chief, wishing to stop the train, but not knowing how to work the regulator, had opened wide instead of closing the steam-valve, and the locomotive was plunging forward with terrific velocity. The Sioux had at the same time invaded the cars, skipping like enraged monkeys over the roofs, thrusting open the doors, and fighting hand to hand with the passengers. Penetrating the baggage-car, they pillaged it, throwing the trunks out of the train. The cries and shots were constant. The travellers defended themselves bravely; some of the cars were barricaded, and sustained a siege, like moving forts, carried along at a speed of a hundred miles an hour. Aouda behaved courageously from the first. She defended herself like a true heroine with a revolver, which she shot through the broken windows whenever a savage made his appearance. Twenty Sioux had fallen mortally wounded to the ground, and the wheels crushed those who fell upon the rails as if they had been worms. Several passengers, shot or stunned, lay on the seats. It was necessary to put an end to the struggle, which had lasted for ten minutes, and which would result in the triumph of the Sioux if the train was not stopped. Fort Kearney station, where there was a garrison, was only two miles distant; but, that once passed, the Sioux would be masters of the train between Fort Kearney and the station beyond. The conductor was fighting beside Mr. Fogg, when he was shot and fell. At the same moment he cried, "Unless the train is stopped in five minutes, we are lost!" "It shall be stopped," said Phileas Fogg, preparing to rush from the car. "Stay, monsieur," cried Passepartout; "I will go." Mr. Fogg had not time to stop the brave fellow, who, opening a door unperceived by the Indians, succeeded in slipping under the car; and while the struggle continued and the balls whizzed across each other over his head, he made use of his old acrobatic experience, and with amazing agility worked his way under the cars, holding on to the chains, aiding himself by the brakes and edges of the sashes, creeping from one car to another with marvellous skill, and thus gaining the forward end of the train. There, suspended by one hand between the baggage-car and the tender, with the other he loosened the safety chains; but, owing to the traction, he would never have succeeded in unscrewing the yoking-bar, had not a violent concussion jolted this bar out. The train, now detached from the engine, remained a little behind, whilst the locomotive rushed forward with increased speed. Carried on by the force already acquired, the train still moved for several minutes; but the brakes were worked and at last they stopped, less than a hundred feet from Kearney station. The soldiers of the fort, attracted by the shots, hurried up; the Sioux had not expected them, and decamped in a body before the train entirely stopped. But when the passengers counted each other on the station platform several were found missing; among others the courageous Frenchman, whose devotion had just saved them. ----------CHAPTER 30--------- Three passengers including Passepartout had disappeared. Had they been killed in the struggle? Were they taken prisoners by the Sioux? It was impossible to tell. There were many wounded, but none mortally. Colonel Proctor was one of the most seriously hurt; he had fought bravely, and a ball had entered his groin. He was carried into the station with the other wounded passengers, to receive such attention as could be of avail. Aouda was safe; and Phileas Fogg, who had been in the thickest of the fight, had not received a scratch. Fix was slightly wounded in the arm. But Passepartout was not to be found, and tears coursed down Aouda's cheeks. All the passengers had got out of the train, the wheels of which were stained with blood. From the tyres and spokes hung ragged pieces of flesh. As far as the eye could reach on the white plain behind, red trails were visible. The last Sioux were disappearing in the south, along the banks of Republican River. Mr. Fogg, with folded arms, remained motionless. He had a serious decision to make. Aouda, standing near him, looked at him without speaking, and he understood her look. If his servant was a prisoner, ought he not to risk everything to rescue him from the Indians? "I will find him, living or dead," said he quietly to Aouda. "Ah, Mr.--Mr. Fogg!" cried she, clasping his hands and covering them with tears. "Living," added Mr. Fogg, "if we do not lose a moment." Phileas Fogg, by this resolution, inevitably sacrificed himself; he pronounced his own doom. The delay of a single day would make him lose the steamer at New York, and his bet would be certainly lost. But as he thought, "It is my duty," he did not hesitate. The commanding officer of Fort Kearney was there. A hundred of his soldiers had placed themselves in a position to defend the station, should the Sioux attack it. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg to the captain, "three passengers have disappeared." "Dead?" asked the captain. "Dead or prisoners; that is the uncertainty which must be solved. Do you propose to pursue the Sioux?" "That's a serious thing to do, sir," returned the captain. "These Indians may retreat beyond the Arkansas, and I cannot leave the fort unprotected." "The lives of three men are in question, sir," said Phileas Fogg. "Doubtless; but can I risk the lives of fifty men to save three?" "I don't know whether you can, sir; but you ought to do so." "Nobody here," returned the other, "has a right to teach me my duty." "Very well," said Mr. Fogg, coldly. "I will go alone." "You, sir!" cried Fix, coming up; "you go alone in pursuit of the Indians?" "Would you have me leave this poor fellow to perish--him to whom every one present owes his life? I shall go." "No, sir, you shall not go alone," cried the captain, touched in spite of himself. "No! you are a brave man. Thirty volunteers!" he added, turning to the soldiers. The whole company started forward at once. The captain had only to pick his men. Thirty were chosen, and an old sergeant placed at their head. "Thanks, captain," said Mr. Fogg. "Will you let me go with you?" asked Fix. "Do as you please, sir. But if you wish to do me a favour, you will remain with Aouda. In case anything should happen to me--" A sudden pallor overspread the detective's face. Separate himself from the man whom he had so persistently followed step by step! Leave him to wander about in this desert! Fix gazed attentively at Mr. Fogg, and, despite his suspicions and of the struggle which was going on within him, he lowered his eyes before that calm and frank look. "I will stay," said he. A few moments after, Mr. Fogg pressed the young woman's hand, and, having confided to her his precious carpet-bag, went off with the sergeant and his little squad. But, before going, he had said to the soldiers, "My friends, I will divide five thousand dollars among you, if we save the prisoners." It was then a little past noon. Aouda retired to a waiting-room, and there she waited alone, thinking of the simple and noble generosity, the tranquil courage of Phileas Fogg. He had sacrificed his fortune, and was now risking his life, all without hesitation, from duty, in silence. Fix did not have the same thoughts, and could scarcely conceal his agitation. He walked feverishly up and down the platform, but soon resumed his outward composure. He now saw the folly of which he had been guilty in letting Fogg go alone. What! This man, whom he had just followed around the world, was permitted now to separate himself from him! He began to accuse and abuse himself, and, as if he were director of police, administered to himself a sound lecture for his greenness. "I have been an idiot!" he thought, "and this man will see it. He has gone, and won't come back! But how is it that I, Fix, who have in my pocket a warrant for his arrest, have been so fascinated by him? Decidedly, I am nothing but an ass!" So reasoned the detective, while the hours crept by all too slowly. He did not know what to do. Sometimes he was tempted to tell Aouda all; but he could not doubt how the young woman would receive his confidences. What course should he take? He thought of pursuing Fogg across the vast white plains; it did not seem impossible that he might overtake him. Footsteps were easily printed on the snow! But soon, under a new sheet, every imprint would be effaced. Fix became discouraged. He felt a sort of insurmountable longing to abandon the game altogether. He could now leave Fort Kearney station, and pursue his journey homeward in peace. Towards two o'clock in the afternoon, while it was snowing hard, long whistles were heard approaching from the east. A great shadow, preceded by a wild light, slowly advanced, appearing still larger through the mist, which gave it a fantastic aspect. No train was expected from the east, neither had there been time for the succour asked for by telegraph to arrive; the train from Omaha to San Francisco was not due till the next day. The mystery was soon explained. The locomotive, which was slowly approaching with deafening whistles, was that which, having been detached from the train, had continued its route with such terrific rapidity, carrying off the unconscious engineer and stoker. It had run several miles, when, the fire becoming low for want of fuel, the steam had slackened; and it had finally stopped an hour after, some twenty miles beyond Fort Kearney. Neither the engineer nor the stoker was dead, and, after remaining for some time in their swoon, had come to themselves. The train had then stopped. The engineer, when he found himself in the desert, and the locomotive without cars, understood what had happened. He could not imagine how the locomotive had become separated from the train; but he did not doubt that the train left behind was in distress. He did not hesitate what to do. It would be prudent to continue on to Omaha, for it would be dangerous to return to the train, which the Indians might still be engaged in pillaging. Nevertheless, he began to rebuild the fire in the furnace; the pressure again mounted, and the locomotive returned, running backwards to Fort Kearney. This it was which was whistling in the mist. The travellers were glad to see the locomotive resume its place at the head of the train. They could now continue the journey so terribly interrupted. Aouda, on seeing the locomotive come up, hurried out of the station, and asked the conductor, "Are you going to start?" "At once, madam." "But the prisoners, our unfortunate fellow-travellers--" "I cannot interrupt the trip," replied the conductor. "We are already three hours behind time." "And when will another train pass here from San Francisco?" "To-morrow evening, madam." "To-morrow evening! But then it will be too late! We must wait--" "It is impossible," responded the conductor. "If you wish to go, please get in." "I will not go," said Aouda. Fix had heard this conversation. A little while before, when there was no prospect of proceeding on the journey, he had made up his mind to leave Fort Kearney; but now that the train was there, ready to start, and he had only to take his seat in the car, an irresistible influence held him back. The station platform burned his feet, and he could not stir. The conflict in his mind again began; anger and failure stifled him. He wished to struggle on to the end. Meanwhile the passengers and some of the wounded, among them Colonel Proctor, whose injuries were serious, had taken their places in the train. The buzzing of the over-heated boiler was heard, and the steam was escaping from the valves. The engineer whistled, the train started, and soon disappeared, mingling its white smoke with the eddies of the densely falling snow. The detective had remained behind. Several hours passed. The weather was dismal, and it was very cold. Fix sat motionless on a bench in the station; he might have been thought asleep. Aouda, despite the storm, kept coming out of the waiting-room, going to the end of the platform, and peering through the tempest of snow, as if to pierce the mist which narrowed the horizon around her, and to hear, if possible, some welcome sound. She heard and saw nothing. Then she would return, chilled through, to issue out again after the lapse of a few moments, but always in vain. Evening came, and the little band had not returned. Where could they be? Had they found the Indians, and were they having a conflict with them, or were they still wandering amid the mist? The commander of the fort was anxious, though he tried to conceal his apprehensions. As night approached, the snow fell less plentifully, but it became intensely cold. Absolute silence rested on the plains. Neither flight of bird nor passing of beast troubled the perfect calm. Throughout the night Aouda, full of sad forebodings, her heart stifled with anguish, wandered about on the verge of the plains. Her imagination carried her far off, and showed her innumerable dangers. What she suffered through the long hours it would be impossible to describe. Fix remained stationary in the same place, but did not sleep. Once a man approached and spoke to him, and the detective merely replied by shaking his head. Thus the night passed. At dawn, the half-extinguished disc of the sun rose above a misty horizon; but it was now possible to recognise objects two miles off. Phileas Fogg and the squad had gone southward; in the south all was still vacancy. It was then seven o'clock. The captain, who was really alarmed, did not know what course to take. Should he send another detachment to the rescue of the first? Should he sacrifice more men, with so few chances of saving those already sacrificed? His hesitation did not last long, however. Calling one of his lieutenants, he was on the point of ordering a reconnaissance, when gunshots were heard. Was it a signal? The soldiers rushed out of the fort, and half a mile off they perceived a little band returning in good order. Mr. Fogg was marching at their head, and just behind him were Passepartout and the other two travellers, rescued from the Sioux. They had met and fought the Indians ten miles south of Fort Kearney. Shortly before the detachment arrived, Passepartout and his companions had begun to struggle with their captors, three of whom the Frenchman had felled with his fists, when his master and the soldiers hastened up to their relief. All were welcomed with joyful cries. Phileas Fogg distributed the reward he had promised to the soldiers, while Passepartout, not without reason, muttered to himself, "It must certainly be confessed that I cost my master dear!" Fix, without saying a word, looked at Mr. Fogg, and it would have been difficult to analyse the thoughts which struggled within him. As for Aouda, she took her protector's hand and pressed it in her own, too much moved to speak. Meanwhile, Passepartout was looking about for the train; he thought he should find it there, ready to start for Omaha, and he hoped that the time lost might be regained. "The train! the train!" cried he. "Gone," replied Fix. "And when does the next train pass here?" said Phileas Fogg. "Not till this evening." "Ah!" returned the impassible gentleman quietly.

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chapter 31|chapter 32

"In which Fix the detective considerably furthers the interests of Phileas Fogg" Fogg is twenty hours behind, and Passepartout is desolate for ruining his master. Fix however, determines that Fogg is only 8 hours behind since he was counting the 11 hours they had to wait for the steamer. Fix comes up with the idea of traveling on a sledge with sails over the prairie. This came from a man who had offered to take Fix to Omaha on such a device. The man's name is Mudge and he is at the station. The sledges are used to go from fort to fort in the winter. Mudge says he can get Fogg to Omaha in a few hours. The whole company of Fogg, Aouda, Passepartout, Fix, and Mudge embark on the sledge, wrapped against the cold wind. The distance is 200 miles. The sledge goes 40 miles an hour over the flat and frozen prairie. The sledge can go more directly than the railroad. There is still a chance. Passepartout wants to shake Fix's hand. There is danger, however, because of the wolves that follow them. They make Omaha in time to jump on a train heading east. On the 10th of December they arrive at Chicago, with still 900 miles to New York. They have no trouble getting trains the rest of the way, and get to New York on the 11th of December, alas, 45 minutes after the steamer leaves for Liverpool!

----------CHAPTER 31--------- 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! ----------CHAPTER 32--------- The China, in leaving, seemed to have carried off Phileas Fogg's last hope. None of the other steamers were able to serve his projects. The Pereire, of the French Transatlantic Company, whose admirable steamers are equal to any in speed and comfort, did not leave until the 14th; the Hamburg boats did not go directly to Liverpool or London, but to Havre; and the additional trip from Havre to Southampton would render Phileas Fogg's last efforts of no avail. The Inman steamer did not depart till the next day, and could not cross the Atlantic in time to save the wager. Mr. Fogg learned all this in consulting his Bradshaw, which gave him the daily movements of the trans-Atlantic steamers. Passepartout was crushed; it overwhelmed him to lose the boat by three-quarters of an hour. It was his fault, for, instead of helping his master, he had not ceased putting obstacles in his path! And when he recalled all the incidents of the tour, when he counted up the sums expended in pure loss and on his own account, when he thought that the immense stake, added to the heavy charges of this useless journey, would completely ruin Mr. Fogg, he overwhelmed himself with bitter self-accusations. Mr. Fogg, however, did not reproach him; and, on leaving the Cunard pier, only said: "We will consult about what is best to-morrow. Come." The party crossed the Hudson in the Jersey City ferryboat, and drove in a carriage to the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Broadway. Rooms were engaged, and the night passed, briefly to Phileas Fogg, who slept profoundly, but very long to Aouda and the others, whose agitation did not permit them to rest. The next day was the 12th of December. From seven in the morning of the 12th to a quarter before nine in the evening of the 21st there were nine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes. If Phileas Fogg had left in the China, one of the fastest steamers on the Atlantic, he would have reached Liverpool, and then London, within the period agreed upon. Mr. Fogg left the hotel alone, after giving Passepartout instructions to await his return, and inform Aouda to be ready at an instant's notice. He proceeded to the banks of the Hudson, and looked about among the vessels moored or anchored in the river, for any that were about to depart. Several had departure signals, and were preparing to put to sea at morning tide; for in this immense and admirable port there is not one day in a hundred that vessels do not set out for every quarter of the globe. But they were mostly sailing vessels, of which, of course, Phileas Fogg could make no use. He seemed about to give up all hope, when he espied, anchored at the Battery, a cable's length off at most, a trading vessel, with a screw, well-shaped, whose funnel, puffing a cloud of smoke, indicated that she was getting ready for departure. Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got into it, and soon found himself on board the Henrietta, iron-hulled, wood-built above. He ascended to the deck, and asked for the captain, who forthwith presented himself. He was a man of fifty, a sort of sea-wolf, with big eyes, a complexion of oxidised copper, red hair and thick neck, and a growling voice. "The captain?" asked Mr. Fogg. "I am the captain." "I am Phileas Fogg, of London." "And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff." "You are going to put to sea?" "In an hour." "You are bound for--" "Bordeaux." "And your cargo?" "No freight. Going in ballast." "Have you any passengers?" "No passengers. Never have passengers. Too much in the way." "Is your vessel a swift one?" "Between eleven and twelve knots. The Henrietta, well known." "Will you carry me and three other persons to Liverpool?" "To Liverpool? Why not to China?" "I said Liverpool." "No!" "No?" "No. I am setting out for Bordeaux, and shall go to Bordeaux." "Money is no object?" "None." The captain spoke in a tone which did not admit of a reply. "But the owners of the Henrietta--" resumed Phileas Fogg. "The owners are myself," replied the captain. "The vessel belongs to me." "I will freight it for you." "No." "I will buy it of you." "No." Phileas Fogg did not betray the least disappointment; but the situation was a grave one. It was not at New York as at Hong Kong, nor with the captain of the Henrietta as with the captain of the Tankadere. Up to this time money had smoothed away every obstacle. Now money failed. Still, some means must be found to cross the Atlantic on a boat, unless by balloon--which would have been venturesome, besides not being capable of being put in practice. It seemed that Phileas Fogg had an idea, for he said to the captain, "Well, will you carry me to Bordeaux?" "No, not if you paid me two hundred dollars." "I offer you two thousand." "Apiece?" "Apiece." "And there are four of you?" "Four." Captain Speedy began to scratch his head. There were eight thousand dollars to gain, without changing his route; for which it was well worth conquering the repugnance he had for all kinds of passengers. Besides, passengers at two thousand dollars are no longer passengers, but valuable merchandise. "I start at nine o'clock," said Captain Speedy, simply. "Are you and your party ready?" "We will be on board at nine o'clock," replied, no less simply, Mr. Fogg. It was half-past eight. To disembark from the Henrietta, jump into a hack, hurry to the St. Nicholas, and return with Aouda, Passepartout, and even the inseparable Fix was the work of a brief time, and was performed by Mr. Fogg with the coolness which never abandoned him. They were on board when the Henrietta made ready to weigh anchor. When Passepartout heard what this last voyage was going to cost, he uttered a prolonged "Oh!" which extended throughout his vocal gamut. As for Fix, he said to himself that the Bank of England would certainly not come out of this affair well indemnified. When they reached England, even if Mr. Fogg did not throw some handfuls of bank-bills into the sea, more than seven thousand pounds would have been spent!

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chapter 33|chapter 34|chapter 35

"In which Phileas Fogg shows himself equal to the occasion" The Henrietta puts to sea but not with Captain Speedy at the bridge. Mr. Fogg is at the helm with Speedy in his cabin under lock and key. Fogg had bribed the crew to sail to Liverpool. He had been a sailor and knows what to do. The boat must go 3,000 miles in nine days. At first all goes well, and Passepartout is delighted. The crew loves Passepartout and his good humor and everyone works hard. Passepartout, however, is distrustful of Fix, who is very confused at the hijacking of the boat. Fix does not know where the vessel is going, and believes it is part of the robber's plan. Passing Newfoundland, the cold increases and the wind shifts. Fogg has to furl the sails and increase the steam to keep on his course. A storm threatens the stability of the ship for two days, but Fogg knows how to navigate and stay on course. He does not decrease the steam but forces the ship to cross the waves. They are half way across the sea. The engineer tells Fogg that they are running out of coal, but he pushes on. On the 18th of December the coal is gone. Fogg sends for Captain Speedy. Speedy calls Fogg a pirate; Fogg tells the Captain he has to burn the boat for fuel to finish the journey. He buys the boat for $60,000. Fix is furious that almost 20,000 pounds have been spent. Speedy is happy, and calls Fogg "Captain." They begin to tear the boat apart, burning all the wood until the Henrietta is a flat hulk. With only 24 hours left and no more wood, they see the Irish coast. Queenstown is a port where steamers stop to leave mail. The mail goes to Dublin by express train and from Dublin to Liverpool by rapid boat. This is where Fogg can gain 12 hours by going to Queenstown instead of Liverpool directly. They make Ireland and disembark. Fix wants to arrest Fogg but hesitates. They all take the train to Dublin and then on to Liverpool. This is where Fogg is finally arrested. It is almost noon on December 21, and he is 6 hours from London and the finish line.

----------CHAPTER 33--------- An hour after, the Henrietta passed the lighthouse which marks the entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea. During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and directed her course rapidly eastward. At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the vessel's position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy. Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire. As for Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and excessive. What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the Henrietta was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor. How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg's manoeuvre simply glorious. The captain had said "between eleven and twelve knots," and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction. If, then--for there were "ifs" still--the sea did not become too boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta might cross the three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days, between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta, added to that of the Bank of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he imagined or could desire. During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east, the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves like a real trans-Atlantic steamer. Passepartout was delighted. His master's last exploit, the consequences of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors, and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past, its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if heated by the furnaces of the Henrietta. Often, also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer existed. Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on. The conquest of the Henrietta, the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing the boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not unnaturally inclined to conclude that the Henrietta under Fogg's command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair. As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin; and Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals, courageous as he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg did not seem even to know that there was a captain on board. On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland, a dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are frequent fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening before the barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching change in the atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied, the cold became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east. This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his course, furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the vessel's speed slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves of which broke against the stern. She pitched violently, and this retarded her progress. The breeze little by little swelled into a tempest, and it was to be feared that the Henrietta might not be able to maintain herself upright on the waves. Passepartout's visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the poor fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold mariner, and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept on his course, without even decreasing his steam. The Henrietta, when she could not rise upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but passing safely. Sometimes the screw rose out of the water, beating its protruding end, when a mountain of water raised the stern above the waves; but the craft always kept straight ahead. The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been feared; it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with a speed of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it remained obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless. The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg's departure from London, and the Henrietta had not yet been seriously delayed. Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst localities had been passed. In summer, success would have been well-nigh certain. In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season. Passepartout said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and comforted himself with the reflection that, if the wind failed them, they might still count on the steam. On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and began to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was a presentiment, perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy. He would have given one of his ears to hear with the other what the engineer was saying. He finally managed to catch a few words, and was sure he heard his master say, "You are certain of what you tell me?" "Certain, sir," replied the engineer. "You must remember that, since we started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces, and, though we had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to Bordeaux, we haven't enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool." "I will consider," replied Mr. Fogg. Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety. The coal was giving out! "Ah, if my master can get over that," muttered he, "he'll be a famous man!" He could not help imparting to Fix what he had overheard. "Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?" "Of course." "Ass!" replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on his heel. Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet, the reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend; but he reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much disappointed and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so awkwardly followed a false scent around the world, and refrained. And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult to imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one, for that evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him, "Feed all the fires until the coal is exhausted." A few moments after, the funnel of the Henrietta vomited forth torrents of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on; but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced that the coal would give out in the course of the day. "Do not let the fires go down," replied Mr. Fogg. "Keep them up to the last. Let the valves be filled." Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position, called Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy. It was as if the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger. He went to the poop, saying to himself, "He will be like a madman!" In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the poop-deck. The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the point of bursting. "Where are we?" were the first words his anger permitted him to utter. Had the poor man been an apoplectic, he could never have recovered from his paroxysm of wrath. "Where are we?" he repeated, with purple face. "Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool," replied Mr. Fogg, with imperturbable calmness. "Pirate!" cried Captain Speedy. "I have sent for you, sir--" "Pickaroon!" "--sir," continued Mr. Fogg, "to ask you to sell me your vessel." "No! By all the devils, no!" "But I shall be obliged to burn her." "Burn the Henrietta!" "Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out." "Burn my vessel!" cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely pronounce the words. "A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!" "Here are sixty thousand," replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. An American can scarcely remain unmoved at the sight of sixty thousand dollars. The captain forgot in an instant his anger, his imprisonment, and all his grudges against his passenger. The Henrietta was twenty years old; it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all. Mr. Fogg had taken away the match. "And I shall still have the iron hull," said the captain in a softer tone. "The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?" "Agreed." And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them and consigned them to his pocket. During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet, and Fix seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit. Nearly twenty thousand pounds had been expended, and Fogg left the hull and engine to the captain, that is, near the whole value of the craft! It was true, however, that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank. When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him, "Don't let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall lose twenty thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by a quarter before nine on the evening of the 21st of December. I missed the steamer at New York, and as you refused to take me to Liverpool--" "And I did well!" cried Andrew Speedy; "for I have gained at least forty thousand dollars by it!" He added, more sedately, "Do you know one thing, Captain--" "Fogg." "Captain Fogg, you've got something of the Yankee about you." And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment, he was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, "The vessel now belongs to me?" "Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts--all the wood, that is." "Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down, and burn them." It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up to the adequate pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins, bunks, and the spare deck were sacrificed. On the next day, the 19th of December, the masts, rafts, and spars were burned; the crew worked lustily, keeping up the fires. Passepartout hewed, cut, and sawed away with all his might. There was a perfect rage for demolition. The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides disappeared on the 20th, and the Henrietta was now only a flat hulk. But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light. By ten in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had only twenty-four hours more in which to get to London; that length of time was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on. And the steam was about to give out altogether! "Sir," said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in Mr. Fogg's project, "I really commiserate you. Everything is against you. We are only opposite Queenstown." "Ah," said Mr. Fogg, "is that place where we see the lights Queenstown?" "Yes." "Can we enter the harbour?" "Not under three hours. Only at high tide." "Stay," replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer ill-fortune. Queenstown is the Irish port at which the trans-Atlantic steamers stop to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the Atlantic steamers. Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way. Instead of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the Henrietta, he would be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before a quarter before nine in the evening. The Henrietta entered Queenstown Harbour at one o'clock in the morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold it for. The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr. Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle was going on within him? Had he changed his mind about "his man"? Did he understand that he had made a grave mistake? He did not, however, abandon Mr. Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the waves, invariably cut through them. Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only six hours distant from London. But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg's shoulder, and, showing his warrant, said, "You are really Phileas Fogg?" "I am." "I arrest you in the Queen's name!" ----------CHAPTER 34--------- Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom House, and he was to be transferred to London the next day. Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon Fix had he not been held back by some policemen. Aouda was thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not understand. Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber. The young woman's heart revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly. As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether Mr. Fogg were guilty or not. The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this new misfortune! Had he not concealed Fix's errand from his master? When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least, Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of his master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil. Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains out. Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place; both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again. That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal. Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st of December, he had till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter; the journey from Liverpool to London was six hours. If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true, resigned; but this last blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which only burst forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment? No one could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting--for what? Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed? However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern. The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he was a knave, he was caught. Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were any practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping from it? Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room. But the door was locked, and the window heavily barred with iron rods. He sat down again, and drew his journal from his pocket. On the line where these words were written, "21st December, Saturday, Liverpool," he added, "80th day, 11.40 a.m.," and waited. The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch was two hours too fast. Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an express train, he could reach London and the Reform Club by a quarter before nine, p.m. His forehead slightly wrinkled. At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside, then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout's voice was audible, and immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg's eyes brightened for an instant. The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix, who hurried towards him. Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not speak. "Sir," he stammered, "sir--forgive me--most--unfortunate resemblance--robber arrested three days ago--you are free!" Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him steadily in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his life, or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the precision of a machine knocked Fix down. "Well hit!" cried Passepartout, "Parbleu! that's what you might call a good application of English fists!" Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word. He had only received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout left the Custom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few moments descended at the station. Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train about to leave for London. It was forty minutes past two. The express train had left thirty-five minutes before. Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train. There were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway arrangements did not permit the special train to leave until three o'clock. At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by the offer of a generous reward, at last set out towards London with Aouda and his faithful servant. It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half; and this would have been easy on a clear road throughout. But there were forced delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped from the train at the terminus, all the clocks in London were striking ten minutes before nine. Having made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand five minutes. He had lost the wager! ----------CHAPTER 35--------- The dwellers in Saville Row would have been surprised the next day, if they had been told that Phileas Fogg had returned home. His doors and windows were still closed, no appearance of change was visible. After leaving the station, Mr. Fogg gave Passepartout instructions to purchase some provisions, and quietly went to his domicile. He bore his misfortune with his habitual tranquillity. Ruined! And by the blundering of the detective! After having steadily traversed that long journey, overcome a hundred obstacles, braved many dangers, and still found time to do some good on his way, to fail near the goal by a sudden event which he could not have foreseen, and against which he was unarmed; it was terrible! But a few pounds were left of the large sum he had carried with him. There only remained of his fortune the twenty thousand pounds deposited at Barings, and this amount he owed to his friends of the Reform Club. So great had been the expense of his tour that, even had he won, it would not have enriched him; and it is probable that he had not sought to enrich himself, being a man who rather laid wagers for honour's sake than for the stake proposed. But this wager totally ruined him. Mr. Fogg's course, however, was fully decided upon; he knew what remained for him to do. A room in the house in Saville Row was set apart for Aouda, who was overwhelmed with grief at her protector's misfortune. From the words which Mr. Fogg dropped, she saw that he was meditating some serious project. Knowing that Englishmen governed by a fixed idea sometimes resort to the desperate expedient of suicide, Passepartout kept a narrow watch upon his master, though he carefully concealed the appearance of so doing. First of all, the worthy fellow had gone up to his room, and had extinguished the gas burner, which had been burning for eighty days. He had found in the letter-box a bill from the gas company, and he thought it more than time to put a stop to this expense, which he had been doomed to bear. The night passed. Mr. Fogg went to bed, but did he sleep? Aouda did not once close her eyes. Passepartout watched all night, like a faithful dog, at his master's door. Mr. Fogg called him in the morning, and told him to get Aouda's breakfast, and a cup of tea and a chop for himself. He desired Aouda to excuse him from breakfast and dinner, as his time would be absorbed all day in putting his affairs to rights. In the evening he would ask permission to have a few moment's conversation with the young lady. Passepartout, having received his orders, had nothing to do but obey them. He looked at his imperturbable master, and could scarcely bring his mind to leave him. His heart was full, and his conscience tortured by remorse; for he accused himself more bitterly than ever of being the cause of the irretrievable disaster. Yes! if he had warned Mr. Fogg, and had betrayed Fix's projects to him, his master would certainly not have given the detective passage to Liverpool, and then-- Passepartout could hold in no longer. "My master! Mr. Fogg!" he cried, "why do you not curse me? It was my fault that--" "I blame no one," returned Phileas Fogg, with perfect calmness. "Go!" Passepartout left the room, and went to find Aouda, to whom he delivered his master's message. "Madam," he added, "I can do nothing myself--nothing! I have no influence over my master; but you, perhaps--" "What influence could I have?" replied Aouda. "Mr. Fogg is influenced by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude to him is overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend, he must not be left alone an instant! You say he is going to speak with me this evening?" "Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in England." "We shall see," replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive. Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if uninhabited, and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in that house, did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck half-past eleven. Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer expected him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on the evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine), he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should go to his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists already had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their credit. Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so he remained at home. He shut himself up in his room, and busied himself putting his affairs in order. Passepartout continually ascended and descended the stairs. The hours were long for him. He listened at his master's door, and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do, and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment. Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all the world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty in tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout. . . . This thought haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly. Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda's door, went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a corner, and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still pensive. About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know if Aouda would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself alone with her. Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace, opposite Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face. Fogg returned was exactly the Fogg who had gone away; there was the same calm, the same impassibility. He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on Aouda, "Madam," said he, "will you pardon me for bringing you to England?" "I, Mr. Fogg!" replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart. "Please let me finish," returned Mr. Fogg. "When I decided to bring you far away from the country which was so unsafe for you, I was rich, and counted on putting a portion of my fortune at your disposal; then your existence would have been free and happy. But now I am ruined." "I know it, Mr. Fogg," replied Aouda; "and I ask you in my turn, will you forgive me for having followed you, and--who knows?--for having, perhaps, delayed you, and thus contributed to your ruin?" "Madam, you could not remain in India, and your safety could only be assured by bringing you to such a distance that your persecutors could not take you." "So, Mr. Fogg," resumed Aouda, "not content with rescuing me from a terrible death, you thought yourself bound to secure my comfort in a foreign land?" "Yes, madam; but circumstances have been against me. Still, I beg to place the little I have left at your service." "But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?" "As for me, madam," replied the gentleman, coldly, "I have need of nothing." "But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?" "As I am in the habit of doing." "At least," said Aouda, "want should not overtake a man like you. Your friends--" "I have no friends, madam." "Your relatives--" "I have no longer any relatives." "I pity you, then, Mr. Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing, with no heart to which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself, shared by two sympathetic souls, may be borne with patience." "They say so, madam." "Mr. Fogg," said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, "do you wish at once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?" Mr. Fogg, at this, rose in his turn. There was an unwonted light in his eyes, and a slight trembling of his lips. Aouda looked into his face. The sincerity, rectitude, firmness, and sweetness of this soft glance of a noble woman, who could dare all to save him to whom she owed all, at first astonished, then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an instant, as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again, "I love you!" he said, simply. "Yes, by all that is holiest, I love you, and I am entirely yours!" "Ah!" cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart. Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr. Fogg still held Aouda's hand in his own; Passepartout understood, and his big, round face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith. Mr. Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify the Reverend Samuel Wilson, of Marylebone parish, that evening. Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said, "Never too late." It was five minutes past eight. "Will it be for to-morrow, Monday?" "For to-morrow, Monday," said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda. "Yes; for to-morrow, Monday," she replied. Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 36 with the given context.

"In which Phileas Fogg's name is once more at a premium on 'Change" The narrator backtracks to public opinion as it had followed Fogg's journey around the world. The real bank robber, James Strand, was caught on December 17, and then, Fogg was once more known as a gentleman, and the betting on his success or failure resumed. All news of Fogg, however, has been lost. Telegrams are sent to America and Asia to find his whereabouts. Would he appear on Saturday, the 21st of December? On Saturday evening crowds are around the Reform Club waiting to see. The five club members are present: John Sullivan, Samuel Fallentin, the bankers; Andrew Stuart, the engineer; Gauthier Ralph, Director of the Bank of England; and Thomas Flanagan, brewer. At twenty past eight, Stuart says they have twenty minutes to go. The last train from Liverpool came in at 7:23, and some declare Fogg has already lost, for he would have been here already. Stuart declares his name was not on the list of passengers on the steamer from New York. Now the clock says twenty to nine. There is a countdown of the last five minutes. Just as the clock ticks off the last second, Fogg walks into the room.

----------CHAPTER 36--------- It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion when it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand, had been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh. Three days before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being desperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable gentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the world. The papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had laid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic; the "Phileas Fogg bonds" again became negotiable, and many new wagers were made. Phileas Fogg's name was once more at a premium on 'Change. His five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state of feverish suspense. Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten, reappear before their eyes! Where was he at this moment? The 17th of December, the day of James Strand's arrest, was the seventy-sixth since Phileas Fogg's departure, and no news of him had been received. Was he dead? Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey along the route agreed upon? And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold of the Reform Club saloon? The anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be described. Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas Fogg. Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning and evening. No news. The police were ignorant what had become of the detective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent. Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value. Phileas Fogg, like a racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point. The bonds were quoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at five; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour. A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets on Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently established around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded, and everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going on. The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as the hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to its highest pitch. The five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the club. John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart, the engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and Thomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously. When the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got up, saying, "Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between Mr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired." "What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?" asked Thomas Flanagan. "At twenty-three minutes past seven," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and the next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve." "Well, gentlemen," resumed Andrew Stuart, "if Phileas Fogg had come in the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can, therefore, regard the bet as won." "Wait; don't let us be too hasty," replied Samuel Fallentin. "You know that Mr. Fogg is very eccentric. His punctuality is well known; he never arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if he appeared before us at the last minute." "Why," said Andrew Stuart nervously, "if I should see him, I should not believe it was he." "The fact is," resumed Thomas Flanagan, "Mr. Fogg's project was absurdly foolish. Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the delays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three days would be fatal to his tour." "Observe, too," added John Sullivan, "that we have received no intelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along his route." "He has lost, gentleman," said Andrew Stuart, "he has a hundred times lost! You know, besides, that the China the only steamer he could have taken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday. I have seen a list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among them. Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can scarcely have reached America. I think he will be at least twenty days behind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand." "It is clear," replied Gauthier Ralph; "and we have nothing to do but to present Mr. Fogg's cheque at Barings to-morrow." At this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes to nine. "Five minutes more," said Andrew Stuart. The five gentlemen looked at each other. Their anxiety was becoming intense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr. Fallentin's proposal of a rubber. "I wouldn't give up my four thousand of the bet," said Andrew Stuart, as he took his seat, "for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine." The clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine. The players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the clock. Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed so long to them! "Seventeen minutes to nine," said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards which Ralph handed to him. Then there was a moment of silence. The great saloon was perfectly quiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and then a shrill cry. The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player eagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity. "Sixteen minutes to nine!" said John Sullivan, in a voice which betrayed his emotion. One minute more, and the wager would be won. Andrew Stuart and his partners suspended their game. They left their cards, and counted the seconds. At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth, still nothing. At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by applause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls. The players rose from their seats. At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared, followed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club doors, and in his calm voice, said, "Here I am, gentlemen!" ----------CHAPTER 37--------- IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT PHILEAS FOGG GAINED NOTHING BY HIS TOUR AROUND THE WORLD, UNLESS IT WERE HAPPINESS Yes; Phileas Fogg in person. The reader will remember that at five minutes past eight in the evening--about five and twenty hours after the arrival of the travellers in London--Passepartout had been sent by his master to engage the services of the Reverend Samuel Wilson in a certain marriage ceremony, which was to take place the next day. Passepartout went on his errand enchanted. He soon reached the clergyman's house, but found him not at home. Passepartout waited a good twenty minutes, and when he left the reverend gentleman, it was thirty-five minutes past eight. But in what a state he was! With his hair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the sidewalk like a waterspout. In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into Mr. Fogg's room. He could not speak. "What is the matter?" asked Mr. Fogg. "My master!" gasped Passepartout--"marriage--impossible--" "Impossible?" "Impossible--for to-morrow." "Why so?" "Because to-morrow--is Sunday!" "Monday," replied Mr. Fogg. "No--to-day is Saturday." "Saturday? Impossible!" "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" cried Passepartout. "You have made a mistake of one day! We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time; but there are only ten minutes left!" Passepartout had seized his master by the collar, and was dragging him along with irresistible force. Phileas Fogg, thus kidnapped, without having time to think, left his house, jumped into a cab, promised a hundred pounds to the cabman, and, having run over two dogs and overturned five carriages, reached the Reform Club. The clock indicated a quarter before nine when he appeared in the great saloon. Phileas Fogg had accomplished the journey round the world in eighty days! Phileas Fogg had won his wager of twenty thousand pounds! How was it that a man so exact and fastidious could have made this error of a day? How came he to think that he had arrived in London on Saturday, the twenty-first day of December, when it was really Friday, the twentieth, the seventy-ninth day only from his departure? The cause of the error is very simple. Phileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey, and this merely because he had travelled constantly eastward; he would, on the contrary, have lost a day had he gone in the opposite direction, that is, westward. In journeying eastward he had gone towards the sun, and the days therefore diminished for him as many times four minutes as he crossed degrees in this direction. There are three hundred and sixty degrees on the circumference of the earth; and these three hundred and sixty degrees, multiplied by four minutes, gives precisely twenty-four hours--that is, the day unconsciously gained. In other words, while Phileas Fogg, going eastward, saw the sun pass the meridian eighty times, his friends in London only saw it pass the meridian seventy-nine times. This is why they awaited him at the Reform Club on Saturday, and not Sunday, as Mr. Fogg thought. And Passepartout's famous family watch, which had always kept London time, would have betrayed this fact, if it had marked the days as well as the hours and the minutes! Phileas Fogg, then, had won the twenty thousand pounds; but, as he had spent nearly nineteen thousand on the way, the pecuniary gain was small. His object was, however, to be victorious, and not to win money. He divided the one thousand pounds that remained between Passepartout and the unfortunate Fix, against whom he cherished no grudge. He deducted, however, from Passepartout's share the cost of the gas which had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty hours, for the sake of regularity. That evening, Mr. Fogg, as tranquil and phlegmatic as ever, said to Aouda: "Is our marriage still agreeable to you?" "Mr. Fogg," replied she, "it is for me to ask that question. You were ruined, but now you are rich again." "Pardon me, madam; my fortune belongs to you. If you had not suggested our marriage, my servant would not have gone to the Reverend Samuel Wilson's, I should not have been apprised of my error, and--" "Dear Mr. Fogg!" said the young woman. "Dear Aouda!" replied Phileas Fogg. It need not be said that the marriage took place forty-eight hours after, and that Passepartout, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride away. Had he not saved her, and was he not entitled to this honour? The next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously at his master's door. Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, "What's the matter, Passepartout?" "What is it, sir? Why, I've just this instant found out--" "What?" "That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight days." "No doubt," returned Mr. Fogg, "by not crossing India. But if I had not crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have been my wife, and--" Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door. Phileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the world in eighty days. To do this he had employed every means of conveyance--steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading-vessels, sledges, elephants. The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed all his marvellous qualities of coolness and exactitude. But what then? What had he really gained by all this trouble? What had he brought back from this long and weary journey? Nothing, say you? Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who, strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men! Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world?

Black Beauty.part 1.chapt

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 5 with the given context.

part 1, chapter 1|chapter 2|chapter 3|chapter 4|chapter 5

Beauty introduces us to his caretaker at Birtwick Park, John Manly. John carefully prepares Beauty for riding and takes him out for the first time. John reports to Squire Gordon that Beauty is "as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit, too" ; he thinks Beauty "has not been frightened or ill-used while he was young" . He'd be right. Squire Gordon rides Beauty next and agrees that he's fantastic. He decides to call him Black Beauty--somehow, we're not surprised. Beauty overhears John and the stable boy, James Howard, saying that Beauty looks just like a horse they remember, Rob Roy, the horse who died in the hunt. John says that Rob Roy's mother was Duchess, too. Beauty is super surprised, but says this explains his mother's sadness at Rob Roy's fate: "I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled" . He mentions that most horses never know their relatives, since they are sold at a young age. John turns out to be a loving and kind caretaker, and Beauty "grew very fond of him" . Beauty and Ginger are paired together to pull the carriage, and they get along well. Beauty gives her rave reviews as a partner, saying, "I never wish to have a better partner in double harness" , and he and Ginger become friends. Beauty thinks highly of Merrylegs too, calling him a "cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow" who behaves sweetly with the children on the estate.

----------PART 1, CHAPTER 1--------- Part I. 01 My Early Home The first place that I can well remember was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and water-lilies grew at the deep end. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master's house, which stood by the roadside; at the top of the meadow was a grove of fir trees, and at the bottom a running brook overhung by a steep bank. While I was young I lived upon my mother's milk, as I could not eat grass. In the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her. When it was hot we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and when it was cold we had a nice warm shed near the grove. As soon as I was old enough to eat grass my mother used to go out to work in the daytime, and come back in the evening. There were six young colts in the meadow besides me; they were older than I was; some were nearly as large as grown-up horses. I used to run with them, and had great fun; we used to gallop all together round and round the field as hard as we could go. Sometimes we had rather rough play, for they would frequently bite and kick as well as gallop. One day, when there was a good deal of kicking, my mother whinnied to me to come to her, and then she said: "I wish you to pay attention to what I am going to say to you. The colts who live here are very good colts, but they are cart-horse colts, and of course they have not learned manners. You have been well-bred and well-born; your father has a great name in these parts, and your grandfather won the cup two years at the Newmarket races; your grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I ever knew, and I think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you will grow up gentle and good, and never learn bad ways; do your work with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick even in play." I have never forgotten my mother's advice; I knew she was a wise old horse, and our master thought a great deal of her. Her name was Duchess, but he often called her Pet. Our master was a good, kind man. He gave us good food, good lodging, and kind words; he spoke as kindly to us as he did to his little children. We were all fond of him, and my mother loved him very much. When she saw him at the gate she would neigh with joy, and trot up to him. He would pat and stroke her and say, "Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?" I was a dull black, so he called me Darkie; then he would give me a piece of bread, which was very good, and sometimes he brought a carrot for my mother. All the horses would come to him, but I think we were his favorites. My mother always took him to the town on a market day in a light gig. There was a plowboy, Dick, who sometimes came into our field to pluck blackberries from the hedge. When he had eaten all he wanted he would have what he called fun with the colts, throwing stones and sticks at them to make them gallop. We did not much mind him, for we could gallop off; but sometimes a stone would hit and hurt us. One day he was at this game, and did not know that the master was in the next field; but he was there, watching what was going on; over the hedge he jumped in a snap, and catching Dick by the arm, he gave him such a box on the ear as made him roar with the pain and surprise. As soon as we saw the master we trotted up nearer to see what went on. "Bad boy!" he said, "bad boy! to chase the colts. This is not the first time, nor the second, but it shall be the last. There--take your money and go home; I shall not want you on my farm again." So we never saw Dick any more. Old Daniel, the man who looked after the horses, was just as gentle as our master, so we were well off. ----------CHAPTER 2--------- 02 The Hunt Before I was two years old a circumstance happened which I have never forgotten. It was early in the spring; there had been a little frost in the night, and a light mist still hung over the woods and meadows. I and the other colts were feeding at the lower part of the field when we heard, quite in the distance, what sounded like the cry of dogs. The oldest of the colts raised his head, pricked his ears, and said, "There are the hounds!" and immediately cantered off, followed by the rest of us to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge and see several fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse of our master's were also standing near, and seemed to know all about it. "They have found a hare," said my mother, "and if they come this way we shall see the hunt." And soon the dogs were all tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor howl, nor whine, but kept on a "yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!" at the top of their voices. After them came a number of men on horseback, some of them in green coats, all galloping as fast as they could. The old horse snorted and looked eagerly after them, and we young colts wanted to be galloping with them, but they were soon away into the fields lower down; here it seemed as if they had come to a stand; the dogs left off barking, and ran about every way with their noses to the ground. "They have lost the scent," said the old horse; "perhaps the hare will get off." "What hare?" I said. "Oh! I don't know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own hares out of the woods; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and men to run after;" and before long the dogs began their "yo! yo, o, o!" again, and back they came altogether at full speed, making straight for our meadow at the part where the high bank and hedge overhang the brook. "Now we shall see the hare," said my mother; and just then a hare wild with fright rushed by and made for the woods. On came the dogs; they burst over the bank, leaped the stream, and came dashing across the field followed by the huntsmen. Six or eight men leaped their horses clean over, close upon the dogs. The hare tried to get through the fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp round to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries; we heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to pieces. He held her up by the leg torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed well pleased. As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was going on by the brook; but when I did look there was a sad sight; two fine horses were down, one was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with mud, the other lay quite still. "His neck is broke," said my mother. "And serve him right, too," said one of the colts. I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us. "Well, no," she said, "you must not say that; but though I am an old horse, and have seen and heard a great deal, I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields, and all for a hare or a fox, or a stag, that they could get more easily some other way; but we are only horses, and don't know." While my mother was saying this we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man; but my master, who had been watching what was going on, was the first to raise him. His head fell back and his arms hung down, and every one looked very serious. There was no noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I heard afterward that it was young George Gordon, the squire's only son, a fine, tall young man, and the pride of his family. There was now riding off in all directions to the doctor's, to the farrier's, and no doubt to Squire Gordon's, to let him know about his son. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then some one ran to our master's house and came back with a gun; presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek, and then all was still; the black horse moved no more. My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for years, and that his name was "Rob Roy"; he was a good horse, and there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field afterward. Not many days after we heard the church-bell tolling for a long time, and looking over the gate we saw a long, strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; after that came another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard to bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never knew; but 'twas all for one little hare. ----------CHAPTER 3--------- 03 My Breaking In I was now beginning to grow handsome; my coat had grown fine and soft, and was bright black. I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead. I was thought very handsome; my master would not sell me till I was four years old; he said lads ought not to work like men, and colts ought not to work like horses till they were quite grown up. When I was four years old Squire Gordon came to look at me. He examined my eyes, my mouth, and my legs; he felt them all down; and then I had to walk and trot and gallop before him. He seemed to like me, and said, "When he has been well broken in he will do very well." My master said he would break me in himself, as he should not like me to be frightened or hurt, and he lost no time about it, for the next day he began. Every one may not know what breaking in is, therefore I will describe it. It means to teach a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry on his back a man, woman or child; to go just the way they wish, and to go quietly. Besides this he has to learn to wear a collar, a crupper, and a breeching, and to stand still while they are put on; then to have a cart or a chaise fixed behind, so that he cannot walk or trot without dragging it after him; and he must go fast or slow, just as his driver wishes. He must never start at what he sees, nor speak to other horses, nor bite, nor kick, nor have any will of his own; but always do his master's will, even though he may be very tired or hungry; but the worst of all is, when his harness is once on, he may neither jump for joy nor lie down for weariness. So you see this breaking in is a great thing. I had of course long been used to a halter and a headstall, and to be led about in the fields and lanes quietly, but now I was to have a bit and bridle; my master gave me some oats as usual, and after a good deal of coaxing he got the bit into my mouth, and the bridle fixed, but it was a nasty thing! Those who have never had a bit in their mouths cannot think how bad it feels; a great piece of cold hard steel as thick as a man's finger to be pushed into one's mouth, between one's teeth, and over one's tongue, with the ends coming out at the corner of your mouth, and held fast there by straps over your head, under your throat, round your nose, and under your chin; so that no way in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing; it is very bad! yes, very bad! at least I thought so; but I knew my mother always wore one when she went out, and all horses did when they were grown up; and so, what with the nice oats, and what with my master's pats, kind words, and gentle ways, I got to wear my bit and bridle. Next came the saddle, but that was not half so bad; my master put it on my back very gently, while old Daniel held my head; he then made the girths fast under my body, patting and talking to me all the time; then I had a few oats, then a little leading about; and this he did every day till I began to look for the oats and the saddle. At length, one morning, my master got on my back and rode me round the meadow on the soft grass. It certainly did feel queer; but I must say I felt rather proud to carry my master, and as he continued to ride me a little every day I soon became accustomed to it. The next unpleasant business was putting on the iron shoes; that too was very hard at first. My master went with me to the smith's forge, to see that I was not hurt or got any fright. The blacksmith took my feet in his hand, one after the other, and cut away some of the hoof. It did not pain me, so I stood still on three legs till he had done them all. Then he took a piece of iron the shape of my foot, and clapped it on, and drove some nails through the shoe quite into my hoof, so that the shoe was firmly on. My feet felt very stiff and heavy, but in time I got used to it. And now having got so far, my master went on to break me to harness; there were more new things to wear. First, a stiff heavy collar just on my neck, and a bridle with great side-pieces against my eyes called blinkers, and blinkers indeed they were, for I could not see on either side, but only straight in front of me; next, there was a small saddle with a nasty stiff strap that went right under my tail; that was the crupper. I hated the crupper; to have my long tail doubled up and poked through that strap was almost as bad as the bit. I never felt more like kicking, but of course I could not kick such a good master, and so in time I got used to everything, and could do my work as well as my mother. I must not forget to mention one part of my training, which I have always considered a very great advantage. My master sent me for a fortnight to a neighboring farmer's, who had a meadow which was skirted on one side by the railway. Here were some sheep and cows, and I was turned in among them. I shall never forget the first train that ran by. I was feeding quietly near the pales which separated the meadow from the railway, when I heard a strange sound at a distance, and before I knew whence it came--with a rush and a clatter, and a puffing out of smoke--a long black train of something flew by, and was gone almost before I could draw my breath. I turned and galloped to the further side of the meadow as fast as I could go, and there I stood snorting with astonishment and fear. In the course of the day many other trains went by, some more slowly; these drew up at the station close by, and sometimes made an awful shriek and groan before they stopped. I thought it very dreadful, but the cows went on eating very quietly, and hardly raised their heads as the black frightful thing came puffing and grinding past. For the first few days I could not feed in peace; but as I found that this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any harm, I began to disregard it, and very soon I cared as little about the passing of a train as the cows and sheep did. Since then I have seen many horses much alarmed and restive at the sight or sound of a steam engine; but thanks to my good master's care, I am as fearless at railway stations as in my own stable. Now if any one wants to break in a young horse well, that is the way. My master often drove me in double harness with my mother, because she was steady and could teach me how to go better than a strange horse. She told me the better I behaved the better I should be treated, and that it was wisest always to do my best to please my master; "but," said she, "there are a great many kinds of men; there are good thoughtful men like our master, that any horse may be proud to serve; and there are bad, cruel men, who never ought to have a horse or dog to call their own. Besides, there are a great many foolish men, vain, ignorant, and careless, who never trouble themselves to think; these spoil more horses than all, just for want of sense; they don't mean it, but they do it for all that. I hope you will fall into good hands; but a horse never knows who may buy him, or who may drive him; it is all a chance for us; but still I say, do your best wherever it is, and keep up your good name." ----------CHAPTER 4--------- 04 Birtwick Park At this time I used to stand in the stable and my coat was brushed every day till it shone like a rook's wing. It was early in May, when there came a man from Squire Gordon's, who took me away to the hall. My master said, "Good-by, Darkie; be a good horse, and always do your best." I could not say "good-by", so I put my nose into his hand; he patted me kindly, and I left my first home. As I lived some years with Squire Gordon, I may as well tell something about the place. Squire Gordon's park skirted the village of Birtwick. It was entered by a large iron gate, at which stood the first lodge, and then you trotted along on a smooth road between clumps of large old trees; then another lodge and another gate, which brought you to the house and the gardens. Beyond this lay the home paddock, the old orchard, and the stables. There was accommodation for many horses and carriages; but I need only describe the stable into which I was taken; this was very roomy, with four good stalls; a large swinging window opened into the yard, which made it pleasant and airy. The first stall was a large square one, shut in behind with a wooden gate; the others were common stalls, good stalls, but not nearly so large; it had a low rack for hay and a low manger for corn; it was called a loose box, because the horse that was put into it was not tied up, but left loose, to do as he liked. It is a great thing to have a loose box. Into this fine box the groom put me; it was clean, sweet, and airy. I never was in a better box than that, and the sides were not so high but that I could see all that went on through the iron rails that were at the top. He gave me some very nice oats, he patted me, spoke kindly, and then went away. When I had eaten my corn I looked round. In the stall next to mine stood a little fat gray pony, with a thick mane and tail, a very pretty head, and a pert little nose. I put my head up to the iron rails at the top of my box, and said, "How do you do? What is your name?" He turned round as far as his halter would allow, held up his head, and said, "My name is Merrylegs. I am very handsome; I carry the young ladies on my back, and sometimes I take our mistress out in the low chair. They think a great deal of me, and so does James. Are you going to live next door to me in the box?" I said, "Yes." "Well, then," he said, "I hope you are good-tempered; I do not like any one next door who bites." Just then a horse's head looked over from the stall beyond; the ears were laid back, and the eye looked rather ill-tempered. This was a tall chestnut mare, with a long handsome neck. She looked across to me and said: "So it is you who have turned me out of my box; it is a very strange thing for a colt like you to come and turn a lady out of her own home." "I beg your pardon," I said, "I have turned no one out; the man who brought me put me here, and I had nothing to do with it; and as to my being a colt, I am turned four years old and am a grown-up horse. I never had words yet with horse or mare, and it is my wish to live at peace." "Well," she said, "we shall see. Of course, I do not want to have words with a young thing like you." I said no more. In the afternoon, when she went out, Merrylegs told me all about it. "The thing is this," said Merrylegs. "Ginger has a bad habit of biting and snapping; that is why they call her Ginger, and when she was in the loose box she used to snap very much. One day she bit James in the arm and made it bleed, and so Miss Flora and Miss Jessie, who are very fond of me, were afraid to come into the stable. They used to bring me nice things to eat, an apple or a carrot, or a piece of bread, but after Ginger stood in that box they dared not come, and I missed them very much. I hope they will now come again, if you do not bite or snap." I told him I never bit anything but grass, hay, and corn, and could not think what pleasure Ginger found it. "Well, I don't think she does find pleasure," says Merrylegs; "it is just a bad habit; she says no one was ever kind to her, and why should she not bite? Of course, it is a very bad habit; but I am sure, if all she says be true, she must have been very ill-used before she came here. John does all he can to please her, and James does all he can, and our master never uses a whip if a horse acts right; so I think she might be good-tempered here. You see," he said, with a wise look, "I am twelve years old; I know a great deal, and I can tell you there is not a better place for a horse all round the country than this. John is the best groom that ever was; he has been here fourteen years; and you never saw such a kind boy as James is; so that it is all Ginger's own fault that she did not stay in that box." ----------CHAPTER 5--------- 05 A Fair Start The name of the coachman was John Manly; he had a wife and one little child, and they lived in the coachman's cottage, very near the stables. The next morning he took me into the yard and gave me a good grooming, and just as I was going into my box, with my coat soft and bright, the squire came in to look at me, and seemed pleased. "John," he said, "I meant to have tried the new horse this morning, but I have other business. You may as well take him around after breakfast; go by the common and the Highwood, and back by the watermill and the river; that will show his paces." "I will, sir," said John. After breakfast he came and fitted me with a bridle. He was very particular in letting out and taking in the straps, to fit my head comfortably; then he brought a saddle, but it was not broad enough for my back; he saw it in a minute and went for another, which fitted nicely. He rode me first slowly, then a trot, then a canter, and when we were on the common he gave me a light touch with his whip, and we had a splendid gallop. "Ho, ho! my boy," he said, as he pulled me up, "you would like to follow the hounds, I think." As we came back through the park we met the Squire and Mrs. Gordon walking; they stopped, and John jumped off. "Well, John, how does he go?" "First-rate, sir," answered John; "he is as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit too; but the lightest touch of the rein will guide him. Down at the end of the common we met one of those traveling carts hung all over with baskets, rugs, and such like; you know, sir, many horses will not pass those carts quietly; he just took a good look at it, and then went on as quiet and pleasant as could be. They were shooting rabbits near the Highwood, and a gun went off close by; he pulled up a little and looked, but did not stir a step to right or left. I just held the rein steady and did not hurry him, and it's my opinion he has not been frightened or ill-used while he was young." "That's well," said the squire, "I will try him myself to-morrow." The next day I was brought up for my master. I remembered my mother's counsel and my good old master's, and I tried to do exactly what he wanted me to do. I found he was a very good rider, and thoughtful for his horse too. When he came home the lady was at the hall door as he rode up. "Well, my dear," she said, "how do you like him?" "He is exactly what John said," he replied; "a pleasanter creature I never wish to mount. What shall we call him?" "Would you like Ebony?" said she; "he is as black as ebony." "No, not Ebony." "Will you call him Blackbird, like your uncle's old horse?" "No, he is far handsomer than old Blackbird ever was." "Yes," she said, "he is really quite a beauty, and he has such a sweet, good-tempered face, and such a fine, intelligent eye--what do you say to calling him Black Beauty?" "Black Beauty--why, yes, I think that is a very good name. If you like it shall be his name;" and so it was. When John went into the stable he told James that master and mistress had chosen a good, sensible English name for me, that meant something; not like Marengo, or Pegasus, or Abdallah. They both laughed, and James said, "If it was not for bringing back the past, I should have named him Rob Roy, for I never saw two horses more alike." "That's no wonder," said John; "didn't you know that Farmer Grey's old Duchess was the mother of them both?" I had never heard that before; and so poor Rob Roy who was killed at that hunt was my brother! I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled. It seems that horses have no relations; at least they never know each other after they are sold. John seemed very proud of me; he used to make my mane and tail almost as smooth as a lady's hair, and he would talk to me a great deal; of course I did not understand all he said, but I learned more and more to know what he meant, and what he wanted me to do. I grew very fond of him, he was so gentle and kind; he seemed to know just how a horse feels, and when he cleaned me he knew the tender places and the ticklish places; when he brushed my head he went as carefully over my eyes as if they were his own, and never stirred up any ill-temper. James Howard, the stable boy, was just as gentle and pleasant in his way, so I thought myself well off. There was another man who helped in the yard, but he had very little to do with Ginger and me. A few days after this I had to go out with Ginger in the carriage. I wondered how we should get on together; but except laying her ears back when I was led up to her, she behaved very well. She did her work honestly, and did her full share, and I never wish to have a better partner in double harness. When we came to a hill, instead of slackening her pace, she would throw her weight right into the collar, and pull away straight up. We had both the same sort of courage at our work, and John had oftener to hold us in than to urge us forward; he never had to use the whip with either of us; then our paces were much the same, and I found it very easy to keep step with her when trotting, which made it pleasant, and master always liked it when we kept step well, and so did John. After we had been out two or three times together we grew quite friendly and sociable, which made me feel very much at home. As for Merrylegs, he and I soon became great friends; he was such a cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow that he was a favorite with every one, and especially with Miss Jessie and Flora, who used to ride him about in the orchard, and have fine games with him and their little dog Frisky. Our master had two other horses that stood in another stable. One was Justice, a roan cob, used for riding or for the luggage cart; the other was an old brown hunter, named Sir Oliver; he was past work now, but was a great favorite with the master, who gave him the run of the park; he sometimes did a little light carting on the estate, or carried one of the young ladies when they rode out with their father, for he was very gentle and could be trusted with a child as well as Merrylegs. The cob was a strong, well-made, good-tempered horse, and we sometimes had a little chat in the paddock, but of course I could not be so intimate with him as with Ginger, who stood in the same stable.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 7, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 6|chapter 7|chapter 8|chapter 9

Beauty gives us a little interlude by telling us Ginger's story, which is very different from his own childhood. Or more like colthood? Well, you know. "If I had had your bringing up, I might have had as good a temper as you, but now I don't believe I ever shall" , Ginger says, explaining her bad habits. Do tell, Ginger. Ginger explains to Beauty that she was taken from her mother as soon as she was weaned and placed with other colts who didn't care for her. She didn't have a kind master, either: "The man that had the care of us never gave me a kind word in my life" . She says he wasn't cruel, just that he didn't pay attention. She was kept in a field where boys often threw stones at the colts, hurting one of them, and this made her decide that young boys were her enemies. Her breaking-in was rough, in contrast to Beauty's; as Ginger describes it, they taught her to use a bit and bridle by force, then kept her in a stall much too long without giving her a chance to run. Ginger thinks one of her masters, Mr. Ryder, could have been kind, but he'd passed the care of his horses to his son Samson, who wasn't gentle at all--"only hardness, a hard voice, a hard eye, a hard hand, and I felt from the first that what he wanted was to wear all the spirit out of me, and just make me into a quiet, humble, obedient piece of horse-flesh" . Ginger adds that he was probably a drunk, and that one day after he'd been drinking, Samson carelessly hit her hard with a rein while riding, causing her to rear up. He beat her for doing it, and she began to buck until she threw him. She was cut and injured by his beating, but no one came to help her. After a long day, Mr. Ryder found Ginger and at last began to care for her injuries. Ginger snapped at Samson when she saw him, and Mr. Ryder lectured his son for treating Ginger badly, saying, "a bad-tempered man will never make a good-tempered horse" . There's a truth bomb for you.

----------CHAPTER 6--------- 06 Liberty I was quite happy in my new place, and if there was one thing that I missed it must not be thought I was discontented; all who had to do with me were good and I had a light airy stable and the best of food. What more could I want? Why, liberty! For three years and a half of my life I had had all the liberty I could wish for; but now, week after week, month after month, and no doubt year after year, I must stand up in a stable night and day except when I am wanted, and then I must be just as steady and quiet as any old horse who has worked twenty years. Straps here and straps there, a bit in my mouth, and blinkers over my eyes. Now, I am not complaining, for I know it must be so. I only mean to say that for a young horse full of strength and spirits, who has been used to some large field or plain where he can fling up his head and toss up his tail and gallop away at full speed, then round and back again with a snort to his companions--I say it is hard never to have a bit more liberty to do as you like. Sometimes, when I have had less exercise than usual, I have felt so full of life and spring that when John has taken me out to exercise I really could not keep quiet; do what I would, it seemed as if I must jump, or dance, or prance, and many a good shake I know I must have given him, especially at the first; but he was always good and patient. "Steady, steady, my boy," he would say; "wait a bit, and we will have a good swing, and soon get the tickle out of your feet." Then as soon as we were out of the village, he would give me a few miles at a spanking trot, and then bring me back as fresh as before, only clear of the fidgets, as he called them. Spirited horses, when not enough exercised, are often called skittish, when it is only play; and some grooms will punish them, but our John did not; he knew it was only high spirits. Still, he had his own ways of making me understand by the tone of his voice or the touch of the rein. If he was very serious and quite determined, I always knew it by his voice, and that had more power with me than anything else, for I was very fond of him. I ought to say that sometimes we had our liberty for a few hours; this used to be on fine Sundays in the summer-time. The carriage never went out on Sundays, because the church was not far off. It was a great treat to us to be turned out into the home paddock or the old orchard; the grass was so cool and soft to our feet, the air so sweet, and the freedom to do as we liked was so pleasant--to gallop, to lie down, and roll over on our backs, or to nibble the sweet grass. Then it was a very good time for talking, as we stood together under the shade of the large chestnut tree. ----------CHAPTER 7--------- 07 Ginger One day when Ginger and I were standing alone in the shade, we had a great deal of talk; she wanted to know all about my bringing up and breaking in, and I told her. "Well," said she, "if I had had your bringing up I might have had as good a temper as you, but now I don't believe I ever shall." "Why not?" I said. "Because it has been all so different with me," she replied. "I never had any one, horse or man, that was kind to me, or that I cared to please, for in the first place I was taken from my mother as soon as I was weaned, and put with a lot of other young colts; none of them cared for me, and I cared for none of them. There was no kind master like yours to look after me, and talk to me, and bring me nice things to eat. The man that had the care of us never gave me a kind word in my life. I do not mean that he ill-used me, but he did not care for us one bit further than to see that we had plenty to eat, and shelter in the winter. A footpath ran through our field, and very often the great boys passing through would fling stones to make us gallop. I was never hit, but one fine young colt was badly cut in the face, and I should think it would be a scar for life. We did not care for them, but of course it made us more wild, and we settled it in our minds that boys were our enemies. We had very good fun in the free meadows, galloping up and down and chasing each other round and round the field; then standing still under the shade of the trees. But when it came to breaking in, that was a bad time for me; several men came to catch me, and when at last they closed me in at one corner of the field, one caught me by the forelock, another caught me by the nose and held it so tight I could hardly draw my breath; then another took my under jaw in his hard hand and wrenched my mouth open, and so by force they got on the halter and the bar into my mouth; then one dragged me along by the halter, another flogging behind, and this was the first experience I had of men's kindness; it was all force. They did not give me a chance to know what they wanted. I was high bred and had a great deal of spirit, and was very wild, no doubt, and gave them, I dare say, plenty of trouble, but then it was dreadful to be shut up in a stall day after day instead of having my liberty, and I fretted and pined and wanted to get loose. You know yourself it's bad enough when you have a kind master and plenty of coaxing, but there was nothing of that sort for me. "There was one--the old master, Mr. Ryder--who, I think, could soon have brought me round, and could have done anything with me; but he had given up all the hard part of the trade to his son and to another experienced man, and he only came at times to oversee. His son was a strong, tall, bold man; they called him Samson, and he used to boast that he had never found a horse that could throw him. There was no gentleness in him, as there was in his father, but only hardness, a hard voice, a hard eye, a hard hand; and I felt from the first that what he wanted was to wear all the spirit out of me, and just make me into a quiet, humble, obedient piece of horseflesh. 'Horseflesh'! Yes, that is all that he thought about," and Ginger stamped her foot as if the very thought of him made her angry. Then she went on: "If I did not do exactly what he wanted he would get put out, and make me run round with that long rein in the training field till he had tired me out. I think he drank a good deal, and I am quite sure that the oftener he drank the worse it was for me. One day he had worked me hard in every way he could, and when I lay down I was tired, and miserable, and angry; it all seemed so hard. The next morning he came for me early, and ran me round again for a long time. I had scarcely had an hour's rest, when he came again for me with a saddle and bridle and a new kind of bit. I could never quite tell how it came about; he had only just mounted me on the training ground, when something I did put him out of temper, and he chucked me hard with the rein. The new bit was very painful, and I reared up suddenly, which angered him still more, and he began to flog me. I felt my whole spirit set against him, and I began to kick, and plunge, and rear as I had never done before, and we had a regular fight; for a long time he stuck to the saddle and punished me cruelly with his whip and spurs, but my blood was thoroughly up, and I cared for nothing he could do if only I could get him off. At last after a terrible struggle I threw him off backward. I heard him fall heavily on the turf, and without looking behind me, I galloped off to the other end of the field; there I turned round and saw my persecutor slowly rising from the ground and going into the stable. I stood under an oak tree and watched, but no one came to catch me. The time went on, and the sun was very hot; the flies swarmed round me and settled on my bleeding flanks where the spurs had dug in. I felt hungry, for I had not eaten since the early morning, but there was not enough grass in that meadow for a goose to live on. I wanted to lie down and rest, but with the saddle strapped tightly on there was no comfort, and there was not a drop of water to drink. The afternoon wore on, and the sun got low. I saw the other colts led in, and I knew they were having a good feed. "At last, just as the sun went down, I saw the old master come out with a sieve in his hand. He was a very fine old gentleman with quite white hair, but his voice was what I should know him by among a thousand. It was not high, nor yet low, but full, and clear, and kind, and when he gave orders it was so steady and decided that every one knew, both horses and men, that he expected to be obeyed. He came quietly along, now and then shaking the oats about that he had in the sieve, and speaking cheerfully and gently to me: 'Come along, lassie, come along, lassie; come along, come along.' I stood still and let him come up; he held the oats to me, and I began to eat without fear; his voice took all my fear away. He stood by, patting and stroking me while I was eating, and seeing the clots of blood on my side he seemed very vexed. 'Poor lassie! it was a bad business, a bad business;' then he quietly took the rein and led me to the stable; just at the door stood Samson. I laid my ears back and snapped at him. 'Stand back,' said the master, 'and keep out of her way; you've done a bad day's work for this filly.' He growled out something about a vicious brute. 'Hark ye,' said the father, 'a bad-tempered man will never make a good-tempered horse. You've not learned your trade yet, Samson.' Then he led me into my box, took off the saddle and bridle with his own hands, and tied me up; then he called for a pail of warm water and a sponge, took off his coat, and while the stable-man held the pail, he sponged my sides a good while, so tenderly that I was sure he knew how sore and bruised they were. 'Whoa! my pretty one,' he said, 'stand still, stand still.' His very voice did me good, and the bathing was very comfortable. The skin was so broken at the corners of my mouth that I could not eat the hay, the stalks hurt me. He looked closely at it, shook his head, and told the man to fetch a good bran mash and put some meal into it. How good that mash was! and so soft and healing to my mouth. He stood by all the time I was eating, stroking me and talking to the man. 'If a high-mettled creature like this,' said he, 'can't be broken by fair means, she will never be good for anything.' "After that he often came to see me, and when my mouth was healed the other breaker, Job, they called him, went on training me; he was steady and thoughtful, and I soon learned what he wanted." ----------CHAPTER 8--------- 08 Ginger's Story Continued The next time that Ginger and I were together in the paddock she told me about her first place. "After my breaking in," she said, "I was bought by a dealer to match another chestnut horse. For some weeks he drove us together, and then we were sold to a fashionable gentleman, and were sent up to London. I had been driven with a check-rein by the dealer, and I hated it worse than anything else; but in this place we were reined far tighter, the coachman and his master thinking we looked more stylish so. We were often driven about in the park and other fashionable places. You who never had a check-rein on don't know what it is, but I can tell you it is dreadful. "I like to toss my head about and hold it as high as any horse; but fancy now yourself, if you tossed your head up high and were obliged to hold it there, and that for hours together, not able to move it at all, except with a jerk still higher, your neck aching till you did not know how to bear it. Besides that, to have two bits instead of one--and mine was a sharp one, it hurt my tongue and my jaw, and the blood from my tongue colored the froth that kept flying from my lips as I chafed and fretted at the bits and rein. It was worst when we had to stand by the hour waiting for our mistress at some grand party or entertainment, and if I fretted or stamped with impatience the whip was laid on. It was enough to drive one mad." "Did not your master take any thought for you?" I said. "No," said she, "he only cared to have a stylish turnout, as they call it; I think he knew very little about horses; he left that to his coachman, who told him I had an irritable temper! that I had not been well broken to the check-rein, but I should soon get used to it; but he was not the man to do it, for when I was in the stable, miserable and angry, instead of being smoothed and quieted by kindness, I got only a surly word or a blow. If he had been civil I would have tried to bear it. I was willing to work, and ready to work hard too; but to be tormented for nothing but their fancies angered me. What right had they to make me suffer like that? Besides the soreness in my mouth, and the pain in my neck, it always made my windpipe feel bad, and if I had stopped there long I know it would have spoiled my breathing; but I grew more and more restless and irritable, I could not help it; and I began to snap and kick when any one came to harness me; for this the groom beat me, and one day, as they had just buckled us into the carriage, and were straining my head up with that rein, I began to plunge and kick with all my might. I soon broke a lot of harness, and kicked myself clear; so that was an end of that place. "After this I was sent to Tattersall's to be sold; of course I could not be warranted free from vice, so nothing was said about that. My handsome appearance and good paces soon brought a gentleman to bid for me, and I was bought by another dealer; he tried me in all kinds of ways and with different bits, and he soon found out what I could not bear. At last he drove me quite without a check-rein, and then sold me as a perfectly quiet horse to a gentleman in the country; he was a good master, and I was getting on very well, but his old groom left him and a new one came. This man was as hard-tempered and hard-handed as Samson; he always spoke in a rough, impatient voice, and if I did not move in the stall the moment he wanted me, he would hit me above the hocks with his stable broom or the fork, whichever he might have in his hand. Everything he did was rough, and I began to hate him; he wanted to make me afraid of him, but I was too high-mettled for that, and one day when he had aggravated me more than usual I bit him, which of course put him in a great rage, and he began to hit me about the head with a riding whip. After that he never dared to come into my stall again; either my heels or my teeth were ready for him, and he knew it. I was quite quiet with my master, but of course he listened to what the man said, and so I was sold again. "The same dealer heard of me, and said he thought he knew one place where I should do well. ''Twas a pity,' he said, 'that such a fine horse should go to the bad, for want of a real good chance,' and the end of it was that I came here not long before you did; but I had then made up my mind that men were my natural enemies and that I must defend myself. Of course it is very different here, but who knows how long it will last? I wish I could think about things as you do; but I can't, after all I have gone through." "Well," I said, "I think it would be a real shame if you were to bite or kick John or James." "I don't mean to," she said, "while they are good to me. I did bite James once pretty sharp, but John said, 'Try her with kindness,' and instead of punishing me as I expected, James came to me with his arm bound up, and brought me a bran mash and stroked me; and I have never snapped at him since, and I won't either." I was sorry for Ginger, but of course I knew very little then, and I thought most likely she made the worst of it; however, I found that as the weeks went on she grew much more gentle and cheerful, and had lost the watchful, defiant look that she used to turn on any strange person who came near her; and one day James said, "I do believe that mare is getting fond of me, she quite whinnied after me this morning when I had been rubbing her forehead." "Ay, ay, Jim, 'tis 'the Birtwick balls'," said John, "she'll be as good as Black Beauty by and by; kindness is all the physic she wants, poor thing!" Master noticed the change, too, and one day when he got out of the carriage and came to speak to us, as he often did, he stroked her beautiful neck. "Well, my pretty one, well, how do things go with you now? You are a good bit happier than when you came to us, I think." She put her nose up to him in a friendly, trustful way, while he rubbed it gently. "We shall make a cure of her, John," he said. "Yes, sir, she's wonderfully improved; she's not the same creature that she was; it's 'the Birtwick balls', sir," said John, laughing. This was a little joke of John's; he used to say that a regular course of "the Birtwick horseballs" would cure almost any vicious horse; these balls, he said, were made up of patience and gentleness, firmness and petting, one pound of each to be mixed up with half a pint of common sense, and given to the horse every day. ----------CHAPTER 9--------- 09 Merrylegs Mr. Blomefield, the vicar, had a large family of boys and girls; sometimes they used to come and play with Miss Jessie and Flora. One of the girls was as old as Miss Jessie; two of the boys were older, and there were several little ones. When they came there was plenty of work for Merrylegs, for nothing pleased them so much as getting on him by turns and riding him all about the orchard and the home paddock, and this they would do by the hour together. One afternoon he had been out with them a long time, and when James brought him in and put on his halter he said: "There, you rogue, mind how you behave yourself, or we shall get into trouble." "What have you been doing, Merrylegs?" I asked. "Oh!" said he, tossing his little head, "I have only been giving those young people a lesson; they did not know when they had had enough, nor when I had had enough, so I just pitched them off backward; that was the only thing they could understand." "What!" said I, "you threw the children off? I thought you did know better than that! Did you throw Miss Jessie or Miss Flora?" He looked very much offended, and said: "Of course not; I would not do such a thing for the best oats that ever came into the stable; why, I am as careful of our young ladies as the master could be, and as for the little ones it is I who teach them to ride. When they seem frightened or a little unsteady on my back I go as smooth and as quiet as old pussy when she is after a bird; and when they are all right I go on again faster, you see, just to use them to it; so don't you trouble yourself preaching to me; I am the best friend and the best riding-master those children have. It is not them, it is the boys; boys," said he, shaking his mane, "are quite different; they must be broken in as we were broken in when we were colts, and just be taught what's what. The other children had ridden me about for nearly two hours, and then the boys thought it was their turn, and so it was, and I was quite agreeable. They rode me by turns, and I galloped them about, up and down the fields and all about the orchard, for a good hour. They had each cut a great hazel stick for a riding-whip, and laid it on a little too hard; but I took it in good part, till at last I thought we had had enough, so I stopped two or three times by way of a hint. Boys, you see, think a horse or pony is like a steam-engine or a thrashing-machine, and can go on as long and as fast as they please; they never think that a pony can get tired, or have any feelings; so as the one who was whipping me could not understand I just rose up on my hind legs and let him slip off behind--that was all. He mounted me again, and I did the same. Then the other boy got up, and as soon as he began to use his stick I laid him on the grass, and so on, till they were able to understand--that was all. They are not bad boys; they don't wish to be cruel. I like them very well; but you see I had to give them a lesson. When they brought me to James and told him I think he was very angry to see such big sticks. He said they were only fit for drovers or gypsies, and not for young gentlemen." "If I had been you," said Ginger, "I would have given those boys a good kick, and that would have given them a lesson." "No doubt you would," said Merrylegs; "but then I am not quite such a fool (begging your pardon) as to anger our master or make James ashamed of me. Besides, those children are under my charge when they are riding; I tell you they are intrusted to me. Why, only the other day I heard our master say to Mrs. Blomefield, 'My dear madam, you need not be anxious about the children; my old Merrylegs will take as much care of them as you or I could; I assure you I would not sell that pony for any money, he is so perfectly good-tempered and trustworthy;' and do you think I am such an ungrateful brute as to forget all the kind treatment I have had here for five years, and all the trust they place in me, and turn vicious because a couple of ignorant boys used me badly? No, no! you never had a good place where they were kind to you, and so you don't know, and I'm sorry for you; but I can tell you good places make good horses. I wouldn't vex our people for anything; I love them, I do," said Merrylegs, and he gave a low "ho, ho, ho!" through his nose, as he used to do in the morning when he heard James' footstep at the door. "Besides," he went on, "if I took to kicking where should I be? Why, sold off in a jiffy, and no character, and I might find myself slaved about under a butcher's boy, or worked to death at some seaside place where no one cared for me, except to find out how fast I could go, or be flogged along in some cart with three or four great men in it going out for a Sunday spree, as I have often seen in the place I lived in before I came here; no," said he, shaking his head, "I hope I shall never come to that."

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 10 with the given context.

chapter 10|chapter 11|chapter 12|chapter 13

Because Beauty and Ginger have more racing blood than many carriage horses, they're often used for riding in addition to driving. Beauty's favorite activity is to go out in a riding party with Squire Gordon's family, Ginger, Merrylegs, and another Birtwick horse, Sir Oliver. Beauty "had the best of it, for I always carried the mistress" , he says, and the mistress of the house is kind, gentle, and always drives him with a light touch. As an aside, Beauty reminds us that driving a horse with a light touch is basically the best thing ever: "Our mouths are so tender, that where they have not been spoiled or hardened with bad or ignorant treatment, they feel the slightest movement of the driver's hand, and we know in an instant what is required of us" . Ginger complains that her mouth is not as good as Beauty's because she wasn't broken in with kindness, but Sir Oliver comforts her by saying that it's a great honor for Ginger to carry the master of the house. Sir Oliver has a very short tail, and one day when all the horses are in the orchard, Beauty asks him what accident caused this. "It was no accident! It was a cruel, shameful, cold-blooded act!" , Sir Oliver exclaims. He says when he was young he was taken to a place that cut off his tail, and we're treated to a painful description of it. Sir Oliver says it wasn't just painful; now he can't swat flies like other horses. Beauty wants to know why anyone would do such a thing, and Sir Oliver explains it was for fashion . The horses all agree that fashion "is one of the wickedest things in the world" , leading to docked tails, bearing reins, and dogs with clipped ears and tails. Fashionistas of the world, be warned: Sir Oliver wants you to keep your evil clippers and reins far away from all animals. Sir Oliver's rant inspires Ginger to declare that men are "both brutes and blockheads" , though Merrylegs calms her down, reminding her that their master and their groom are the very best. Beauty attempts to change the subject by asking why blinkers are used. Whoops, maybe not the best idea... Blinkers, for the non-Victorians among us, are a piece of horse tack that attach near the horse's eyes, preventing them from seeing on either side--just straight ahead. The horses all discuss why blinkers are a spectacularly bad idea. Sir Oliver says they're also used for fashion, even though people think they're supposed to prevent a horse from being startled. Sir Oliver points out that a horse would be much less startled if the horse could actually see. Which, you know, kind of makes sense--it's hard to be scared by something you see coming, after all. Before Ginger and Sir Oliver can start ranting again, peacekeeper Merrylegs reminds them that their own masters don't believe in using blinkers, and suggests they go in search of fallen fruit in the orchard.

----------CHAPTER 10--------- 10 A Talk in the Orchard Ginger and I were not of the regular tall carriage horse breed, we had more of the racing blood in us. We stood about fifteen and a half hands high; we were therefore just as good for riding as we were for driving, and our master used to say that he disliked either horse or man that could do but one thing; and as he did not want to show off in London parks, he preferred a more active and useful kind of horse. As for us, our greatest pleasure was when we were saddled for a riding party; the master on Ginger, the mistress on me, and the young ladies on Sir Oliver and Merrylegs. It was so cheerful to be trotting and cantering all together that it always put us in high spirits. I had the best of it, for I always carried the mistress; her weight was little, her voice was sweet, and her hand was so light on the rein that I was guided almost without feeling it. Oh! if people knew what a comfort to horses a light hand is, and how it keeps a good mouth and a good temper, they surely would not chuck, and drag, and pull at the rein as they often do. Our mouths are so tender that where they have not been spoiled or hardened with bad or ignorant treatment, they feel the slightest movement of the driver's hand, and we know in an instant what is required of us. My mouth has never been spoiled, and I believe that was why the mistress preferred me to Ginger, although her paces were certainly quite as good. She used often to envy me, and said it was all the fault of breaking in, and the gag bit in London, that her mouth was not so perfect as mine; and then old Sir Oliver would say, "There, there! don't vex yourself; you have the greatest honor; a mare that can carry a tall man of our master's weight, with all your spring and sprightly action, does not need to hold her head down because she does not carry the lady; we horses must take things as they come, and always be contented and willing so long as we are kindly used." I had often wondered how it was that Sir Oliver had such a very short tail; it really was only six or seven inches long, with a tassel of hair hanging from it; and on one of our holidays in the orchard I ventured to ask him by what accident it was that he had lost his tail. "Accident!" he snorted with a fierce look, "it was no accident! it was a cruel, shameful, cold-blooded act! When I was young I was taken to a place where these cruel things were done; I was tied up, and made fast so that I could not stir, and then they came and cut off my long and beautiful tail, through the flesh and through the bone, and took it away. "How dreadful!" I exclaimed. "Dreadful, ah! it was dreadful; but it was not only the pain, though that was terrible and lasted a long time; it was not only the indignity of having my best ornament taken from me, though that was bad; but it was this, how could I ever brush the flies off my sides and my hind legs any more? You who have tails just whisk the flies off without thinking about it, and you can't tell what a torment it is to have them settle upon you and sting and sting, and have nothing in the world to lash them off with. I tell you it is a lifelong wrong, and a lifelong loss; but thank heaven, they don't do it now." "What did they do it for then?" said Ginger. "For fashion!" said the old horse with a stamp of his foot; "for fashion! if you know what that means; there was not a well-bred young horse in my time that had not his tail docked in that shameful way, just as if the good God that made us did not know what we wanted and what looked best." "I suppose it is fashion that makes them strap our heads up with those horrid bits that I was tortured with in London," said Ginger. "Of course it is," said he; "to my mind, fashion is one of the wickedest things in the world. Now look, for instance, at the way they serve dogs, cutting off their tails to make them look plucky, and shearing up their pretty little ears to a point to make them both look sharp, forsooth. I had a dear friend once, a brown terrier; 'Skye' they called her. She was so fond of me that she never would sleep out of my stall; she made her bed under the manger, and there she had a litter of five as pretty little puppies as need be; none were drowned, for they were a valuable kind, and how pleased she was with them! and when they got their eyes open and crawled about, it was a real pretty sight; but one day the man came and took them all away; I thought he might be afraid I should tread upon them. But it was not so; in the evening poor Skye brought them back again, one by one in her mouth; not the happy little things that they were, but bleeding and crying pitifully; they had all had a piece of their tails cut off, and the soft flap of their pretty little ears was cut quite off. How their mother licked them, and how troubled she was, poor thing! I never forgot it. They healed in time, and they forgot the pain, but the nice soft flap, that of course was intended to protect the delicate part of their ears from dust and injury, was gone forever. Why don't they cut their own children's ears into points to make them look sharp? Why don't they cut the end off their noses to make them look plucky? One would be just as sensible as the other. What right have they to torment and disfigure God's creatures?" Sir Oliver, though he was so gentle, was a fiery old fellow, and what he said was all so new to me, and so dreadful, that I found a bitter feeling toward men rise up in my mind that I never had before. Of course Ginger was very much excited; she flung up her head with flashing eyes and distended nostrils, declaring that men were both brutes and blockheads. "Who talks about blockheads?" said Merrylegs, who just came up from the old apple-tree, where he had been rubbing himself against the low branch. "Who talks about blockheads? I believe that is a bad word." "Bad words were made for bad things," said Ginger, and she told him what Sir Oliver had said. "It is all true," said Merrylegs sadly, "and I've seen that about the dogs over and over again where I lived first; but we won't talk about it here. You know that master, and John and James are always good to us, and talking against men in such a place as this doesn't seem fair or grateful, and you know there are good masters and good grooms beside ours, though of course ours are the best." This wise speech of good little Merrylegs, which we knew was quite true, cooled us all down, especially Sir Oliver, who was dearly fond of his master; and to turn the subject I said, "Can any one tell me the use of blinkers?" "No!" said Sir Oliver shortly, "because they are no use." "They are supposed," said Justice, the roan cob, in his calm way, "to prevent horses from shying and starting, and getting so frightened as to cause accidents." "Then what is the reason they do not put them on riding horses; especially on ladies' horses?" said I. "There is no reason at all," said he quietly, "except the fashion; they say that a horse would be so frightened to see the wheels of his own cart or carriage coming behind him that he would be sure to run away, although of course when he is ridden he sees them all about him if the streets are crowded. I admit they do sometimes come too close to be pleasant, but we don't run away; we are used to it, and understand it, and if we never had blinkers put on we should never want them; we should see what was there, and know what was what, and be much less frightened than by only seeing bits of things that we can't understand. Of course there may be some nervous horses who have been hurt or frightened when they were young, who may be the better for them; but as I never was nervous, I can't judge." "I consider," said Sir Oliver, "that blinkers are dangerous things in the night; we horses can see much better in the dark than men can, and many an accident would never have happened if horses might have had the full use of their eyes. Some years ago, I remember, there was a hearse with two horses returning one dark night, and just by Farmer Sparrow's house, where the pond is close to the road, the wheels went too near the edge, and the hearse was overturned into the water; both the horses were drowned, and the driver hardly escaped. Of course after this accident a stout white rail was put up that might be easily seen, but if those horses had not been partly blinded, they would of themselves have kept further from the edge, and no accident would have happened. When our master's carriage was overturned, before you came here, it was said that if the lamp on the left side had not gone out, John would have seen the great hole that the road-makers had left; and so he might, but if old Colin had not had blinkers on he would have seen it, lamp or no lamp, for he was far too knowing an old horse to run into danger. As it was, he was very much hurt, the carriage was broken, and how John escaped nobody knew." "I should say," said Ginger, curling her nostril, "that these men, who are so wise, had better give orders that in the future all foals should be born with their eyes set just in the middle of their foreheads, instead of on the side; they always think they can improve upon nature and mend what God has made." Things were getting rather sore again, when Merrylegs held up his knowing little face and said, "I'll tell you a secret: I believe John does not approve of blinkers; I heard him talking with master about it one day. The master said that 'if horses had been used to them, it might be dangerous in some cases to leave them off'; and John said he thought it would be a good thing if all colts were broken in without blinkers, as was the case in some foreign countries. So let us cheer up, and have a run to the other end of the orchard; I believe the wind has blown down some apples, and we might just as well eat them as the slugs." Merrylegs could not be resisted, so we broke off our long conversation, and got up our spirits by munching some very sweet apples which lay scattered on the grass. ----------CHAPTER 11--------- 11 Plain Speaking The longer I lived at Birtwick the more proud and happy I felt at having such a place. Our master and mistress were respected and beloved by all who knew them; they were good and kind to everybody and everything; not only men and women, but horses and donkeys, dogs and cats, cattle and birds; there was no oppressed or ill-used creature that had not a friend in them, and their servants took the same tone. If any of the village children were known to treat any creature cruelly they soon heard about it from the Hall. The squire and Farmer Grey had worked together, as they said, for more than twenty years to get check-reins on the cart-horses done away with, and in our parts you seldom saw them; and sometimes, if mistress met a heavily laden horse with his head strained up she would stop the carriage and get out, and reason with the driver in her sweet serious voice, and try to show him how foolish and cruel it was. I don't think any man could withstand our mistress. I wish all ladies were like her. Our master, too, used to come down very heavy sometimes. I remember he was riding me toward home one morning when we saw a powerful man driving toward us in a light pony chaise, with a beautiful little bay pony, with slender legs and a high-bred sensitive head and face. Just as he came to the park gates the little thing turned toward them; the man, without word or warning, wrenched the creature's head round with such a force and suddenness that he nearly threw it on its haunches. Recovering itself it was going on, when he began to lash it furiously. The pony plunged forward, but the strong, heavy hand held the pretty creature back with force almost enough to break its jaw, while the whip still cut into him. It was a dreadful sight to me, for I knew what fearful pain it gave that delicate little mouth; but master gave me the word, and we were up with him in a second. "Sawyer," he cried in a stern voice, "is that pony made of flesh and blood?" "Flesh and blood and temper," he said; "he's too fond of his own will, and that won't suit me." He spoke as if he was in a strong passion. He was a builder who had often been to the park on business. "And do you think," said master sternly, "that treatment like this will make him fond of your will?" "He had no business to make that turn; his road was straight on!" said the man roughly. "You have often driven that pony up to my place," said master; "it only shows the creature's memory and intelligence; how did he know that you were not going there again? But that has little to do with it. I must say, Mr. Sawyer, that a more unmanly, brutal treatment of a little pony it was never my painful lot to witness, and by giving way to such passion you injure your own character as much, nay more, than you injure your horse; and remember, we shall all have to be judged according to our works, whether they be toward man or toward beast." Master rode me home slowly, and I could tell by his voice how the thing had grieved him. He was just as free to speak to gentlemen of his own rank as to those below him; for another day, when we were out, we met a Captain Langley, a friend of our master's; he was driving a splendid pair of grays in a kind of break. After a little conversation the captain said: "What do you think of my new team, Mr. Douglas? You know, you are the judge of horses in these parts, and I should like your opinion." The master backed me a little, so as to get a good view of them. "They are an uncommonly handsome pair," he said, "and if they are as good as they look I am sure you need not wish for anything better; but I see you still hold that pet scheme of yours for worrying your horses and lessening their power." "What do you mean," said the other, "the check-reins? Oh, ah! I know that's a hobby of yours; well, the fact is, I like to see my horses hold their heads up." "So do I," said master, "as well as any man, but I don't like to see them held up; that takes all the shine out of it. Now, you are a military man, Langley, and no doubt like to see your regiment look well on parade, 'heads up', and all that; but you would not take much credit for your drill if all your men had their heads tied to a backboard! It might not be much harm on parade, except to worry and fatigue them; but how would it be in a bayonet charge against the enemy, when they want the free use of every muscle, and all their strength thrown forward? I would not give much for their chance of victory. And it is just the same with horses: you fret and worry their tempers, and decrease their power; you will not let them throw their weight against their work, and so they have to do too much with their joints and muscles, and of course it wears them up faster. You may depend upon it, horses were intended to have their heads free, as free as men's are; and if we could act a little more according to common sense, and a good deal less according to fashion, we should find many things work easier; besides, you know as well as I that if a horse makes a false step, he has much less chance of recovering himself if his head and neck are fastened back. And now," said the master, laughing, "I have given my hobby a good trot out, can't you make up your mind to mount him, too, captain? Your example would go a long way." "I believe you are right in theory," said the other, "and that's rather a hard hit about the soldiers; but--well--I'll think about it," and so they parted. ----------CHAPTER 12--------- 12 A Stormy Day One day late in the autumn my master had a long journey to go on business. I was put into the dog-cart, and John went with his master. I always liked to go in the dog-cart, it was so light and the high wheels ran along so pleasantly. There had been a great deal of rain, and now the wind was very high and blew the dry leaves across the road in a shower. We went along merrily till we came to the toll-bar and the low wooden bridge. The river banks were rather high, and the bridge, instead of rising, went across just level, so that in the middle, if the river was full, the water would be nearly up to the woodwork and planks; but as there were good substantial rails on each side, people did not mind it. The man at the gate said the river was rising fast, and he feared it would be a bad night. Many of the meadows were under water, and in one low part of the road the water was halfway up to my knees; the bottom was good, and master drove gently, so it was no matter. When we got to the town of course I had a good bait, but as the master's business engaged him a long time we did not start for home till rather late in the afternoon. The wind was then much higher, and I heard the master say to John that he had never been out in such a storm; and so I thought, as we went along the skirts of a wood, where the great branches were swaying about like twigs, and the rushing sound was terrible. "I wish we were well out of this wood," said my master. "Yes, sir," said John, "it would be rather awkward if one of these branches came down upon us." The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there was a groan, and a crack, and a splitting sound, and tearing, crashing down among the other trees came an oak, torn up by the roots, and it fell right across the road just before us. I will never say I was not frightened, for I was. I stopped still, and I believe I trembled; of course I did not turn round or run away; I was not brought up to that. John jumped out and was in a moment at my head. "That was a very near touch," said my master. "What's to be done now?" "Well, sir, we can't drive over that tree, nor yet get round it; there will be nothing for it, but to go back to the four crossways, and that will be a good six miles before we get round to the wooden bridge again; it will make us late, but the horse is fresh." So back we went and round by the crossroads, but by the time we got to the bridge it was very nearly dark; we could just see that the water was over the middle of it; but as that happened sometimes when the floods were out, master did not stop. We were going along at a good pace, but the moment my feet touched the first part of the bridge I felt sure there was something wrong. I dare not go forward, and I made a dead stop. "Go on, Beauty," said my master, and he gave me a touch with the whip, but I dare not stir; he gave me a sharp cut; I jumped, but I dare not go forward. "There's something wrong, sir," said John, and he sprang out of the dog-cart and came to my head and looked all about. He tried to lead me forward. "Come on, Beauty, what's the matter?" Of course I could not tell him, but I knew very well that the bridge was not safe. Just then the man at the toll-gate on the other side ran out of the house, tossing a torch about like one mad. "Hoy, hoy, hoy! halloo! stop!" he cried. "What's the matter?" shouted my master. "The bridge is broken in the middle, and part of it is carried away; if you come on you'll be into the river." "Thank God!" said my master. "You Beauty!" said John, and took the bridle and gently turned me round to the right-hand road by the river side. The sun had set some time; the wind seemed to have lulled off after that furious blast which tore up the tree. It grew darker and darker, stiller and stiller. I trotted quietly along, the wheels hardly making a sound on the soft road. For a good while neither master nor John spoke, and then master began in a serious voice. I could not understand much of what they said, but I found they thought, if I had gone on as the master wanted me, most likely the bridge would have given way under us, and horse, chaise, master, and man would have fallen into the river; and as the current was flowing very strongly, and there was no light and no help at hand, it was more than likely we should all have been drowned. Master said, God had given men reason, by which they could find out things for themselves; but he had given animals knowledge which did not depend on reason, and which was much more prompt and perfect in its way, and by which they had often saved the lives of men. John had many stories to tell of dogs and horses, and the wonderful things they had done; he thought people did not value their animals half enough nor make friends of them as they ought to do. I am sure he makes friends of them if ever a man did. At last we came to the park gates and found the gardener looking out for us. He said that mistress had been in a dreadful way ever since dark, fearing some accident had happened, and that she had sent James off on Justice, the roan cob, toward the wooden bridge to make inquiry after us. We saw a light at the hall-door and at the upper windows, and as we came up mistress ran out, saying, "Are you really safe, my dear? Oh! I have been so anxious, fancying all sorts of things. Have you had no accident?" "No, my dear; but if your Black Beauty had not been wiser than we were we should all have been carried down the river at the wooden bridge." I heard no more, as they went into the house, and John took me to the stable. Oh, what a good supper he gave me that night, a good bran mash and some crushed beans with my oats, and such a thick bed of straw! and I was glad of it, for I was tired. ----------CHAPTER 13--------- 13 The Devil's Trade Mark One day when John and I had been out on some business of our master's, and were returning gently on a long, straight road, at some distance we saw a boy trying to leap a pony over a gate; the pony would not take the leap, and the boy cut him with the whip, but he only turned off on one side. He whipped him again, but the pony turned off on the other side. Then the boy got off and gave him a hard thrashing, and knocked him about the head; then he got up again and tried to make him leap the gate, kicking him all the time shamefully, but still the pony refused. When we were nearly at the spot the pony put down his head and threw up his heels, and sent the boy neatly over into a broad quickset hedge, and with the rein dangling from his head he set off home at a full gallop. John laughed out quite loud. "Served him right," he said. "Oh, oh, oh!" cried the boy as he struggled about among the thorns; "I say, come and help me out." "Thank ye," said John, "I think you are quite in the right place, and maybe a little scratching will teach you not to leap a pony over a gate that is too high for him," and so with that John rode off. "It may be," said he to himself, "that young fellow is a liar as well as a cruel one; we'll just go home by Farmer Bushby's, Beauty, and then if anybody wants to know you and I can tell 'em, ye see." So we turned off to the right, and soon came up to the stack-yard, and within sight of the house. The farmer was hurrying out into the road, and his wife was standing at the gate, looking very frightened. "Have you seen my boy?" said Mr. Bushby as we came up; "he went out an hour ago on my black pony, and the creature is just come back without a rider." "I should think, sir," said John, "he had better be without a rider, unless he can be ridden properly." "What do you mean?" said the farmer. "Well, sir, I saw your son whipping, and kicking, and knocking that good little pony about shamefully because he would not leap a gate that was too high for him. The pony behaved well, sir, and showed no vice; but at last he just threw up his heels and tipped the young gentleman into the thorn hedge. He wanted me to help him out, but I hope you will excuse me, sir, I did not feel inclined to do so. There's no bones broken, sir; he'll only get a few scratches. I love horses, and it riles me to see them badly used; it is a bad plan to aggravate an animal till he uses his heels; the first time is not always the last." During this time the mother began to cry, "Oh, my poor Bill, I must go and meet him; he must be hurt." "You had better go into the house, wife," said the farmer; "Bill wants a lesson about this, and I must see that he gets it; this is not the first time, nor the second, that he has ill-used that pony, and I shall stop it. I am much obliged to you, Manly. Good-evening." So we went on, John chuckling all the way home; then he told James about it, who laughed and said, "Serve him right. I knew that boy at school; he took great airs on himself because he was a farmer's son; he used to swagger about and bully the little boys. Of course, we elder ones would not have any of that nonsense, and let him know that in the school and the playground farmers' sons and laborers' sons were all alike. I well remember one day, just before afternoon school, I found him at the large window catching flies and pulling off their wings. He did not see me and I gave him a box on the ears that laid him sprawling on the floor. Well, angry as I was, I was almost frightened, he roared and bellowed in such a style. The boys rushed in from the playground, and the master ran in from the road to see who was being murdered. Of course I said fair and square at once what I had done, and why; then I showed the master the flies, some crushed and some crawling about helpless, and I showed him the wings on the window sill. I never saw him so angry before; but as Bill was still howling and whining, like the coward that he was, he did not give him any more punishment of that kind, but set him up on a stool for the rest of the afternoon, and said that he should not go out to play for that week. Then he talked to all the boys very seriously about cruelty, and said how hard-hearted and cowardly it was to hurt the weak and the helpless; but what stuck in my mind was this, he said that cruelty was the devil's own trade-mark, and if we saw any one who took pleasure in cruelty we might know who he belonged to, for the devil was a murderer from the beginning, and a tormentor to the end. On the other hand, where we saw people who loved their neighbors, and were kind to man and beast, we might know that was God's mark." "Your master never taught you a truer thing," said John; "there is no religion without love, and people may talk as much as they like about their religion, but if it does not teach them to be good and kind to man and beast it is all a sham--all a sham, James, and it won't stand when things come to be turned inside out."

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 14 with the given context.

chapter 14|chapter 15|chapter 16|chapter 17|chapter 18

One December morning, Squire Gordon comes into the stable and begins asking John questions about James, the stable boy. John insists that James is the finest stable boy in all the land, noting "that a steadier, pleasanter, honester, smarter young fellow I never had in this stable" . Squire Gordon completely agrees with John--he was just double-checking. Turns out he's asking because his brother-in-law is looking for a groom, which is a step up in the world from stable boy. Squire Gordon doesn't want to lose James, but he also doesn't want to deny him the opportunity. John agrees, saying, "I would not stand in his light for the world" . These guys are so nice, right? They all decide that James should go to Squire Gordon's brother-in-law's house, Clifford Hall, and until then James practices his driving, leaving Beauty to comment that they're driving into the city a lot, which is a hectic place to take a horse.

----------CHAPTER 14--------- 14 James Howard Early one morning in December John had just led me into my box after my daily exercise, and was strapping my cloth on and James was coming in from the corn chamber with some oats, when the master came into the stable. He looked rather serious, and held an open letter in his hand. John fastened the door of my box, touched his cap, and waited for orders. "Good-morning, John," said the master. "I want to know if you have any complaint to make of James." "Complaint, sir? No, sir." "Is he industrious at his work and respectful to you?" "Yes, sir, always." "You never find he slights his work when your back is turned?" "Never, sir." "That's well; but I must put another question. Have you no reason to suspect, when he goes out with the horses to exercise them or to take a message, that he stops about talking to his acquaintances, or goes into houses where he has no business, leaving the horses outside?" "No, sir, certainly not; and if anybody has been saying that about James, I don't believe it, and I don't mean to believe it unless I have it fairly proved before witnesses; it's not for me to say who has been trying to take away James' character, but I will say this, sir, that a steadier, pleasanter, honester, smarter young fellow I never had in this stable. I can trust his word and I can trust his work; he is gentle and clever with the horses, and I would rather have them in charge with him than with half the young fellows I know of in laced hats and liveries; and whoever wants a character of James Howard," said John, with a decided jerk of his head, "let them come to John Manly." The master stood all this time grave and attentive, but as John finished his speech a broad smile spread over his face, and looking kindly across at James, who all this time had stood still at the door, he said, "James, my lad, set down the oats and come here; I am very glad to find that John's opinion of your character agrees so exactly with my own. John is a cautious man," he said, with a droll smile, "and it is not always easy to get his opinion about people, so I thought if I beat the bush on this side the birds would fly out, and I should learn what I wanted to know quickly; so now we will come to business. I have a letter from my brother-in-law, Sir Clifford Williams, of Clifford Hall. He wants me to find him a trustworthy young groom, about twenty or twenty-one, who knows his business. His old coachman, who has lived with him thirty years, is getting feeble, and he wants a man to work with him and get into his ways, who would be able, when the old man was pensioned off, to step into his place. He would have eighteen shillings a week at first, a stable suit, a driving suit, a bedroom over the coachhouse, and a boy under him. Sir Clifford is a good master, and if you could get the place it would be a good start for you. I don't want to part with you, and if you left us I know John would lose his right hand." "That I should, sir," said John, "but I would not stand in his light for the world." "How old are you, James?" said master. "Nineteen next May, sir." "That's young; what do you think, John?" "Well, sir, it is young; but he is as steady as a man, and is strong, and well grown, and though he has not had much experience in driving, he has a light firm hand and a quick eye, and he is very careful, and I am quite sure no horse of his will be ruined for want of having his feet and shoes looked after." "Your word will go the furthest, John," said the master, "for Sir Clifford adds in a postscript, 'If I could find a man trained by your John I should like him better than any other;' so, James, lad, think it over, talk to your mother at dinner-time, and then let me know what you wish." In a few days after this conversation it was fully settled that James should go to Clifford Hall, in a month or six weeks, as it suited his master, and in the meantime he was to get all the practice in driving that could be given to him. I never knew the carriage to go out so often before; when the mistress did not go out the master drove himself in the two-wheeled chaise; but now, whether it was master or the young ladies, or only an errand, Ginger and I were put in the carriage and James drove us. At the first John rode with him on the box, telling him this and that, and after that James drove alone. Then it was wonderful what a number of places the master would go to in the city on Saturday, and what queer streets we were driven through. He was sure to go to the railway station just as the train was coming in, and cabs and carriages, carts and omnibuses were all trying to get over the bridge together; that bridge wanted good horses and good drivers when the railway bell was ringing, for it was narrow, and there was a very sharp turn up to the station, where it would not have been at all difficult for people to run into each other, if they did not look sharp and keep their wits about them. ----------CHAPTER 15--------- 15 The Old Hostler After this it was decided by my master and mistress to pay a visit to some friends who lived about forty-six miles from our home, and James was to drive them. The first day we traveled thirty-two miles. There were some long, heavy hills, but James drove so carefully and thoughtfully that we were not at all harassed. He never forgot to put on the brake as we went downhill, nor to take it off at the right place. He kept our feet on the smoothest part of the road, and if the uphill was very long, he set the carriage wheels a little across the road, so as not to run back, and gave us a breathing. All these little things help a horse very much, particularly if he gets kind words into the bargain. We stopped once or twice on the road, and just as the sun was going down we reached the town where we were to spend the night. We stopped at the principal hotel, which was in the market-place; it was a very large one; we drove under an archway into a long yard, at the further end of which were the stables and coachhouses. Two hostlers came to take us out. The head hostler was a pleasant, active little man, with a crooked leg, and a yellow striped waistcoat. I never saw a man unbuckle harness so quickly as he did, and with a pat and a good word he led me to a long stable, with six or eight stalls in it, and two or three horses. The other man brought Ginger; James stood by while we were rubbed down and cleaned. I never was cleaned so lightly and quickly as by that little old man. When he had done James stepped up and felt me over, as if he thought I could not be thoroughly done, but he found my coat as clean and smooth as silk. "Well," he said, "I thought I was pretty quick, and our John quicker still, but you do beat all I ever saw for being quick and thorough at the same time." "Practice makes perfect," said the crooked little hostler, "and 'twould be a pity if it didn't; forty years' practice, and not perfect! ha, ha! that would be a pity; and as to being quick, why, bless you! that is only a matter of habit; if you get into the habit of being quick it is just as easy as being slow; easier, I should say; in fact it don't agree with my health to be hulking about over a job twice as long as it need take. Bless you! I couldn't whistle if I crawled over my work as some folks do! You see, I have been about horses ever since I was twelve years old, in hunting stables, and racing stables; and being small, ye see, I was jockey for several years; but at the Goodwood, ye see, the turf was very slippery and my poor Larkspur got a fall, and I broke my knee, and so of course I was of no more use there. But I could not live without horses, of course I couldn't, so I took to the hotels. And I can tell ye it is a downright pleasure to handle an animal like this, well-bred, well-mannered, well-cared-for; bless ye! I can tell how a horse is treated. Give me the handling of a horse for twenty minutes, and I'll tell you what sort of a groom he has had. Look at this one, pleasant, quiet, turns about just as you want him, holds up his feet to be cleaned out, or anything else you please to wish; then you'll find another fidgety, fretty, won't move the right way, or starts across the stall, tosses up his head as soon as you come near him, lays his ears, and seems afraid of you; or else squares about at you with his heels. Poor things! I know what sort of treatment they have had. If they are timid it makes them start or shy; if they are high-mettled it makes them vicious or dangerous; their tempers are mostly made when they are young. Bless you! they are like children, train 'em up in the way they should go, as the good book says, and when they are old they will not depart from it, if they have a chance." "I like to hear you talk," said James, "that's the way we lay it down at home, at our master's." "Who is your master, young man? if it be a proper question. I should judge he is a good one, from what I see." "He is Squire Gordon, of Birtwick Park, the other side the Beacon Hills," said James. "Ah! so, so, I have heard tell of him; fine judge of horses, ain't he? the best rider in the county." "I believe he is," said James, "but he rides very little now, since the poor young master was killed." "Ah! poor gentleman; I read all about it in the paper at the time. A fine horse killed, too, wasn't there?" "Yes," said James; "he was a splendid creature, brother to this one, and just like him." "Pity! pity!" said the old man; "'twas a bad place to leap, if I remember; a thin fence at top, a steep bank down to the stream, wasn't it? No chance for a horse to see where he is going. Now, I am for bold riding as much as any man, but still there are some leaps that only a very knowing old huntsman has any right to take. A man's life and a horse's life are worth more than a fox's tail; at least, I should say they ought to be." During this time the other man had finished Ginger and had brought our corn, and James and the old man left the stable together. ----------CHAPTER 16--------- 16 The Fire Later on in the evening a traveler's horse was brought in by the second hostler, and while he was cleaning him a young man with a pipe in his mouth lounged into the stable to gossip. "I say, Towler," said the hostler, "just run up the ladder into the loft and put some hay down into this horse's rack, will you? only lay down your pipe." "All right," said the other, and went up through the trapdoor; and I heard him step across the floor overhead and put down the hay. James came in to look at us the last thing, and then the door was locked. I cannot say how long I had slept, nor what time in the night it was, but I woke up very uncomfortable, though I hardly knew why. I got up; the air seemed all thick and choking. I heard Ginger coughing and one of the other horses seemed very restless; it was quite dark, and I could see nothing, but the stable seemed full of smoke, and I hardly knew how to breathe. The trapdoor had been left open, and I thought that was the place it came through. I listened, and heard a soft rushing sort of noise and a low crackling and snapping. I did not know what it was, but there was something in the sound so strange that it made me tremble all over. The other horses were all awake; some were pulling at their halters, others stamping. At last I heard steps outside, and the hostler who had put up the traveler's horse burst into the stable with a lantern, and began to untie the horses, and try to lead them out; but he seemed in such a hurry and so frightened himself that he frightened me still more. The first horse would not go with him; he tried the second and third, and they too would not stir. He came to me next and tried to drag me out of the stall by force; of course that was no use. He tried us all by turns and then left the stable. No doubt we were very foolish, but danger seemed to be all round, and there was nobody we knew to trust in, and all was strange and uncertain. The fresh air that had come in through the open door made it easier to breathe, but the rushing sound overhead grew louder, and as I looked upward through the bars of my empty rack I saw a red light flickering on the wall. Then I heard a cry of "Fire!" outside, and the old hostler quietly and quickly came in; he got one horse out, and went to another, but the flames were playing round the trapdoor, and the roaring overhead was dreadful. The next thing I heard was James' voice, quiet and cheery, as it always was. "Come, my beauties, it is time for us to be off, so wake up and come along." I stood nearest the door, so he came to me first, patting me as he came in. "Come, Beauty, on with your bridle, my boy, we'll soon be out of this smother." It was on in no time; then he took the scarf off his neck, and tied it lightly over my eyes, and patting and coaxing he led me out of the stable. Safe in the yard, he slipped the scarf off my eyes, and shouted, "Here somebody! take this horse while I go back for the other." A tall, broad man stepped forward and took me, and James darted back into the stable. I set up a shrill whinny as I saw him go. Ginger told me afterward that whinny was the best thing I could have done for her, for had she not heard me outside she would never have had courage to come out. There was much confusion in the yard; the horses being got out of other stables, and the carriages and gigs being pulled out of houses and sheds, lest the flames should spread further. On the other side the yard windows were thrown up, and people were shouting all sorts of things; but I kept my eye fixed on the stable door, where the smoke poured out thicker than ever, and I could see flashes of red light; presently I heard above all the stir and din a loud, clear voice, which I knew was master's: "James Howard! James Howard! Are you there?" There was no answer, but I heard a crash of something falling in the stable, and the next moment I gave a loud, joyful neigh, for I saw James coming through the smoke leading Ginger with him; she was coughing violently, and he was not able to speak. "My brave lad!" said master, laying his hand on his shoulder, "are you hurt?" James shook his head, for he could not yet speak. "Ay," said the big man who held me; "he is a brave lad, and no mistake." "And now," said master, "when you have got your breath, James, we'll get out of this place as quickly as we can," and we were moving toward the entry, when from the market-place there came a sound of galloping feet and loud rumbling wheels. "'Tis the fire-engine! the fire-engine!" shouted two or three voices, "stand back, make way!" and clattering and thundering over the stones two horses dashed into the yard with a heavy engine behind them. The firemen leaped to the ground; there was no need to ask where the fire was--it was rolling up in a great blaze from the roof. We got out as fast as we could into the broad quiet market-place; the stars were shining, and except the noise behind us, all was still. Master led the way to a large hotel on the other side, and as soon as the hostler came, he said, "James, I must now hasten to your mistress; I trust the horses entirely to you, order whatever you think is needed," and with that he was gone. The master did not run, but I never saw mortal man walk so fast as he did that night. There was a dreadful sound before we got into our stalls--the shrieks of those poor horses that were left burning to death in the stable--it was very terrible! and made both Ginger and me feel very bad. We, however, were taken in and well done by. The next morning the master came to see how we were and to speak to James. I did not hear much, for the hostler was rubbing me down, but I could see that James looked very happy, and I thought the master was proud of him. Our mistress had been so much alarmed in the night that the journey was put off till the afternoon, so James had the morning on hand, and went first to the inn to see about our harness and the carriage, and then to hear more about the fire. When he came back we heard him tell the hostler about it. At first no one could guess how the fire had been caused, but at last a man said he saw Dick Towler go into the stable with a pipe in his mouth, and when he came out he had not one, and went to the tap for another. Then the under hostler said he had asked Dick to go up the ladder to put down some hay, but told him to lay down his pipe first. Dick denied taking the pipe with him, but no one believed him. I remember our John Manly's rule, never to allow a pipe in the stable, and thought it ought to be the rule everywhere. James said the roof and floor had all fallen in, and that only the black walls were standing; the two poor horses that could not be got out were buried under the burnt rafters and tiles. ----------CHAPTER 17--------- 17 John Manly's Talk The rest of our journey was very easy, and a little after sunset we reached the house of my master's friend. We were taken into a clean, snug stable; there was a kind coachman, who made us very comfortable, and who seemed to think a good deal of James when he heard about the fire. "There is one thing quite clear, young man," he said, "your horses know who they can trust; it is one of the hardest things in the world to get horses out of a stable when there is either fire or flood. I don't know why they won't come out, but they won't--not one in twenty." We stopped two or three days at this place and then returned home. All went well on the journey; we were glad to be in our own stable again, and John was equally glad to see us. Before he and James left us for the night James said, "I wonder who is coming in my place." "Little Joe Green at the lodge," said John. "Little Joe Green! why, he's a child!" "He is fourteen and a half," said John. "But he is such a little chap!" "Yes, he is small, but he is quick and willing, and kind-hearted, too, and then he wishes very much to come, and his father would like it; and I know the master would like to give him the chance. He said if I thought he would not do he would look out for a bigger boy; but I said I was quite agreeable to try him for six weeks." "Six weeks!" said James; "why, it will be six months before he can be of much use! It will make you a deal of work, John." "Well," said John with a laugh, "work and I are very good friends; I never was afraid of work yet." "You are a very good man," said James. "I wish I may ever be like you." "I don't often speak of myself," said John, "but as you are going away from us out into the world to shift for yourself I'll just tell you how I look on these things. I was just as old as Joseph when my father and mother died of the fever within ten days of each other, and left me and my cripple sister Nelly alone in the world, without a relation that we could look to for help. I was a farmer's boy, not earning enough to keep myself, much less both of us, and she must have gone to the workhouse but for our mistress (Nelly calls her her angel, and she has good right to do so). She went and hired a room for her with old Widow Mallet, and she gave her knitting and needlework when she was able to do it; and when she was ill she sent her dinners and many nice, comfortable things, and was like a mother to her. Then the master he took me into the stable under old Norman, the coachman that was then. I had my food at the house and my bed in the loft, and a suit of clothes, and three shillings a week, so that I could help Nelly. Then there was Norman; he might have turned round and said at his age he could not be troubled with a raw boy from the plow-tail, but he was like a father to me, and took no end of pains with me. When the old man died some years after I stepped into his place, and now of course I have top wages, and can lay by for a rainy day or a sunny day, as it may happen, and Nelly is as happy as a bird. So you see, James, I am not the man that should turn up his nose at a little boy and vex a good, kind master. No, no! I shall miss you very much, James, but we shall pull through, and there's nothing like doing a kindness when 'tis put in your way, and I am glad I can do it." "Then," said James, "you don't hold with that saying, 'Everybody look after himself, and take care of number one'?" "No, indeed," said John, "where should I and Nelly have been if master and mistress and old Norman had only taken care of number one? Why, she in the workhouse and I hoeing turnips! Where would Black Beauty and Ginger have been if you had only thought of number one? why, roasted to death! No, Jim, no! that is a selfish, heathenish saying, whoever uses it; and any man who thinks he has nothing to do but take care of number one, why, it's a pity but what he had been drowned like a puppy or a kitten, before he got his eyes open; that's what I think," said John, with a very decided jerk of his head. James laughed at this; but there was a thickness in his voice when he said, "You have been my best friend except my mother; I hope you won't forget me." "No, lad, no!" said John, "and if ever I can do you a good turn I hope you won't forget me." The next day Joe came to the stables to learn all he could before James left. He learned to sweep the stable, to bring in the straw and hay; he began to clean the harness, and helped to wash the carriage. As he was quite too short to do anything in the way of grooming Ginger and me, James taught him upon Merrylegs, for he was to have full charge of him, under John. He was a nice little bright fellow, and always came whistling to his work. Merrylegs was a good deal put out at being "mauled about," as he said, "by a boy who knew nothing;" but toward the end of the second week he told me confidentially that he thought the boy would turn out well. At last the day came when James had to leave us; cheerful as he always was, he looked quite down-hearted that morning. "You see," he said to John, "I am leaving a great deal behind; my mother and Betsy, and you, and a good master and mistress, and then the horses, and my old Merrylegs. At the new place there will not be a soul that I shall know. If it were not that I shall get a higher place, and be able to help my mother better, I don't think I should have made up my mind to it; it is a real pinch, John." "Ay, James, lad, so it is; but I should not think much of you if you could leave your home for the first time and not feel it. Cheer up, you'll make friends there; and if you get on well, as I am sure you will, it will be a fine thing for your mother, and she will be proud enough that you have got into such a good place as that." So John cheered him up, but every one was sorry to lose James; as for Merrylegs, he pined after him for several days, and went quite off his appetite. So John took him out several mornings with a leading rein, when he exercised me, and, trotting and galloping by my side, got up the little fellow's spirits again, and he was soon all right. Joe's father would often come in and give a little help, as he understood the work; and Joe took a great deal of pains to learn, and John was quite encouraged about him. ----------CHAPTER 18--------- 18 Going for the Doctor One night, a few days after James had left, I had eaten my hay and was lying down in my straw fast asleep, when I was suddenly roused by the stable bell ringing very loud. I heard the door of John's house open, and his feet running up to the hall. He was back again in no time; he unlocked the stable door, and came in, calling out, "Wake up, Beauty! You must go well now, if ever you did;" and almost before I could think he had got the saddle on my back and the bridle on my head. He just ran round for his coat, and then took me at a quick trot up to the hall door. The squire stood there, with a lamp in his hand. "Now, John," he said, "ride for your life--that is, for your mistress' life; there is not a moment to lose. Give this note to Dr. White; give your horse a rest at the inn, and be back as soon as you can." John said, "Yes, sir," and was on my back in a minute. The gardener who lived at the lodge had heard the bell ring, and was ready with the gate open, and away we went through the park, and through the village, and down the hill till we came to the toll-gate. John called very loud and thumped upon the door; the man was soon out and flung open the gate. "Now," said John, "do you keep the gate open for the doctor; here's the money," and off he went again. There was before us a long piece of level road by the river side; John said to me, "Now, Beauty, do your best," and so I did; I wanted no whip nor spur, and for two miles I galloped as fast as I could lay my feet to the ground; I don't believe that my old grandfather, who won the race at Newmarket, could have gone faster. When we came to the bridge John pulled me up a little and patted my neck. "Well done, Beauty! good old fellow," he said. He would have let me go slower, but my spirit was up, and I was off again as fast as before. The air was frosty, the moon was bright; it was very pleasant. We came through a village, then through a dark wood, then uphill, then downhill, till after eight miles' run we came to the town, through the streets and into the market-place. It was all quite still except the clatter of my feet on the stones--everybody was asleep. The church clock struck three as we drew up at Dr. White's door. John rang the bell twice, and then knocked at the door like thunder. A window was thrown up, and Dr. White, in his nightcap, put his head out and said, "What do you want?" "Mrs. Gordon is very ill, sir; master wants you to go at once; he thinks she will die if you cannot get there. Here is a note." "Wait," he said, "I will come." He shut the window, and was soon at the door. "The worst of it is," he said, "that my horse has been out all day and is quite done up; my son has just been sent for, and he has taken the other. What is to be done? Can I have your horse?" "He has come at a gallop nearly all the way, sir, and I was to give him a rest here; but I think my master would not be against it, if you think fit, sir." "All right," he said; "I will soon be ready." John stood by me and stroked my neck; I was very hot. The doctor came out with his riding-whip. "You need not take that, sir," said John; "Black Beauty will go till he drops. Take care of him, sir, if you can; I should not like any harm to come to him." "No, no, John," said the doctor, "I hope not," and in a minute we had left John far behind. I will not tell about our way back. The doctor was a heavier man than John, and not so good a rider; however, I did my very best. The man at the toll-gate had it open. When we came to the hill the doctor drew me up. "Now, my good fellow," he said, "take some breath." I was glad he did, for I was nearly spent, but that breathing helped me on, and soon we were in the park. Joe was at the lodge gate; my master was at the hall door, for he had heard us coming. He spoke not a word; the doctor went into the house with him, and Joe led me to the stable. I was glad to get home; my legs shook under me, and I could only stand and pant. I had not a dry hair on my body, the water ran down my legs, and I steamed all over, Joe used to say, like a pot on the fire. Poor Joe! he was young and small, and as yet he knew very little, and his father, who would have helped him, had been sent to the next village; but I am sure he did the very best he knew. He rubbed my legs and my chest, but he did not put my warm cloth on me; he thought I was so hot I should not like it. Then he gave me a pailful of water to drink; it was cold and very good, and I drank it all; then he gave me some hay and some corn, and thinking he had done right, he went away. Soon I began to shake and tremble, and turned deadly cold; my legs ached, my loins ached, and my chest ached, and I felt sore all over. Oh! how I wished for my warm, thick cloth, as I stood and trembled. I wished for John, but he had eight miles to walk, so I lay down in my straw and tried to go to sleep. After a long while I heard John at the door; I gave a low moan, for I was in great pain. He was at my side in a moment, stooping down by me. I could not tell him how I felt, but he seemed to know it all; he covered me up with two or three warm cloths, and then ran to the house for some hot water; he made me some warm gruel, which I drank, and then I think I went to sleep. John seemed to be very much put out. I heard him say to himself over and over again, "Stupid boy! stupid boy! no cloth put on, and I dare say the water was cold, too; boys are no good;" but Joe was a good boy, after all. I was now very ill; a strong inflammation had attacked my lungs, and I could not draw my breath without pain. John nursed me night and day; he would get up two or three times in the night to come to me. My master, too, often came to see me. "My poor Beauty," he said one day, "my good horse, you saved your mistress' life, Beauty; yes, you saved her life." I was very glad to hear that, for it seems the doctor had said if we had been a little longer it would have been too late. John told my master he never saw a horse go so fast in his life. It seemed as if the horse knew what was the matter. Of course I did, though John thought not; at least I knew as much as this--that John and I must go at the top of our speed, and that it was for the sake of the mistress.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 19 using the context provided.

Beauty's illness worsens, and Mr. Bond, the horse doctor, visits often. "One day he bled me; John held a pail for the blood. I felt very faint after it, and thought I should die, and I believe they all thought so too" . This probably doesn't sound like a familiar medical procedure, but "bleeding" people and animals was believed to cure diseases at the time. Joe Green's father, Thomas, comes in to help John one night, and asks if John would speak to Joe about Beauty. Joe is apparently distraught over what's happened to Beauty and blames himself. John says he knows Joe isn't a bad boy, but John himself is having a hard time with the situation; he genuinely loves Beauty, and he's been deeply worried. He says, "That horse is the pride of my heart and to think that his life may be flung away in this manner is more than I can bear" . When Thomas comments that it was only ignorance, John launches into a startling, angry rant, saying, "Don't you know that it is the worst thing in the world, next to wickedness?" . Whoa--and here we thought ignorance was bliss. Beauty starts to feel better, but often remembers John's tirade later.

----------CHAPTER 19--------- 19 Only Ignorance I do not know how long I was ill. Mr. Bond, the horse-doctor, came every day. One day he bled me; John held a pail for the blood. I felt very faint after it and thought I should die, and I believe they all thought so too. Ginger and Merrylegs had been moved into the other stable, so that I might be quiet, for the fever made me very quick of hearing; any little noise seemed quite loud, and I could tell every one's footstep going to and from the house. I knew all that was going on. One night John had to give me a draught; Thomas Green came in to help him. After I had taken it and John had made me as comfortable as he could, he said he should stay half an hour to see how the medicine settled. Thomas said he would stay with him, so they went and sat down on a bench that had been brought into Merrylegs' stall, and put down the lantern at their feet, that I might not be disturbed with the light. For awhile both men sat silent, and then Tom Green said in a low voice: "I wish, John, you'd say a bit of a kind word to Joe. The boy is quite broken-hearted; he can't eat his meals, and he can't smile. He says he knows it was all his fault, though he is sure he did the best he knew, and he says if Beauty dies no one will ever speak to him again. It goes to my heart to hear him. I think you might give him just a word; he is not a bad boy." After a short pause John said slowly, "You must not be too hard upon me, Tom. I know he meant no harm, I never said he did; I know he is not a bad boy. But you see, I am sore myself; that horse is the pride of my heart, to say nothing of his being such a favorite with the master and mistress; and to think that his life may be flung away in this manner is more than I can bear. But if you think I am hard on the boy I will try to give him a good word to-morrow--that is, I mean if Beauty is better." "Well, John, thank you. I knew you did not wish to be too hard, and I am glad you see it was only ignorance." John's voice almost startled me as he answered: "Only ignorance! only ignorance! how can you talk about only ignorance? Don't you know that it is the worst thing in the world, next to wickedness?--and which does the most mischief heaven only knows. If people can say, 'Oh! I did not know, I did not mean any harm,' they think it is all right. I suppose Martha Mulwash did not mean to kill that baby when she dosed it with Dalby and soothing syrups; but she did kill it, and was tried for manslaughter." "And serve her right, too," said Tom. "A woman should not undertake to nurse a tender little child without knowing what is good and what is bad for it." "Bill Starkey," continued John, "did not mean to frighten his brother into fits when he dressed up like a ghost and ran after him in the moonlight; but he did; and that bright, handsome little fellow, that might have been the pride of any mother's heart is just no better than an idiot, and never will be, if he lives to be eighty years old. You were a good deal cut up yourself, Tom, two weeks ago, when those young ladies left your hothouse door open, with a frosty east wind blowing right in; you said it killed a good many of your plants." "A good many!" said Tom; "there was not one of the tender cuttings that was not nipped off. I shall have to strike all over again, and the worst of it is that I don't know where to go to get fresh ones. I was nearly mad when I came in and saw what was done." "And yet," said John, "I am sure the young ladies did not mean it; it was only ignorance." I heard no more of this conversation, for the medicine did well and sent me to sleep, and in the morning I felt much better; but I often thought of John's words when I came to know more of the world. ----------CHAPTER 20--------- 20 Joe Green Joe Green went on very well; he learned quickly, and was so attentive and careful that John began to trust him in many things; but as I have said, he was small of his age, and it was seldom that he was allowed to exercise either Ginger or me; but it so happened one morning that John was out with Justice in the luggage cart, and the master wanted a note to be taken immediately to a gentleman's house, about three miles distant, and sent his orders for Joe to saddle me and take it, adding the caution that he was to ride steadily. The note was delivered, and we were quietly returning when we came to the brick-field. Here we saw a cart heavily laden with bricks; the wheels had stuck fast in the stiff mud of some deep ruts, and the carter was shouting and flogging the two horses unmercifully. Joe pulled up. It was a sad sight. There were the two horses straining and struggling with all their might to drag the cart out, but they could not move it; the sweat streamed from their legs and flanks, their sides heaved, and every muscle was strained, while the man, fiercely pulling at the head of the fore horse, swore and lashed most brutally. "Hold hard," said Joe; "don't go on flogging the horses like that; the wheels are so stuck that they cannot move the cart." The man took no heed, but went on lashing. "Stop! pray stop!" said Joe. "I'll help you to lighten the cart; they can't move it now." "Mind your own business, you impudent young rascal, and I'll mind mine!" The man was in a towering passion and the worse for drink, and laid on the whip again. Joe turned my head, and the next moment we were going at a round gallop toward the house of the master brick-maker. I cannot say if John would have approved of our pace, but Joe and I were both of one mind, and so angry that we could not have gone slower. The house stood close by the roadside. Joe knocked at the door, and shouted, "Halloo! Is Mr. Clay at home?" The door was opened, and Mr. Clay himself came out. "Halloo, young man! You seem in a hurry; any orders from the squire this morning?" "No, Mr. Clay, but there's a fellow in your brick-yard flogging two horses to death. I told him to stop, and he wouldn't; I said I'd help him to lighten the cart, and he wouldn't; so I have come to tell you. Pray, sir, go." Joe's voice shook with excitement. "Thank ye, my lad," said the man, running in for his hat; then pausing for a moment, "Will you give evidence of what you saw if I should bring the fellow up before a magistrate?" "That I will," said Joe, "and glad too." The man was gone, and we were on our way home at a smart trot. "Why, what's the matter with you, Joe? You look angry all over," said John, as the boy flung himself from the saddle. "I am angry all over, I can tell you," said the boy, and then in hurried, excited words he told all that had happened. Joe was usually such a quiet, gentle little fellow that it was wonderful to see him so roused. "Right, Joe! you did right, my boy, whether the fellow gets a summons or not. Many folks would have ridden by and said it was not their business to interfere. Now I say that with cruelty and oppression it is everybody's business to interfere when they see it; you did right, my boy." Joe was quite calm by this time, and proud that John approved of him, and cleaned out my feet and rubbed me down with a firmer hand than usual. They were just going home to dinner when the footman came down to the stable to say that Joe was wanted directly in master's private room; there was a man brought up for ill-using horses, and Joe's evidence was wanted. The boy flushed up to his forehead, and his eyes sparkled. "They shall have it," said he. "Put yourself a bit straight," said John. Joe gave a pull at his necktie and a twitch at his jacket, and was off in a moment. Our master being one of the county magistrates, cases were often brought to him to settle, or say what should be done. In the stable we heard no more for some time, as it was the men's dinner hour, but when Joe came next into the stable I saw he was in high spirits; he gave me a good-natured slap, and said, "We won't see such things done, will we, old fellow?" We heard afterward that he had given his evidence so clearly, and the horses were in such an exhausted state, bearing marks of such brutal usage, that the carter was committed to take his trial, and might possibly be sentenced to two or three months in prison. It was wonderful what a change had come over Joe. John laughed, and said he had grown an inch taller in that week, and I believe he had. He was just as kind and gentle as before, but there was more purpose and determination in all that he did--as if he had jumped at once from a boy into a man. ----------CHAPTER 21--------- 21 The Parting Now I had lived in this happy place three years, but sad changes were about to come over us. We heard from time to time that our mistress was ill. The doctor was often at the house, and the master looked grave and anxious. Then we heard that she must leave her home at once, and go to a warm country for two or three years. The news fell upon the household like the tolling of a deathbell. Everybody was sorry; but the master began directly to make arrangements for breaking up his establishment and leaving England. We used to hear it talked about in our stable; indeed, nothing else was talked about. John went about his work silent and sad, and Joe scarcely whistled. There was a great deal of coming and going; Ginger and I had full work. The first of the party who went were Miss Jessie and Flora, with their governess. They came to bid us good-by. They hugged poor Merrylegs like an old friend, and so indeed he was. Then we heard what had been arranged for us. Master had sold Ginger and me to his old friend, the Earl of W----, for he thought we should have a good place there. Merrylegs he had given to the vicar, who was wanting a pony for Mrs. Blomefield, but it was on the condition that he should never be sold, and that when he was past work he should be shot and buried. Joe was engaged to take care of him and to help in the house, so I thought that Merrylegs was well off. John had the offer of several good places, but he said he should wait a little and look round. The evening before they left the master came into the stable to give some directions, and to give his horses the last pat. He seemed very low-spirited; I knew that by his voice. I believe we horses can tell more by the voice than many men can. "Have you decided what to do, John?" he said. "I find you have not accepted either of those offers." "No, sir; I have made up my mind that if I could get a situation with some first-rate colt-breaker and horse-trainer, it would be the right thing for me. Many young animals are frightened and spoiled by wrong treatment, which need not be if the right man took them in hand. I always get on well with horses, and if I could help some of them to a fair start I should feel as if I was doing some good. What do you think of it, sir?" "I don't know a man anywhere," said master, "that I should think so suitable for it as yourself. You understand horses, and somehow they understand you, and in time you might set up for yourself; I think you could not do better. If in any way I can help you, write to me. I shall speak to my agent in London, and leave your character with him." Master gave John the name and address, and then he thanked him for his long and faithful service; but that was too much for John. "Pray, don't, sir, I can't bear it; you and my dear mistress have done so much for me that I could never repay it. But we shall never forget you, sir, and please God, we may some day see mistress back again like herself; we must keep up hope, sir." Master gave John his hand, but he did not speak, and they both left the stable. The last sad day had come; the footman and the heavy luggage had gone off the day before, and there were only master and mistress and her maid. Ginger and I brought the carriage up to the hall door for the last time. The servants brought out cushions and rugs and many other things; and when all were arranged master came down the steps carrying the mistress in his arms (I was on the side next to the house, and could see all that went on); he placed her carefully in the carriage, while the house servants stood round crying. "Good-by, again," he said; "we shall not forget any of you," and he got in. "Drive on, John." Joe jumped up, and we trotted slowly through the park and through the village, where the people were standing at their doors to have a last look and to say, "God bless them." When we reached the railway station I think mistress walked from the carriage to the waiting-room. I heard her say in her own sweet voice, "Good-by, John. God bless you." I felt the rein twitch, but John made no answer; perhaps he could not speak. As soon as Joe had taken the things out of the carriage John called him to stand by the horses, while he went on the platform. Poor Joe! he stood close up to our heads to hide his tears. Very soon the train came puffing up into the station; then two or three minutes, and the doors were slammed to, the guard whistled, and the train glided away, leaving behind it only clouds of white smoke and some very heavy hearts. When it was quite out of sight John came back. "We shall never see her again," he said--"never." He took the reins, mounted the box, and with Joe drove slowly home; but it was not our home now.

Black Beauty.part 2.chapt

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 25 with the given context.

part 2, chapter 22|chapter 23|chapter 24|chapter 25

The man left in charge of the stables when York goes to London is named Reuben Smith, and Beauty thinks he's fantastic... as long as he isn't drinking, that is. He doesn't drink often, but apparently when he does, it's a total disaster. York almost gets rid of him because of this vice, but Smith is so valuable and talented with horses that he gets another chance. Beauty is chosen to make a journey with Smith to return Colonel Blantyre to his regiment in town. On the way back, Smith stops at an inn with Beauty, where the ostler notices that Beauty has a loose nail in his shoe. Smith says it'll be fine, and Beauty thinks this is kind of unusual, since he's usually so careful. Smith gets angry with the ostler--even more unusual--and takes off with Beauty, whipping him unnecessarily. There's definitely something wrong with Beauty's shoe, and finally it comes off as they're running at top speed, which is super not good. Making things worse, Smith's too drunk to notice that something's wrong with our main stallion. They turn onto a road covered in fresh stones, and Beauty is forced to run full speed ahead while missing a shoe. He breaks his hoof, splitting it to the quick and cutting the inside badly. He stumbles from the pain and falls badly on his knees, accidentally throwing Smith. Beauty limps to the side of the road, but Smith doesn't move. No one comes, and Beauty stands and waits in agonizing pain. It's a lovely night, and Beauty can't help thinking of summer nights spent lying next to his mother. At a moment like this, anyone would miss their mom.

----------PART 2, CHAPTER 22--------- Part II. 22 Earlshall The next morning after breakfast Joe put Merrylegs into the mistress' low chaise to take him to the vicarage; he came first and said good-by to us, and Merrylegs neighed to us from the yard. Then John put the saddle on Ginger and the leading rein on me, and rode us across the country about fifteen miles to Earlshall Park, where the Earl of W---- lived. There was a very fine house and a great deal of stabling. We went into the yard through a stone gateway, and John asked for Mr. York. It was some time before he came. He was a fine-looking, middle-aged man, and his voice said at once that he expected to be obeyed. He was very friendly and polite to John, and after giving us a slight look he called a groom to take us to our boxes, and invited John to take some refreshment. We were taken to a light, airy stable, and placed in boxes adjoining each other, where we were rubbed down and fed. In about half an hour John and Mr. York, who was to be our new coachman, came in to see us. "Now, Mr. Manly," he said, after carefully looking at us both, "I can see no fault in these horses; but we all know that horses have their peculiarities as well as men, and that sometimes they need different treatment. I should like to know if there is anything particular in either of these that you would like to mention." "Well," said John, "I don't believe there is a better pair of horses in the country, and right grieved I am to part with them, but they are not alike. The black one is the most perfect temper I ever knew; I suppose he has never known a hard word or a blow since he was foaled, and all his pleasure seems to be to do what you wish; but the chestnut, I fancy, must have had bad treatment; we heard as much from the dealer. She came to us snappish and suspicious, but when she found what sort of place ours was, it all went off by degrees; for three years I have never seen the smallest sign of temper, and if she is well treated there is not a better, more willing animal than she is. But she is naturally a more irritable constitution than the black horse; flies tease her more; anything wrong in the harness frets her more; and if she were ill-used or unfairly treated she would not be unlikely to give tit for tat. You know that many high-mettled horses will do so." "Of course," said York, "I quite understand; but you know it is not easy in stables like these to have all the grooms just what they should be. I do my best, and there I must leave it. I'll remember what you have said about the mare." They were going out of the stable, when John stopped and said, "I had better mention that we have never used the check-rein with either of them; the black horse never had one on, and the dealer said it was the gag-bit that spoiled the other's temper." "Well," said York, "if they come here they must wear the check-rein. I prefer a loose rein myself, and his lordship is always very reasonable about horses; but my lady--that's another thing; she will have style, and if her carriage horses are not reined up tight she wouldn't look at them. I always stand out against the gag-bit, and shall do so, but it must be tight up when my lady rides!" "I am sorry for it, very sorry," said John; "but I must go now, or I shall lose the train." He came round to each of us to pat and speak to us for the last time; his voice sounded very sad. I held my face close to him; that was all I could do to say good-by; and then he was gone, and I have never seen him since. The next day Lord W---- came to look at us; he seemed pleased with our appearance. "I have great confidence in these horses," he said, "from the character my friend Mr. Gordon has given me of them. Of course they are not a match in color, but my idea is that they will do very well for the carriage while we are in the country. Before we go to London I must try to match Baron; the black horse, I believe, is perfect for riding." York then told him what John had said about us. "Well," said he, "you must keep an eye to the mare, and put the check-rein easy; I dare say they will do very well with a little humoring at first. I'll mention it to your lady." In the afternoon we were harnessed and put in the carriage, and as the stable clock struck three we were led round to the front of the house. It was all very grand, and three or four times as large as the old house at Birtwick, but not half so pleasant, if a horse may have an opinion. Two footmen were standing ready, dressed in drab livery, with scarlet breeches and white stockings. Presently we heard the rustling sound of silk as my lady came down the flight of stone steps. She stepped round to look at us; she was a tall, proud-looking woman, and did not seem pleased about something, but she said nothing, and got into the carriage. This was the first time of wearing a check-rein, and I must say, though it certainly was a nuisance not to be able to get my head down now and then, it did not pull my head higher than I was accustomed to carry it. I felt anxious about Ginger, but she seemed to be quiet and content. The next day at three o'clock we were again at the door, and the footmen as before; we heard the silk dress rustle and the lady came down the steps, and in an imperious voice she said, "York, you must put those horses' heads higher; they are not fit to be seen." York got down, and said very respectfully, "I beg your pardon, my lady, but these horses have not been reined up for three years, and my lord said it would be safer to bring them to it by degrees; but if your ladyship pleases I can take them up a little more." "Do so," she said. York came round to our heads and shortened the rein himself--one hole, I think; every little makes a difference, be it for better or worse, and that day we had a steep hill to go up. Then I began to understand what I had heard of. Of course, I wanted to put my head forward and take the carriage up with a will, as we had been used to do; but no, I had to pull with my head up now, and that took all the spirit out of me, and the strain came on my back and legs. When we came in Ginger said, "Now you see what it is like; but this is not bad, and if it does not get much worse than this I shall say nothing about it, for we are very well treated here; but if they strain me up tight, why, let 'em look out! I can't bear it, and I won't." Day by day, hole by hole, our bearing reins were shortened, and instead of looking forward with pleasure to having my harness put on, as I used to do, I began to dread it. Ginger, too, seemed restless, though she said very little. At last I thought the worst was over; for several days there was no more shortening, and I determined to make the best of it and do my duty, though it was now a constant harass instead of a pleasure; but the worst was not come. ----------CHAPTER 23--------- 23 A Strike for Liberty One day my lady came down later than usual, and the silk rustled more than ever. "Drive to the Duchess of B----'s," she said, and then after a pause, "Are you never going to get those horses' heads up, York? Raise them at once and let us have no more of this humoring and nonsense." York came to me first, while the groom stood at Ginger's head. He drew my head back and fixed the rein so tight that it was almost intolerable; then he went to Ginger, who was impatiently jerking her head up and down against the bit, as was her way now. She had a good idea of what was coming, and the moment York took the rein off the terret in order to shorten it she took her opportunity and reared up so suddenly that York had his nose roughly hit and his hat knocked off; the groom was nearly thrown off his legs. At once they both flew to her head; but she was a match for them, and went on plunging, rearing, and kicking in a most desperate manner. At last she kicked right over the carriage pole and fell down, after giving me a severe blow on my near quarter. There is no knowing what further mischief she might have done had not York promptly sat himself down flat on her head to prevent her struggling, at the same time calling out, "Unbuckle the black horse! Run for the winch and unscrew the carriage pole! Cut the trace here, somebody, if you can't unhitch it!" One of the footmen ran for the winch, and another brought a knife from the house. The groom soon set me free from Ginger and the carriage, and led me to my box. He just turned me in as I was and ran back to York. I was much excited by what had happened, and if I had ever been used to kick or rear I am sure I should have done it then; but I never had, and there I stood, angry, sore in my leg, my head still strained up to the terret on the saddle, and no power to get it down. I was very miserable and felt much inclined to kick the first person who came near me. Before long, however, Ginger was led in by two grooms, a good deal knocked about and bruised. York came with her and gave his orders, and then came to look at me. In a moment he let down my head. "Confound these check-reins!" he said to himself; "I thought we should have some mischief soon. Master will be sorely vexed. But there, if a woman's husband can't rule her of course a servant can't; so I wash my hands of it, and if she can't get to the duchess' garden party I can't help it." York did not say this before the men; he always spoke respectfully when they were by. Now he felt me all over, and soon found the place above my hock where I had been kicked. It was swelled and painful; he ordered it to be sponged with hot water, and then some lotion was put on. Lord W---- was much put out when he learned what had happened; he blamed York for giving way to his mistress, to which he replied that in future he would much prefer to receive his orders only from his lordship; but I think nothing came of it, for things went on the same as before. I thought York might have stood up better for his horses, but perhaps I am no judge. Ginger was never put into the carriage again, but when she was well of her bruises one of the Lord W----'s younger sons said he should like to have her; he was sure she would make a good hunter. As for me, I was obliged still to go in the carriage, and had a fresh partner called Max; he had always been used to the tight rein. I asked him how it was he bore it. "Well," he said, "I bear it because I must; but it is shortening my life, and it will shorten yours too if you have to stick to it." "Do you think," I said, "that our masters know how bad it is for us?" "I can't say," he replied, "but the dealers and the horse-doctors know it very well. I was at a dealer's once, who was training me and another horse to go as a pair; he was getting our heads up, as he said, a little higher and a little higher every day. A gentleman who was there asked him why he did so. 'Because,' said he, 'people won't buy them unless we do. The London people always want their horses to carry their heads high and to step high. Of course it is very bad for the horses, but then it is good for trade. The horses soon wear up, or get diseased, and they come for another pair.' That," said Max, "is what he said in my hearing, and you can judge for yourself." What I suffered with that rein for four long months in my lady's carriage it would be hard to describe; but I am quite sure that, had it lasted much longer, either my health or my temper would have given way. Before that, I never knew what it was to foam at the mouth, but now the action of the sharp bit on my tongue and jaw, and the constrained position of my head and throat, always caused me to froth at the mouth more or less. Some people think it very fine to see this, and say, "What fine spirited creatures!" But it is just as unnatural for horses as for men to foam at the mouth; it is a sure sign of some discomfort, and should be attended to. Besides this, there was a pressure on my windpipe, which often made my breathing very uncomfortable; when I returned from my work my neck and chest were strained and painful, my mouth and tongue tender, and I felt worn and depressed. In my old home I always knew that John and my master were my friends; but here, although in many ways I was well treated, I had no friend. York might have known, and very likely did know, how that rein harassed me; but I suppose he took it as a matter of course that it could not be helped; at any rate, nothing was done to relieve me. ----------CHAPTER 24--------- 24 The Lady Anne, or a Runaway Horse Early in the spring, Lord W---- and part of his family went up to London, and took York with them. I and Ginger and some other horses were left at home for use, and the head groom was left in charge. The Lady Harriet, who remained at the hall, was a great invalid, and never went out in the carriage, and the Lady Anne preferred riding on horseback with her brother or cousins. She was a perfect horsewoman, and as gay and gentle as she was beautiful. She chose me for her horse, and named me "Black Auster". I enjoyed these rides very much in the clear cold air, sometimes with Ginger, sometimes with Lizzie. This Lizzie was a bright bay mare, almost thoroughbred, and a great favorite with the gentlemen, on account of her fine action and lively spirit; but Ginger, who knew more of her than I did, told me she was rather nervous. There was a gentleman of the name of Blantyre staying at the hall; he always rode Lizzie, and praised her so much that one day Lady Anne ordered the side-saddle to be put on her, and the other saddle on me. When we came to the door the gentleman seemed very uneasy. "How is this?" he said. "Are you tired of your good Black Auster?" "Oh, no, not at all," she replied, "but I am amiable enough to let you ride him for once, and I will try your charming Lizzie. You must confess that in size and appearance she is far more like a lady's horse than my own favorite." "Do let me advise you not to mount her," he said; "she is a charming creature, but she is too nervous for a lady. I assure you, she is not perfectly safe; let me beg you to have the saddles changed." "My dear cousin," said Lady Anne, laughing, "pray do not trouble your good careful head about me. I have been a horsewoman ever since I was a baby, and I have followed the hounds a great many times, though I know you do not approve of ladies hunting; but still that is the fact, and I intend to try this Lizzie that you gentlemen are all so fond of; so please help me to mount, like a good friend as you are." There was no more to be said; he placed her carefully on the saddle, looked to the bit and curb, gave the reins gently into her hand, and then mounted me. Just as we were moving off a footman came out with a slip of paper and message from the Lady Harriet. "Would they ask this question for her at Dr. Ashley's, and bring the answer?" The village was about a mile off, and the doctor's house was the last in it. We went along gayly enough till we came to his gate. There was a short drive up to the house between tall evergreens. Blantyre alighted at the gate, and was going to open it for Lady Anne, but she said, "I will wait for you here, and you can hang Auster's rein on the gate." He looked at her doubtfully. "I will not be five minutes," he said. "Oh, do not hurry yourself; Lizzie and I shall not run away from you." He hung my rein on one of the iron spikes, and was soon hidden among the trees. Lizzie was standing quietly by the side of the road a few paces off, with her back to me. My young mistress was sitting easily with a loose rein, humming a little song. I listened to my rider's footsteps until they reached the house, and heard him knock at the door. There was a meadow on the opposite side of the road, the gate of which stood open; just then some cart horses and several young colts came trotting out in a very disorderly manner, while a boy behind was cracking a great whip. The colts were wild and frolicsome, and one of them bolted across the road and blundered up against Lizzie's hind legs, and whether it was the stupid colt, or the loud cracking of the whip, or both together, I cannot say, but she gave a violent kick, and dashed off into a headlong gallop. It was so sudden that Lady Anne was nearly unseated, but she soon recovered herself. I gave a loud, shrill neigh for help; again and again I neighed, pawing the ground impatiently, and tossing my head to get the rein loose. I had not long to wait. Blantyre came running to the gate; he looked anxiously about, and just caught sight of the flying figure, now far away on the road. In an instant he sprang to the saddle. I needed no whip, no spur, for I was as eager as my rider; he saw it, and giving me a free rein, and leaning a little forward, we dashed after them. For about a mile and a half the road ran straight, and then bent to the right, after which it divided into two roads. Long before we came to the bend she was out of sight. Which way had she turned? A woman was standing at her garden gate, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking eagerly up the road. Scarcely drawing the rein, Blantyre shouted, "Which way?" "To the right!" cried the woman, pointing with her hand, and away we went up the right-hand road; then for a moment we caught sight of her; another bend and she was hidden again. Several times we caught glimpses, and then lost them. We scarcely seemed to gain ground upon them at all. An old road-mender was standing near a heap of stones, his shovel dropped and his hands raised. As we came near he made a sign to speak. Blantyre drew the rein a little. "To the common, to the common, sir; she has turned off there." I knew this common very well; it was for the most part very uneven ground, covered with heather and dark-green furze bushes, with here and there a scrubby old thorn-tree; there were also open spaces of fine short grass, with ant-hills and mole-turns everywhere; the worst place I ever knew for a headlong gallop. We had hardly turned on the common, when we caught sight again of the green habit flying on before us. My lady's hat was gone, and her long brown hair was streaming behind her. Her head and body were thrown back, as if she were pulling with all her remaining strength, and as if that strength were nearly exhausted. It was clear that the roughness of the ground had very much lessened Lizzie's speed, and there seemed a chance that we might overtake her. While we were on the highroad, Blantyre had given me my head; but now, with a light hand and a practiced eye, he guided me over the ground in such a masterly manner that my pace was scarcely slackened, and we were decidedly gaining on them. About halfway across the heath there had been a wide dike recently cut, and the earth from the cutting was cast up roughly on the other side. Surely this would stop them! But no; with scarcely a pause Lizzie took the leap, stumbled among the rough clods and fell. Blantyre groaned, "Now, Auster, do your best!" He gave me a steady rein. I gathered myself well together and with one determined leap cleared both dike and bank. Motionless among the heather, with her face to the earth, lay my poor young mistress. Blantyre kneeled down and called her name: there was no sound. Gently he turned her face upward: it was ghastly white and the eyes were closed. "Annie, dear Annie, do speak!" But there was no answer. He unbuttoned her habit, loosened her collar, felt her hands and wrist, then started up and looked wildly round him for help. At no great distance there were two men cutting turf, who, seeing Lizzie running wild without a rider, had left their work to catch her. Blantyre's halloo soon brought them to the spot. The foremost man seemed much troubled at the sight, and asked what he could do. "Can you ride?" "Well, sir, I bean't much of a horseman, but I'd risk my neck for the Lady Anne; she was uncommon good to my wife in the winter." "Then mount this horse, my friend--your neck will be quite safe--and ride to the doctor's and ask him to come instantly; then on to the hall; tell them all that you know, and bid them send me the carriage, with Lady Anne's maid and help. I shall stay here." "All right, sir, I'll do my best, and I pray God the dear young lady may open her eyes soon." Then, seeing the other man, he called out, "Here, Joe, run for some water, and tell my missis to come as quick as she can to the Lady Anne." He then somehow scrambled into the saddle, and with a "Gee up" and a clap on my sides with both his legs, he started on his journey, making a little circuit to avoid the dike. He had no whip, which seemed to trouble him; but my pace soon cured that difficulty, and he found the best thing he could do was to stick to the saddle and hold me in, which he did manfully. I shook him as little as I could help, but once or twice on the rough ground he called out, "Steady! Woah! Steady!" On the highroad we were all right; and at the doctor's and the hall he did his errand like a good man and true. They asked him in to take a drop of something. "No, no," he said; "I'll be back to 'em again by a short cut through the fields, and be there afore the carriage." There was a great deal of hurry and excitement after the news became known. I was just turned into my box; the saddle and bridle were taken off, and a cloth thrown over me. Ginger was saddled and sent off in great haste for Lord George, and I soon heard the carriage roll out of the yard. It seemed a long time before Ginger came back, and before we were left alone; and then she told me all that she had seen. "I can't tell much," she said. "We went a gallop nearly all the way, and got there just as the doctor rode up. There was a woman sitting on the ground with the lady's head in her lap. The doctor poured something into her mouth, but all that I heard was, 'She is not dead.' Then I was led off by a man to a little distance. After awhile she was taken to the carriage, and we came home together. I heard my master say to a gentleman who stopped him to inquire, that he hoped no bones were broken, but that she had not spoken yet." When Lord George took Ginger for hunting, York shook his head; he said it ought to be a steady hand to train a horse for the first season, and not a random rider like Lord George. Ginger used to like it very much, but sometimes when she came back I could see that she had been very much strained, and now and then she gave a short cough. She had too much spirit to complain, but I could not help feeling anxious about her. Two days after the accident Blantyre paid me a visit; he patted me and praised me very much; he told Lord George that he was sure the horse knew of Annie's danger as well as he did. "I could not have held him in if I would," said he, "she ought never to ride any other horse." I found by their conversation that my young mistress was now out of danger, and would soon be able to ride again. This was good news to me and I looked forward to a happy life. ----------CHAPTER 25--------- 25 Reuben Smith Now I must say a little about Reuben Smith, who was left in charge of the stables when York went to London. No one more thoroughly understood his business than he did, and when he was all right there could not be a more faithful or valuable man. He was gentle and very clever in his management of horses, and could doctor them almost as well as a farrier, for he had lived two years with a veterinary surgeon. He was a first-rate driver; he could take a four-in-hand or a tandem as easily as a pair. He was a handsome man, a good scholar, and had very pleasant manners. I believe everybody liked him; certainly the horses did. The only wonder was that he should be in an under situation and not in the place of a head coachman like York; but he had one great fault and that was the love of drink. He was not like some men, always at it; he used to keep steady for weeks or months together, and then he would break out and have a "bout" of it, as York called it, and be a disgrace to himself, a terror to his wife, and a nuisance to all that had to do with him. He was, however, so useful that two or three times York had hushed the matter up and kept it from the earl's knowledge; but one night, when Reuben had to drive a party home from a ball he was so drunk that he could not hold the reins, and a gentleman of the party had to mount the box and drive the ladies home. Of course, this could not be hidden, and Reuben was at once dismissed; his poor wife and little children had to turn out of the pretty cottage by the park gate and go where they could. Old Max told me all this, for it happened a good while ago; but shortly before Ginger and I came Smith had been taken back again. York had interceded for him with the earl, who is very kind-hearted, and the man had promised faithfully that he would never taste another drop as long as he lived there. He had kept his promise so well that York thought he might be safely trusted to fill his place while he was away, and he was so clever and honest that no one else seemed so well fitted for it. It was now early in April, and the family was expected home some time in May. The light brougham was to be fresh done up, and as Colonel Blantyre was obliged to return to his regiment it was arranged that Smith should drive him to the town in it, and ride back; for this purpose he took the saddle with him, and I was chosen for the journey. At the station the colonel put some money into Smith's hand and bid him good-by, saying, "Take care of your young mistress, Reuben, and don't let Black Auster be hacked about by any random young prig that wants to ride him--keep him for the lady." We left the carriage at the maker's, and Smith rode me to the White Lion, and ordered the hostler to feed me well, and have me ready for him at four o'clock. A nail in one of my front shoes had started as I came along, but the hostler did not notice it till just about four o'clock. Smith did not come into the yard till five, and then he said he should not leave till six, as he had met with some old friends. The man then told him of the nail, and asked if he should have the shoe looked to. "No," said Smith, "that will be all right till we get home." He spoke in a very loud, offhand way, and I thought it very unlike him not to see about the shoe, as he was generally wonderfully particular about loose nails in our shoes. He did not come at six nor seven, nor eight, and it was nearly nine o'clock before he called for me, and then it was with a loud, rough voice. He seemed in a very bad temper, and abused the hostler, though I could not tell what for. The landlord stood at the door and said, "Have a care, Mr. Smith!" but he answered angrily with an oath; and almost before he was out of the town he began to gallop, frequently giving me a sharp cut with his whip, though I was going at full speed. The moon had not yet risen, and it was very dark. The roads were stony, having been recently mended; going over them at this pace, my shoe became looser, and as we neared the turnpike gate it came off. If Smith had been in his right senses he would have been sensible of something wrong in my pace, but he was too drunk to notice. Beyond the turnpike was a long piece of road, upon which fresh stones had just been laid--large sharp stones, over which no horse could be driven quickly without risk of danger. Over this road, with one shoe gone, I was forced to gallop at my utmost speed, my rider meanwhile cutting into me with his whip, and with wild curses urging me to go still faster. Of course my shoeless foot suffered dreadfully; the hoof was broken and split down to the very quick, and the inside was terribly cut by the sharpness of the stones. This could not go on; no horse could keep his footing under such circumstances; the pain was too great. I stumbled, and fell with violence on both my knees. Smith was flung off by my fall, and, owing to the speed I was going at, he must have fallen with great force. I soon recovered my feet and limped to the side of the road, where it was free from stones. The moon had just risen above the hedge, and by its light I could see Smith lying a few yards beyond me. He did not rise; he made one slight effort to do so, and then there was a heavy groan. I could have groaned, too, for I was suffering intense pain both from my foot and knees; but horses are used to bear their pain in silence. I uttered no sound, but I stood there and listened. One more heavy groan from Smith; but though he now lay in the full moonlight I could see no motion. I could do nothing for him nor myself, but, oh! how I listened for the sound of horse, or wheels, or footsteps! The road was not much frequented, and at this time of the night we might stay for hours before help came to us. I stood watching and listening. It was a calm, sweet April night; there were no sounds but a few low notes of a nightingale, and nothing moved but the white clouds near the moon and a brown owl that flitted over the hedge. It made me think of the summer nights long ago, when I used to lie beside my mother in the green pleasant meadow at Farmer Grey's.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 27 using the context provided.

chapter 26|chapter 27|chapter 28|chapter 29

Recovering from his injuries, Beauty is kept alone in a meadow for a few months. He likes the freedom, but he's lonely, especially missing Ginger. Finally one morning Ginger arrives in the meadow, but although their reunion is happy, it seems Ginger's health has suffered, too--as Beauty says, she's been "ruined by hard riding" . Lord George insisted on riding Ginger in a hunt, ignoring warnings that Ginger wasn't fit to race. Although she finishes near the front, her back and lungs are strained from the race. "Here we are, ruined in the prime of our youth and strength, you by a drunkard and I by a fool" , Ginger remarks. They enjoy their time in the meadow together until one day the Earl and York come to see them. The Earl says that he's upset the horses are ruined, not just because of the money wasted, but because they belonged to his good friend. He says that Ginger's probably got a year left, but Beauty must be sold because of his knees. The Earl and York discuss finding a good home for Beauty, and Ginger laments, "They'll soon take you away, and I shall lose the only friend I have, and most likely we shall never see each other again. 'Tis a hard world!" . You said it, sister. A week later, Robert comes to take Beauty away, and he and Ginger neigh a sad goodbye to each other, unable to do much more. So painful. Beauty is sent by train to a livery stable, which is very uncomfortable because the stalls are on a slope. His new master seems to make an effort to care well for the horses, though, which is hopeful.

----------CHAPTER 26--------- 26 How it Ended It must have been nearly midnight when I heard at a great distance the sound of a horse's feet. Sometimes the sound died away, then it grew clearer again and nearer. The road to Earlshall led through woods that belonged to the earl; the sound came in that direction, and I hoped it might be some one coming in search of us. As the sound came nearer and nearer I was almost sure I could distinguish Ginger's step; a little nearer still, and I could tell she was in the dog-cart. I neighed loudly, and was overjoyed to hear an answering neigh from Ginger, and men's voices. They came slowly over the stones, and stopped at the dark figure that lay upon the ground. One of the men jumped out, and stooped down over it. "It is Reuben," he said, "and he does not stir!" The other man followed, and bent over him. "He's dead," he said; "feel how cold his hands are." They raised him up, but there was no life, and his hair was soaked with blood. They laid him down again, and came and looked at me. They soon saw my cut knees. "Why, the horse has been down and thrown him! Who would have thought the black horse would have done that? Nobody thought he could fall. Reuben must have been lying here for hours! Odd, too, that the horse has not moved from the place." Robert then attempted to lead me forward. I made a step, but almost fell again. "Halloo! he's bad in his foot as well as his knees. Look here--his hoof is cut all to pieces; he might well come down, poor fellow! I tell you what, Ned, I'm afraid it hasn't been all right with Reuben. Just think of his riding a horse over these stones without a shoe! Why, if he had been in his right senses he would just as soon have tried to ride him over the moon. I'm afraid it has been the old thing over again. Poor Susan! she looked awfully pale when she came to my house to ask if he had not come home. She made believe she was not a bit anxious, and talked of a lot of things that might have kept him. But for all that she begged me to go and meet him. But what must we do? There's the horse to get home as well as the body, and that will be no easy matter." Then followed a conversation between them, till it was agreed that Robert, as the groom, should lead me, and that Ned must take the body. It was a hard job to get it into the dog-cart, for there was no one to hold Ginger; but she knew as well as I did what was going on, and stood as still as a stone. I noticed that, because, if she had a fault, it was that she was impatient in standing. Ned started off very slowly with his sad load, and Robert came and looked at my foot again; then he took his handkerchief and bound it closely round, and so he led me home. I shall never forget that night walk; it was more than three miles. Robert led me on very slowly, and I limped and hobbled on as well as I could with great pain. I am sure he was sorry for me, for he often patted and encouraged me, talking to me in a pleasant voice. At last I reached my own box, and had some corn; and after Robert had wrapped up my knees in wet cloths, he tied up my foot in a bran poultice, to draw out the heat and cleanse it before the horse-doctor saw it in the morning, and I managed to get myself down on the straw, and slept in spite of the pain. The next day after the farrier had examined my wounds, he said he hoped the joint was not injured; and if so, I should not be spoiled for work, but I should never lose the blemish. I believe they did the best to make a good cure, but it was a long and painful one. Proud flesh, as they called it, came up in my knees, and was burned out with caustic; and when at last it was healed, they put a blistering fluid over the front of both knees to bring all the hair off; they had some reason for this, and I suppose it was all right. As Smith's death had been so sudden, and no one was there to see it, there was an inquest held. The landlord and hostler at the White Lion, with several other people, gave evidence that he was intoxicated when he started from the inn. The keeper of the toll-gate said he rode at a hard gallop through the gate; and my shoe was picked up among the stones, so that the case was quite plain to them, and I was cleared of all blame. Everybody pitied Susan. She was nearly out of her mind; she kept saying over and over again, "Oh! he was so good--so good! It was all that cursed drink; why will they sell that cursed drink? Oh Reuben, Reuben!" So she went on till after he was buried; and then, as she had no home or relations, she, with her six little children, was obliged once more to leave the pleasant home by the tall oak-trees, and go into that great gloomy Union House. ----------CHAPTER 27--------- 27 Ruined and Going Downhill As soon as my knees were sufficiently healed I was turned into a small meadow for a month or two; no other creature was there; and though I enjoyed the liberty and the sweet grass, yet I had been so long used to society that I felt very lonely. Ginger and I had become fast friends, and now I missed her company extremely. I often neighed when I heard horses' feet passing in the road, but I seldom got an answer; till one morning the gate was opened, and who should come in but dear old Ginger. The man slipped off her halter, and left her there. With a joyful whinny I trotted up to her; we were both glad to meet, but I soon found that it was not for our pleasure that she was brought to be with me. Her story would be too long to tell, but the end of it was that she had been ruined by hard riding, and was now turned off to see what rest would do. Lord George was young and would take no warning; he was a hard rider, and would hunt whenever he could get the chance, quite careless of his horse. Soon after I left the stable there was a steeplechase, and he determined to ride. Though the groom told him she was a little strained, and was not fit for the race, he did not believe it, and on the day of the race urged Ginger to keep up with the foremost riders. With her high spirit, she strained herself to the utmost; she came in with the first three horses, but her wind was touched, besides which he was too heavy for her, and her back was strained. "And so," she said, "here we are, ruined in the prime of our youth and strength, you by a drunkard, and I by a fool; it is very hard." We both felt in ourselves that we were not what we had been. However, that did not spoil the pleasure we had in each other's company; we did not gallop about as we once did, but we used to feed, and lie down together, and stand for hours under one of the shady lime-trees with our heads close to each other; and so we passed our time till the family returned from town. One day we saw the earl come into the meadow, and York was with him. Seeing who it was, we stood still under our lime-tree, and let them come up to us. They examined us carefully. The earl seemed much annoyed. "There is three hundred pounds flung away for no earthly use," said he; "but what I care most for is that these horses of my old friend, who thought they would find a good home with me, are ruined. The mare shall have a twelve-month's run, and we shall see what that will do for her; but the black one, he must be sold; 'tis a great pity, but I could not have knees like these in my stables." "No, my lord, of course not," said York; "but he might get a place where appearance is not of much consequence, and still be well treated. I know a man in Bath, the master of some livery stables, who often wants a good horse at a low figure; I know he looks well after his horses. The inquest cleared the horse's character, and your lordship's recommendation, or mine, would be sufficient warrant for him." "You had better write to him, York. I should be more particular about the place than the money he would fetch." After this they left us. "They'll soon take you away," said Ginger, "and I shall lose the only friend I have, and most likely we shall never see each other again. 'Tis a hard world!" About a week after this Robert came into the field with a halter, which he slipped over my head, and led me away. There was no leave-taking of Ginger; we neighed to each other as I was led off, and she trotted anxiously along by the hedge, calling to me as long as she could hear the sound of my feet. Through the recommendation of York, I was bought by the master of the livery stables. I had to go by train, which was new to me, and required a good deal of courage the first time; but as I found the puffing, rushing, whistling, and, more than all, the trembling of the horse-box in which I stood did me no real harm, I soon took it quietly. When I reached the end of my journey I found myself in a tolerably comfortable stable, and well attended to. These stables were not so airy and pleasant as those I had been used to. The stalls were laid on a slope instead of being level, and as my head was kept tied to the manger, I was obliged always to stand on the slope, which was very fatiguing. Men do not seem to know yet that horses can do more work if they can stand comfortably and can turn about; however, I was well fed and well cleaned, and, on the whole, I think our master took as much care of us as he could. He kept a good many horses and carriages of different kinds for hire. Sometimes his own men drove them; at others, the horse and chaise were let to gentlemen or ladies who drove themselves. ----------CHAPTER 28--------- 28 A Job Horse and His Drivers Hitherto I had always been driven by people who at least knew how to drive; but in this place I was to get my experience of all the different kinds of bad and ignorant driving to which we horses are subjected; for I was a "job horse", and was let out to all sorts of people who wished to hire me; and as I was good-tempered and gentle, I think I was oftener let out to the ignorant drivers than some of the other horses, because I could be depended upon. It would take a long time to tell of all the different styles in which I was driven, but I will mention a few of them. First, there were the tight-rein drivers--men who seemed to think that all depended on holding the reins as hard as they could, never relaxing the pull on the horse's mouth, or giving him the least liberty of movement. They are always talking about "keeping the horse well in hand", and "holding a horse up", just as if a horse was not made to hold himself up. Some poor, broken-down horses, whose mouths have been made hard and insensible by just such drivers as these, may, perhaps, find some support in it; but for a horse who can depend upon his own legs, and who has a tender mouth and is easily guided, it is not only tormenting, but it is stupid. Then there are the loose-rein drivers, who let the reins lie easily on our backs, and their own hand rest lazily on their knees. Of course, such gentlemen have no control over a horse, if anything happens suddenly. If a horse shies, or starts, or stumbles, they are nowhere, and cannot help the horse or themselves till the mischief is done. Of course, for myself I had no objection to it, as I was not in the habit either of starting or stumbling, and had only been used to depend on my driver for guidance and encouragement. Still, one likes to feel the rein a little in going downhill, and likes to know that one's driver is not gone to sleep. Besides, a slovenly way of driving gets a horse into bad and often lazy habits, and when he changes hands he has to be whipped out of them with more or less pain and trouble. Squire Gordon always kept us to our best paces and our best manners. He said that spoiling a horse and letting him get into bad habits was just as cruel as spoiling a child, and both had to suffer for it afterward. Besides, these drivers are often careless altogether, and will attend to anything else more than their horses. I went out in the phaeton one day with one of them; he had a lady and two children behind. He flopped the reins about as we started, and of course gave me several unmeaning cuts with the whip, though I was fairly off. There had been a good deal of road-mending going on, and even where the stones were not freshly laid down there were a great many loose ones about. My driver was laughing and joking with the lady and the children, and talking about the country to the right and the left; but he never thought it worth while to keep an eye on his horse or to drive on the smoothest parts of the road; and so it easily happened that I got a stone in one of my fore feet. Now, if Mr. Gordon or John, or in fact any good driver, had been there, he would have seen that something was wrong before I had gone three paces. Or even if it had been dark a practiced hand would have felt by the rein that there was something wrong in the step, and they would have got down and picked out the stone. But this man went on laughing and talking, while at every step the stone became more firmly wedged between my shoe and the frog of my foot. The stone was sharp on the inside and round on the outside, which, as every one knows, is the most dangerous kind that a horse can pick up, at the same time cutting his foot and making him most liable to stumble and fall. Whether the man was partly blind or only very careless I can't say, but he drove me with that stone in my foot for a good half-mile before he saw anything. By that time I was going so lame with the pain that at last he saw it, and called out, "Well, here's a go! Why, they have sent us out with a lame horse! What a shame!" He then chucked the reins and flipped about with the whip, saying, "Now, then, it's no use playing the old soldier with me; there's the journey to go, and it's no use turning lame and lazy." Just at this time a farmer came riding up on a brown cob. He lifted his hat and pulled up. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but I think there is something the matter with your horse; he goes very much as if he had a stone in his shoe. If you will allow me I will look at his feet; these loose scattered stones are confounded dangerous things for the horses." "He's a hired horse," said my driver. "I don't know what's the matter with him, but it is a great shame to send out a lame beast like this." The farmer dismounted, and slipping his rein over his arm at once took up my near foot. "Bless me, there's a stone! Lame! I should think so!" At first he tried to dislodge it with his hand, but as it was now very tightly wedged he drew a stone-pick out of his pocket, and very carefully and with some trouble got it out. Then holding it up he said, "There, that's the stone your horse had picked up. It is a wonder he did not fall down and break his knees into the bargain!" "Well, to be sure!" said my driver; "that is a queer thing! I never knew that horses picked up stones before." "Didn't you?" said the farmer rather contemptuously; "but they do, though, and the best of them will do it, and can't help it sometimes on such roads as these. And if you don't want to lame your horse you must look sharp and get them out quickly. This foot is very much bruised," he said, setting it gently down and patting me. "If I might advise, sir, you had better drive him gently for awhile; the foot is a good deal hurt, and the lameness will not go off directly." Then mounting his cob and raising his hat to the lady he trotted off. When he was gone my driver began to flop the reins about and whip the harness, by which I understood that I was to go on, which of course I did, glad that the stone was gone, but still in a good deal of pain. This was the sort of experience we job horses often came in for. ----------CHAPTER 29--------- 29 Cockneys Then there is the steam-engine style of driving; these drivers were mostly people from towns, who never had a horse of their own and generally traveled by rail. They always seemed to think that a horse was something like a steam-engine, only smaller. At any rate, they think that if only they pay for it a horse is bound to go just as far and just as fast and with just as heavy a load as they please. And be the roads heavy and muddy, or dry and good; be they stony or smooth, uphill or downhill, it is all the same--on, on, on, one must go, at the same pace, with no relief and no consideration. These people never think of getting out to walk up a steep hill. Oh, no, they have paid to ride, and ride they will! The horse? Oh, he's used to it! What were horses made for, if not to drag people uphill? Walk! A good joke indeed! And so the whip is plied and the rein is chucked and often a rough, scolding voice cries out, "Go along, you lazy beast!" And then another slash of the whip, when all the time we are doing our very best to get along, uncomplaining and obedient, though often sorely harassed and down-hearted. This steam-engine style of driving wears us up faster than any other kind. I would far rather go twenty miles with a good considerate driver than I would go ten with some of these; it would take less out of me. Another thing, they scarcely ever put on the brake, however steep the downhill may be, and thus bad accidents sometimes happen; or if they do put it on, they often forget to take it off at the bottom of the hill, and more than once I have had to pull halfway up the next hill, with one of the wheels held by the brake, before my driver chose to think about it; and that is a terrible strain on a horse. Then these cockneys, instead of starting at an easy pace, as a gentleman would do, generally set off at full speed from the very stable-yard; and when they want to stop, they first whip us, and then pull up so suddenly that we are nearly thrown on our haunches, and our mouths jagged with the bit--they call that pulling up with a dash; and when they turn a corner they do it as sharply as if there were no right side or wrong side of the road. I well remember one spring evening I and Rory had been out for the day. (Rory was the horse that mostly went with me when a pair was ordered, and a good honest fellow he was.) We had our own driver, and as he was always considerate and gentle with us, we had a very pleasant day. We were coming home at a good smart pace, about twilight. Our road turned sharp to the left; but as we were close to the hedge on our own side, and there was plenty of room to pass, our driver did not pull us in. As we neared the corner I heard a horse and two wheels coming rapidly down the hill toward us. The hedge was high, and I could see nothing, but the next moment we were upon each other. Happily for me, I was on the side next the hedge. Rory was on the left side of the pole, and had not even a shaft to protect him. The man who was driving was making straight for the corner, and when he came in sight of us he had no time to pull over to his own side. The whole shock came upon Rory. The gig shaft ran right into the chest, making him stagger back with a cry that I shall never forget. The other horse was thrown upon his haunches and one shaft broken. It turned out that it was a horse from our own stables, with the high-wheeled gig that the young men were so fond of. The driver was one of those random, ignorant fellows, who don't even know which is their own side of the road, or, if they know, don't care. And there was poor Rory with his flesh torn open and bleeding, and the blood streaming down. They said if it had been a little more to one side it would have killed him; and a good thing for him, poor fellow, if it had. As it was, it was a long time before the wound healed, and then he was sold for coal-carting; and what that is, up and down those steep hills, only horses know. Some of the sights I saw there, where a horse had to come downhill with a heavily loaded two-wheel cart behind him, on which no brake could be placed, make me sad even now to think of. After Rory was disabled I often went in the carriage with a mare named Peggy, who stood in the next stall to mine. She was a strong, well-made animal, of a bright dun color, beautifully dappled, and with a dark-brown mane and tail. There was no high breeding about her, but she was very pretty and remarkably sweet-tempered and willing. Still, there was an anxious look about her eye, by which I knew that she had some trouble. The first time we went out together I thought she had a very odd pace; she seemed to go partly a trot, partly a canter, three or four paces, and then a little jump forward. It was very unpleasant for any horse who pulled with her, and made me quite fidgety. When we got home I asked her what made her go in that odd, awkward way. "Ah," she said in a troubled manner, "I know my paces are very bad, but what can I do? It really is not my fault; it is just because my legs are so short. I stand nearly as high as you, but your legs are a good three inches longer above your knee than mine, and of course you can take a much longer step and go much faster. You see I did not make myself. I wish I could have done so; I would have had long legs then. All my troubles come from my short legs," said Peggy, in a desponding tone. "But how is it," I said, "when you are so strong and good-tempered and willing?" "Why, you see," said she, "men will go so fast, and if one can't keep up to other horses it is nothing but whip, whip, whip, all the time. And so I have had to keep up as I could, and have got into this ugly shuffling pace. It was not always so; when I lived with my first master I always went a good regular trot, but then he was not in such a hurry. He was a young clergyman in the country, and a good, kind master he was. He had two churches a good way apart, and a great deal of work, but he never scolded or whipped me for not going faster. He was very fond of me. I only wish I was with him now; but he had to leave and go to a large town, and then I was sold to a farmer. "Some farmers, you know, are capital masters; but I think this one was a low sort of man. He cared nothing about good horses or good driving; he only cared for going fast. I went as fast as I could, but that would not do, and he was always whipping; so I got into this way of making a spring forward to keep up. On market nights he used to stay very late at the inn, and then drive home at a gallop. "One dark night he was galloping home as usual, when all of a sudden the wheel came against some great heavy thing in the road, and turned the gig over in a minute. He was thrown out and his arm broken, and some of his ribs, I think. At any rate, it was the end of my living with him, and I was not sorry. But you see it will be the same everywhere for me, if men must go so fast. I wish my legs were longer!" Poor Peggy! I was very sorry for her, and I could not comfort her, for I knew how hard it was upon slow-paced horses to be put with fast ones; all the whipping comes to their share, and they can't help it. She was often used in the phaeton, and was very much liked by some of the ladies, because she was so gentle; and some time after this she was sold to two ladies who drove themselves, and wanted a safe, good horse. I met her several times out in the country, going a good steady pace, and looking as gay and contented as a horse could be. I was very glad to see her, for she deserved a good place. After she left us another horse came in her stead. He was young, and had a bad name for shying and starting, by which he had lost a good place. I asked him what made him shy. "Well, I hardly know," he said. "I was timid when I was young, and was a good deal frightened several times, and if I saw anything strange I used to turn and look at it--you see, with our blinkers one can't see or understand what a thing is unless one looks round--and then my master always gave me a whipping, which of course made me start on, and did not make me less afraid. I think if he would have let me just look at things quietly, and see that there was nothing to hurt me, it would have been all right, and I should have got used to them. One day an old gentleman was riding with him, and a large piece of white paper or rag blew across just on one side of me. I shied and started forward. My master as usual whipped me smartly, but the old man cried out, 'You're wrong! you're wrong! You should never whip a horse for shying; he shies because he is frightened, and you only frighten him more and make the habit worse.' So I suppose all men don't do so. I am sure I don't want to shy for the sake of it; but how should one know what is dangerous and what is not, if one is never allowed to get used to anything? I am never afraid of what I know. Now I was brought up in a park where there were deer; of course I knew them as well as I did a sheep or a cow, but they are not common, and I know many sensible horses who are frightened at them, and who kick up quite a shindy before they will pass a paddock where there are deer." I knew what my companion said was true, and I wished that every young horse had as good masters as Farmer Grey and Squire Gordon. Of course we sometimes came in for good driving here. I remember one morning I was put into the light gig, and taken to a house in Pulteney Street. Two gentlemen came out; the taller of them came round to my head; he looked at the bit and bridle, and just shifted the collar with his hand, to see if it fitted comfortably. "Do you consider this horse wants a curb?" he said to the hostler. "Well," said the man, "I should say he would go just as well without; he has an uncommon good mouth, and though he has a fine spirit he has no vice; but we generally find people like the curb." "I don't like it," said the gentleman; "be so good as to take it off, and put the rein in at the cheek. An easy mouth is a great thing on a long journey, is it not, old fellow?" he said, patting my neck. Then he took the reins, and they both got up. I can remember now how quietly he turned me round, and then with a light feel of the rein, and drawing the whip gently across my back, we were off. I arched my neck and set off at my best pace. I found I had some one behind me who knew how a good horse ought to be driven. It seemed like old times again, and made me feel quite gay. This gentleman took a great liking to me, and after trying me several times with the saddle he prevailed upon my master to sell me to a friend of his, who wanted a safe, pleasant horse for riding. And so it came to pass that in the summer I was sold to Mr. Barry.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 31, utilizing the provided context.

Beauty's new groom arrives, a man named Alfred Smirk. And apparently Beauty's master is really bad at hiring grooms, because Beauty says, " if ever there was a humbug in the shape of a groom, Alfred Smirk was the man" . He treats Beauty well, especially in front of Beauty's master, but he does a terrible job at grooming. Alfred Smirk himself is very vain and loves looking in the mirror , but although he gives Beauty's master a very good impression, Beauty thinks he's " the laziest, most conceited fellow I ever came near" . Worst of all, Smirk doesn't clean Beauty's stall. It smells awful and starts to affect Beauty's health. The master comes in to ask about it, and Smirk actually says it's dangerous to clean and might give the horse a chill. Smirk suggests maybe there's something wrong with the drain. Someone comes to fix the drain, but of course that's not the problem; Beauty's feet start to become "unhealthy and tender" from standing on wet ground. His master starts commenting on Beauty's ill health, and Beauty explains that besides his feet, he's not exercised enough and fed the wrong kind of food. Beauty's feet get bad enough that he starts to stumble, and his master stops at a farrier to find out what's wrong. The farrier diagnoses Beauty with "thrush"--which is like bad athlete's foot for horses--and says it's a problem found in foul, unclean stables. At last Beauty's feet are healed and his stable is cleaned out, but Beauty's master is fed up with grooms, and decides that owning a horse is too much trouble. So Beauty is sold yet again.

----------CHAPTER 30--------- 30 A Thief My new master was an unmarried man. He lived at Bath, and was much engaged in business. His doctor advised him to take horse exercise, and for this purpose he bought me. He hired a stable a short distance from his lodgings, and engaged a man named Filcher as groom. My master knew very little about horses, but he treated me well, and I should have had a good and easy place but for circumstances of which he was ignorant. He ordered the best hay with plenty of oats, crushed beans, and bran, with vetches, or rye grass, as the man might think needful. I heard the master give the order, so I knew there was plenty of good food, and I thought I was well off. For a few days all went on well. I found that my groom understood his business. He kept the stable clean and airy, and he groomed me thoroughly; and was never otherwise than gentle. He had been an hostler in one of the great hotels in Bath. He had given that up, and now cultivated fruit and vegetables for the market, and his wife bred and fattened poultry and rabbits for sale. After awhile it seemed to me that my oats came very short; I had the beans, but bran was mixed with them instead of oats, of which there were very few; certainly not more than a quarter of what there should have been. In two or three weeks this began to tell upon my strength and spirits. The grass food, though very good, was not the thing to keep up my condition without corn. However, I could not complain, nor make known my wants. So it went on for about two months; and I wondered that my master did not see that something was the matter. However, one afternoon he rode out into the country to see a friend of his, a gentleman farmer, who lived on the road to Wells. This gentleman had a very quick eye for horses; and after he had welcomed his friend he said, casting his eye over me: "It seems to me, Barry, that your horse does not look so well as he did when you first had him; has he been well?" "Yes, I believe so," said my master; "but he is not nearly so lively as he was; my groom tells me that horses are always dull and weak in the autumn, and that I must expect it." "Autumn, fiddlesticks!" said the farmer. "Why, this is only August; and with your light work and good food he ought not to go down like this, even if it was autumn. How do you feed him?" My master told him. The other shook his head slowly, and began to feel me over. "I can't say who eats your corn, my dear fellow, but I am much mistaken if your horse gets it. Have you ridden very fast?" "No, very gently." "Then just put your hand here," said he, passing his hand over my neck and shoulder; "he is as warm and damp as a horse just come up from grass. I advise you to look into your stable a little more. I hate to be suspicious, and, thank heaven, I have no cause to be, for I can trust my men, present or absent; but there are mean scoundrels, wicked enough to rob a dumb beast of his food. You must look into it." And turning to his man, who had come to take me, "Give this horse a right good feed of bruised oats, and don't stint him." "Dumb beasts!" Yes, we are; but if I could have spoken I could have told my master where his oats went to. My groom used to come every morning about six o'clock, and with him a little boy, who always had a covered basket with him. He used to go with his father into the harness-room, where the corn was kept, and I could see them, when the door stood ajar, fill a little bag with oats out of the bin, and then he used to be off. Five or six mornings after this, just as the boy had left the stable, the door was pushed open, and a policeman walked in, holding the child tight by the arm; another policeman followed, and locked the door on the inside, saying, "Show me the place where your father keeps his rabbits' food." The boy looked very frightened and began to cry; but there was no escape, and he led the way to the corn-bin. Here the policeman found another empty bag like that which was found full of oats in the boy's basket. Filcher was cleaning my feet at the time, but they soon saw him, and though he blustered a good deal they walked him off to the "lock-up", and his boy with him. I heard afterward that the boy was not held to be guilty, but the man was sentenced to prison for two months. ----------CHAPTER 31--------- 31 A Humbug My master was not immediately suited, but in a few days my new groom came. He was a tall, good-looking fellow enough; but if ever there was a humbug in the shape of a groom Alfred Smirk was the man. He was very civil to me, and never used me ill; in fact, he did a great deal of stroking and patting when his master was there to see it. He always brushed my mane and tail with water and my hoofs with oil before he brought me to the door, to make me look smart; but as to cleaning my feet or looking to my shoes, or grooming me thoroughly, he thought no more of that than if I had been a cow. He left my bit rusty, my saddle damp, and my crupper stiff. Alfred Smirk considered himself very handsome; he spent a great deal of time about his hair, whiskers and necktie, before a little looking-glass in the harness-room. When his master was speaking to him it was always, "Yes, sir; yes, sir"--touching his hat at every word; and every one thought he was a very nice young man and that Mr. Barry was very fortunate to meet with him. I should say he was the laziest, most conceited fellow I ever came near. Of course, it was a great thing not to be ill-used, but then a horse wants more than that. I had a loose box, and might have been very comfortable if he had not been too indolent to clean it out. He never took all the straw away, and the smell from what lay underneath was very bad; while the strong vapors that rose made my eyes smart and inflame, and I did not feel the same appetite for my food. One day his master came in and said, "Alfred, the stable smells rather strong; should not you give that stall a good scrub and throw down plenty of water?" "Well, sir," he said, touching his cap, "I'll do so if you please, sir; but it is rather dangerous, sir, throwing down water in a horse's box; they are very apt to take cold, sir. I should not like to do him an injury, but I'll do it if you please, sir." "Well," said his master, "I should not like him to take cold; but I don't like the smell of this stable. Do you think the drains are all right?" "Well, sir, now you mention it, I think the drain does sometimes send back a smell; there may be something wrong, sir." "Then send for the bricklayer and have it seen to," said his master. "Yes, sir, I will." The bricklayer came and pulled up a great many bricks, but found nothing amiss; so he put down some lime and charged the master five shillings, and the smell in my box was as bad as ever. But that was not all: standing as I did on a quantity of moist straw my feet grew unhealthy and tender, and the master used to say: "I don't know what is the matter with this horse; he goes very fumble-footed. I am sometimes afraid he will stumble." "Yes, sir," said Alfred, "I have noticed the same myself, when I have exercised him." Now the fact was that he hardly ever did exercise me, and when the master was busy I often stood for days together without stretching my legs at all, and yet being fed just as high as if I were at hard work. This often disordered my health, and made me sometimes heavy and dull, but more often restless and feverish. He never even gave me a meal of green food or a bran mash, which would have cooled me, for he was altogether as ignorant as he was conceited; and then, instead of exercise or change of food, I had to take horse balls and draughts; which, beside the nuisance of having them poured down my throat, used to make me feel ill and uncomfortable. One day my feet were so tender that, trotting over some fresh stones with my master on my back, I made two such serious stumbles that, as he came down Lansdown into the city, he stopped at the farrier's, and asked him to see what was the matter with me. The man took up my feet one by one and examined them; then standing up and dusting his hands one against the other, he said: "Your horse has got the 'thrush', and badly, too; his feet are very tender; it is fortunate that he has not been down. I wonder your groom has not seen to it before. This is the sort of thing we find in foul stables, where the litter is never properly cleaned out. If you will send him here to-morrow I will attend to the hoof, and I will direct your man how to apply the liniment which I will give him." The next day I had my feet thoroughly cleansed and stuffed with tow soaked in some strong lotion; and an unpleasant business it was. The farrier ordered all the litter to be taken out of my box day by day, and the floor kept very clean. Then I was to have bran mashes, a little green food, and not so much corn, till my feet were well again. With this treatment I soon regained my spirits; but Mr. Barry was so much disgusted at being twice deceived by his grooms that he determined to give up keeping a horse, and to hire when he wanted one. I was therefore kept till my feet were quite sound, and was then sold again.

Black Beauty.part 3.chapt

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 33 based on the provided context.

part 3, chapter 32|chapter 33|chapter 34

Beauty's new master, Jeremiah "Jerry" Barker, is a London cab driver, and Beauty immediately likes him and his family: "I have never known such a happy, merry family before or since" , Beauty says. Jerry owns his own cab and another horse named Captain, a tall, white, elderly horse, "high-bred, fine-mannered," and "noble" . Captain is a veteran of the Crimean War, and Beauty promises more details on that later. Jerry's family actually comes out to make friends with Beauty on his first morning there--so sweet--bringing him treats, which he loves. . Jerry decides to call Beauty "Jack" after an old horse. When Jerry puts Beauty in the cab for the first time, he takes great care to make sure Beauty is comfortable: "There was no bearing rein, no curb, nothing but a plain ring snaffle. What a blessing that was!" . Beauty meets Jerry's colleagues, including someone called Grey Grant or Governor Grant. Initially, pulling a cab through the crowded streets of London is stressful and hard to get used to, but Beauty praises Jerry's driving ability and credits him with making the adjustment fairly painless. Plus he almost never whips Beauty and trusts Beauty to work hard. Jerry cares for Beauty very well in the stable, too, with plenty of good food and fresh water. The horses only rest on Sunday, which is much-needed, and Beauty has time to learn more about Captain's life.

----------PART 3, CHAPTER 32--------- Part III. 32 A Horse Fair No doubt a horse fair is a very amusing place to those who have nothing to lose; at any rate, there is plenty to see. Long strings of young horses out of the country, fresh from the marshes; and droves of shaggy little Welsh ponies, no higher than Merrylegs; and hundreds of cart horses of all sorts, some of them with their long tails braided up and tied with scarlet cord; and a good many like myself, handsome and high-bred, but fallen into the middle class, through some accident or blemish, unsoundness of wind, or some other complaint. There were some splendid animals quite in their prime, and fit for anything; they were throwing out their legs and showing off their paces in high style, as they were trotted out with a leading rein, the groom running by the side. But round in the background there were a number of poor things, sadly broken down with hard work, with their knees knuckling over and their hind legs swinging out at every step, and there were some very dejected-looking old horses, with the under lip hanging down and the ears lying back heavily, as if there were no more pleasure in life, and no more hope; there were some so thin you might see all their ribs, and some with old sores on their backs and hips. These were sad sights for a horse to look upon, who knows not but he may come to the same state. There was a great deal of bargaining, of running up and beating down; and if a horse may speak his mind so far as he understands, I should say there were more lies told and more trickery at that horse fair than a clever man could give an account of. I was put with two or three other strong, useful-looking horses, and a good many people came to look at us. The gentlemen always turned from me when they saw my broken knees; though the man who had me swore it was only a slip in the stall. The first thing was to pull my mouth open, then to look at my eyes, then feel all the way down my legs, and give me a hard feel of the skin and flesh, and then try my paces. It was wonderful what a difference there was in the way these things were done. Some did it in a rough, offhand way, as if one was only a piece of wood; while others would take their hands gently over one's body, with a pat now and then, as much as to say, "By your leave." Of course I judged a good deal of the buyers by their manners to myself. There was one man, I thought, if he would buy me, I should be happy. He was not a gentleman, nor yet one of the loud, flashy sort that call themselves so. He was rather a small man, but well made, and quick in all his motions. I knew in a moment by the way he handled me, that he was used to horses; he spoke gently, and his gray eye had a kindly, cheery look in it. It may seem strange to say--but it is true all the same--that the clean, fresh smell there was about him made me take to him; no smell of old beer and tobacco, which I hated, but a fresh smell as if he had come out of a hayloft. He offered twenty-three pounds for me, but that was refused, and he walked away. I looked after him, but he was gone, and a very hard-looking, loud-voiced man came. I was dreadfully afraid he would have me; but he walked off. One or two more came who did not mean business. Then the hard-faced man came back again and offered twenty-three pounds. A very close bargain was being driven, for my salesman began to think he should not get all he asked, and must come down; but just then the gray-eyed man came back again. I could not help reaching out my head toward him. He stroked my face kindly. "Well, old chap," he said, "I think we should suit each other. I'll give twenty-four for him." "Say twenty-five and you shall have him." "Twenty-four ten," said my friend, in a very decided tone, "and not another sixpence--yes or no?" "Done," said the salesman; "and you may depend upon it there's a monstrous deal of quality in that horse, and if you want him for cab work he's a bargain." The money was paid on the spot, and my new master took my halter, and led me out of the fair to an inn, where he had a saddle and bridle ready. He gave me a good feed of oats and stood by while I ate it, talking to himself and talking to me. Half an hour after we were on our way to London, through pleasant lanes and country roads, until we came into the great London thoroughfare, on which we traveled steadily, till in the twilight we reached the great city. The gas lamps were already lighted; there were streets to the right, and streets to the left, and streets crossing each other, for mile upon mile. I thought we should never come to the end of them. At last, in passing through one, we came to a long cab stand, when my rider called out in a cheery voice, "Good-night, governor!" "Halloo!" cried a voice. "Have you got a good one?" "I think so," replied my owner. "I wish you luck with him." "Thank you, governor," and he rode on. We soon turned up one of the side streets, and about halfway up that we turned into a very narrow street, with rather poor-looking houses on one side, and what seemed to be coach-houses and stables on the other. My owner pulled up at one of the houses and whistled. The door flew open, and a young woman, followed by a little girl and boy, ran out. There was a very lively greeting as my rider dismounted. "Now, then, Harry, my boy, open the gates, and mother will bring us the lantern." The next minute they were all standing round me in a small stable-yard. "Is he gentle, father?" "Yes, Dolly, as gentle as your own kitten; come and pat him." At once the little hand was patting about all over my shoulder without fear. How good it felt! "Let me get him a bran mash while you rub him down," said the mother. "Do, Polly, it's just what he wants; and I know you've got a beautiful mash ready for me." "Sausage dumpling and apple turnover!" shouted the boy, which set them all laughing. I was led into a comfortable, clean-smelling stall, with plenty of dry straw, and after a capital supper I lay down, thinking I was going to be happy. ----------CHAPTER 33--------- 33 A London Cab Horse Jeremiah Barker was my new master's name, but as every one called him Jerry, I shall do the same. Polly, his wife, was just as good a match as a man could have. She was a plump, trim, tidy little woman, with smooth, dark hair, dark eyes, and a merry little mouth. The boy was twelve years old, a tall, frank, good-tempered lad; and little Dorothy (Dolly they called her) was her mother over again, at eight years old. They were all wonderfully fond of each other; I never knew such a happy, merry family before or since. Jerry had a cab of his own, and two horses, which he drove and attended to himself. His other horse was a tall, white, rather large-boned animal called "Captain". He was old now, but when he was young he must have been splendid; he had still a proud way of holding his head and arching his neck; in fact, he was a high-bred, fine-mannered, noble old horse, every inch of him. He told me that in his early youth he went to the Crimean War; he belonged to an officer in the cavalry, and used to lead the regiment. I will tell more of that hereafter. The next morning, when I was well-groomed, Polly and Dolly came into the yard to see me and make friends. Harry had been helping his father since the early morning, and had stated his opinion that I should turn out a "regular brick". Polly brought me a slice of apple, and Dolly a piece of bread, and made as much of me as if I had been the "Black Beauty" of olden time. It was a great treat to be petted again and talked to in a gentle voice, and I let them see as well as I could that I wished to be friendly. Polly thought I was very handsome, and a great deal too good for a cab, if it was not for the broken knees. "Of course there's no one to tell us whose fault that was," said Jerry, "and as long as I don't know I shall give him the benefit of the doubt; for a firmer, neater stepper I never rode. We'll call him 'Jack', after the old one--shall we, Polly?" "Do," she said, "for I like to keep a good name going." Captain went out in the cab all the morning. Harry came in after school to feed me and give me water. In the afternoon I was put into the cab. Jerry took as much pains to see if the collar and bridle fitted comfortably as if he had been John Manly over again. When the crupper was let out a hole or two it all fitted well. There was no check-rein, no curb, nothing but a plain ring snaffle. What a blessing that was! After driving through the side street we came to the large cab stand where Jerry had said "Good-night". On one side of this wide street were high houses with wonderful shop fronts, and on the other was an old church and churchyard, surrounded by iron palisades. Alongside these iron rails a number of cabs were drawn up, waiting for passengers; bits of hay were lying about on the ground; some of the men were standing together talking; some were sitting on their boxes reading the newspaper; and one or two were feeding their horses with bits of hay, and giving them a drink of water. We pulled up in the rank at the back of the last cab. Two or three men came round and began to look at me and pass their remarks. "Very good for a funeral," said one. "Too smart-looking," said another, shaking his head in a very wise way; "you'll find out something wrong one of these fine mornings, or my name isn't Jones." "Well," said Jerry pleasantly, "I suppose I need not find it out till it finds me out, eh? And if so, I'll keep up my spirits a little longer." Then there came up a broad-faced man, dressed in a great gray coat with great gray cape and great white buttons, a gray hat, and a blue comforter loosely tied round his neck; his hair was gray, too; but he was a jolly-looking fellow, and the other men made way for him. He looked me all over, as if he had been going to buy me; and then straightening himself up with a grunt, he said, "He's the right sort for you, Jerry; I don't care what you gave for him, he'll be worth it." Thus my character was established on the stand. This man's name was Grant, but he was called "Gray Grant", or "Governor Grant". He had been the longest on that stand of any of the men, and he took it upon himself to settle matters and stop disputes. He was generally a good-humored, sensible man; but if his temper was a little out, as it was sometimes when he had drunk too much, nobody liked to come too near his fist, for he could deal a very heavy blow. The first week of my life as a cab horse was very trying. I had never been used to London, and the noise, the hurry, the crowds of horses, carts, and carriages that I had to make my way through made me feel anxious and harassed; but I soon found that I could perfectly trust my driver, and then I made myself easy and got used to it. Jerry was as good a driver as I had ever known, and what was better, he took as much thought for his horses as he did for himself. He soon found out that I was willing to work and do my best, and he never laid the whip on me unless it was gently drawing the end of it over my back when I was to go on; but generally I knew this quite well by the way in which he took up the reins, and I believe his whip was more frequently stuck up by his side than in his hand. In a short time I and my master understood each other as well as horse and man can do. In the stable, too, he did all that he could for our comfort. The stalls were the old-fashioned style, too much on the slope; but he had two movable bars fixed across the back of our stalls, so that at night, and when we were resting, he just took off our halters and put up the bars, and thus we could turn about and stand whichever way we pleased, which is a great comfort. Jerry kept us very clean, and gave us as much change of food as he could, and always plenty of it; and not only that, but he always gave us plenty of clean fresh water, which he allowed to stand by us both night and day, except of course when we came in warm. Some people say that a horse ought not to drink all he likes; but I know if we are allowed to drink when we want it we drink only a little at a time, and it does us a great deal more good than swallowing down half a bucketful at a time, because we have been left without till we are thirsty and miserable. Some grooms will go home to their beer and leave us for hours with our dry hay and oats and nothing to moisten them; then of course we gulp down too much at once, which helps to spoil our breathing and sometimes chills our stomachs. But the best thing we had here was our Sundays for rest; we worked so hard in the week that I do not think we could have kept up to it but for that day; besides, we had then time to enjoy each other's company. It was on these days that I learned my companion's history. ----------CHAPTER 34--------- 34 An Old War Horse Captain had been broken in and trained for an army horse; his first owner was an officer of cavalry going out to the Crimean war. He said he quite enjoyed the training with all the other horses, trotting together, turning together, to the right hand or the left, halting at the word of command, or dashing forward at full speed at the sound of the trumpet or signal of the officer. He was, when young, a dark, dappled iron-gray, and considered very handsome. His master, a young, high-spirited gentleman, was very fond of him, and treated him from the first with the greatest care and kindness. He told me he thought the life of an army horse was very pleasant; but when it came to being sent abroad over the sea in a great ship, he almost changed his mind. "That part of it," said he, "was dreadful! Of course we could not walk off the land into the ship; so they were obliged to put strong straps under our bodies, and then we were lifted off our legs in spite of our struggles, and were swung through the air over the water, to the deck of the great vessel. There we were placed in small close stalls, and never for a long time saw the sky, or were able to stretch our legs. The ship sometimes rolled about in high winds, and we were knocked about, and felt bad enough. "However, at last it came to an end, and we were hauled up, and swung over again to the land; we were very glad, and snorted and neighed for joy, when we once more felt firm ground under our feet. "We soon found that the country we had come to was very different from our own and that we had many hardships to endure besides the fighting; but many of the men were so fond of their horses that they did everything they could to make them comfortable in spite of snow, wet, and all things out of order." "But what about the fighting?" said I, "was not that worse than anything else?" "Well," said he, "I hardly know; we always liked to hear the trumpet sound, and to be called out, and were impatient to start off, though sometimes we had to stand for hours, waiting for the word of command; and when the word was given we used to spring forward as gayly and eagerly as if there were no cannon balls, bayonets, or bullets. I believe so long as we felt our rider firm in the saddle, and his hand steady on the bridle, not one of us gave way to fear, not even when the terrible bomb-shells whirled through the air and burst into a thousand pieces. "I, with my noble master, went into many actions together without a wound; and though I saw horses shot down with bullets, pierced through with lances, and gashed with fearful saber-cuts; though we left them dead on the field, or dying in the agony of their wounds, I don't think I feared for myself. My master's cheery voice, as he encouraged his men, made me feel as if he and I could not be killed. I had such perfect trust in him that while he was guiding me I was ready to charge up to the very cannon's mouth. I saw many brave men cut down, many fall mortally wounded from their saddles. I had heard the cries and groans of the dying, I had cantered over ground slippery with blood, and frequently had to turn aside to avoid trampling on wounded man or horse, but, until one dreadful day, I had never felt terror; that day I shall never forget." Here old Captain paused for awhile and drew a long breath; I waited, and he went on. "It was one autumn morning, and as usual, an hour before daybreak our cavalry had turned out, ready caparisoned for the day's work, whether it might be fighting or waiting. The men stood by their horses waiting, ready for orders. As the light increased there seemed to be some excitement among the officers; and before the day was well begun we heard the firing of the enemy's guns. "Then one of the officers rode up and gave the word for the men to mount, and in a second every man was in his saddle, and every horse stood expecting the touch of the rein, or the pressure of his rider's heels, all animated, all eager; but still we had been trained so well that, except by the champing of our bits, and the restive tossing of our heads from time to time, it could not be said that we stirred. "My dear master and I were at the head of the line, and as all sat motionless and watchful, he took a little stray lock of my mane which had turned over on the wrong side, laid it over on the right, and smoothed it down with his hand; then patting my neck, he said, 'We shall have a day of it to-day, Bayard, my beauty; but we'll do our duty as we have done.' He stroked my neck that morning more, I think, than he had ever done before; quietly on and on, as if he were thinking of something else. I loved to feel his hand on my neck, and arched my crest proudly and happily; but I stood very still, for I knew all his moods, and when he liked me to be quiet, and when gay. "I cannot tell all that happened on that day, but I will tell of the last charge that we made together; it was across a valley right in front of the enemy's cannon. By this time we were well used to the roar of heavy guns, the rattle of musket fire, and the flying of shot near us; but never had I been under such a fire as we rode through on that day. From the right, from the left, and from the front, shot and shell poured in upon us. Many a brave man went down, many a horse fell, flinging his rider to the earth; many a horse without a rider ran wildly out of the ranks; then terrified at being alone, with no hand to guide him, came pressing in among his old companions, to gallop with them to the charge. "Fearful as it was, no one stopped, no one turned back. Every moment the ranks were thinned, but as our comrades fell, we closed in to keep them together; and instead of being shaken or staggered in our pace our gallop became faster and faster as we neared the cannon. "My master, my dear master was cheering on his comrades with his right arm raised on high, when one of the balls whizzing close to my head struck him. I felt him stagger with the shock, though he uttered no cry; I tried to check my speed, but the sword dropped from his right hand, the rein fell loose from the left, and sinking backward from the saddle he fell to the earth; the other riders swept past us, and by the force of their charge I was driven from the spot. "I wanted to keep my place by his side and not leave him under that rush of horses' feet, but it was in vain; and now without a master or a friend I was alone on that great slaughter ground; then fear took hold on me, and I trembled as I had never trembled before; and I too, as I had seen other horses do, tried to join in the ranks and gallop with them; but I was beaten off by the swords of the soldiers. Just then a soldier whose horse had been killed under him caught at my bridle and mounted me, and with this new master I was again going forward; but our gallant company was cruelly overpowered, and those who remained alive after the fierce fight for the guns came galloping back over the same ground. Some of the horses had been so badly wounded that they could scarcely move from the loss of blood; other noble creatures were trying on three legs to drag themselves along, and others were struggling to rise on their fore feet, when their hind legs had been shattered by shot. After the battle the wounded men were brought in and the dead were buried." "And what about the wounded horses?" I said; "were they left to die?" "No, the army farriers went over the field with their pistols and shot all that were ruined; some that had only slight wounds were brought back and attended to, but the greater part of the noble, willing creatures that went out that morning never came back! In our stables there was only about one in four that returned. "I never saw my dear master again. I believe he fell dead from the saddle. I never loved any other master so well. I went into many other engagements, but was only once wounded, and then not seriously; and when the war was over I came back again to England, as sound and strong as when I went out." I said, "I have heard people talk about war as if it was a very fine thing." "Ah!" said he, "I should think they never saw it. No doubt it is very fine when there is no enemy, when it is just exercise and parade and sham fight. Yes, it is very fine then; but when thousands of good brave men and horses are killed or crippled for life, it has a very different look." "Do you know what they fought about?" said I. "No," he said, "that is more than a horse can understand, but the enemy must have been awfully wicked people, if it was right to go all that way over the sea on purpose to kill them."

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 37 with the given context.

chapter 35|chapter 36|chapter 37

In a perfect example of good karma, Mrs. Briggs sends a message to Jerry in a few weeks asking for a cab ride. The servant says they've been trying other cabs, but "there's something wrong with them all" . After that, Mr. Briggs is back on the good customer list, although he never again asks for a Sunday ride. However, Jerry does go out once on a Sunday, which Beauty explains. One Sunday Polly comes to Jerry with the news that her friend Dinah Brown's mother is seriously ill, and Dinah " must go directly if she wishes to see her alive" . Problem is, Dinah's mother lives ten miles out of town, a long walk from any train station, plus Dinah has a four-week-old baby. Polly asks Jerry to go, quoting the Golden Rule at him--"you know we should do to other people as we should like they should do to us" --so Jerry agrees, saying that Polly is "as good as the Minister" . They ride out of town to deliver Dinah on a beautiful May day. When they arrive, Jerry asks if Beauty can spend some time in the meadow. Beauty is ecstatic. They spend a blissful afternoon at the field, and it's been ages since Beauty's been in one--since Earlshall, in fact. At the end of the day, Jerry brings his daughter some flowers and comments on how happy Beauty was in the field.

----------CHAPTER 35--------- 35 Jerry Barker I never knew a better man than my new master. He was kind and good, and as strong for the right as John Manly; and so good-tempered and merry that very few people could pick a quarrel with him. He was very fond of making little songs, and singing them to himself. One he was very fond of was this: "Come, father and mother, And sister and brother, Come, all of you, turn to And help one another." And so they did; Harry was as clever at stable-work as a much older boy, and always wanted to do what he could. Then Polly and Dolly used to come in the morning to help with the cab--to brush and beat the cushions, and rub the glass, while Jerry was giving us a cleaning in the yard, and Harry was rubbing the harness. There used to be a great deal of laughing and fun between them, and it put Captain and me in much better spirits than if we had heard scolding and hard words. They were always early in the morning, for Jerry would say: "If you in the morning Throw minutes away, You can't pick them up In the course of a day. You may hurry and scurry, And flurry and worry, You've lost them forever, Forever and aye." He could not bear any careless loitering and waste of time; and nothing was so near making him angry as to find people, who were always late, wanting a cab horse to be driven hard, to make up for their idleness. One day two wild-looking young men came out of a tavern close by the stand, and called Jerry. "Here, cabby! look sharp, we are rather late; put on the steam, will you, and take us to the Victoria in time for the one o'clock train? You shall have a shilling extra." "I will take you at the regular pace, gentlemen; shillings don't pay for putting on the steam like that." Larry's cab was standing next to ours; he flung open the door, and said, "I'm your man, gentlemen! take my cab, my horse will get you there all right;" and as he shut them in, with a wink toward Jerry, said, "It's against his conscience to go beyond a jog-trot." Then slashing his jaded horse, he set off as hard as he could. Jerry patted me on the neck: "No, Jack, a shilling would not pay for that sort of thing, would it, old boy?" Although Jerry was determinedly set against hard driving, to please careless people, he always went a good fair pace, and was not against putting on the steam, as he said, if only he knew why. I well remember one morning, as we were on the stand waiting for a fare, that a young man, carrying a heavy portmanteau, trod on a piece of orange peel which lay on the pavement, and fell down with great force. Jerry was the first to run and lift him up. He seemed much stunned, and as they led him into a shop he walked as if he were in great pain. Jerry of course came back to the stand, but in about ten minutes one of the shopmen called him, so we drew up to the pavement. "Can you take me to the South-Eastern Railway?" said the young man; "this unlucky fall has made me late, I fear; but it is of great importance that I should not lose the twelve o'clock train. I should be most thankful if you could get me there in time, and will gladly pay you an extra fare." "I'll do my very best," said Jerry heartily, "if you think you are well enough, sir," for he looked dreadfully white and ill. "I must go," he said earnestly, "please to open the door, and let us lose no time." The next minute Jerry was on the box; with a cheery chirrup to me, and a twitch of the rein that I well understood. "Now then, Jack, my boy," said he, "spin along, we'll show them how we can get over the ground, if we only know why." It is always difficult to drive fast in the city in the middle of the day, when the streets are full of traffic, but we did what could be done; and when a good driver and a good horse, who understand each other, are of one mind, it is wonderful what they can do. I had a very good mouth--that is I could be guided by the slightest touch of the rein; and that is a great thing in London, among carriages, omnibuses, carts, vans, trucks, cabs, and great wagons creeping along at a walking pace; some going one way, some another, some going slowly, others wanting to pass them; omnibuses stopping short every few minutes to take up a passenger, obliging the horse that is coming behind to pull up too, or to pass, and get before them; perhaps you try to pass, but just then something else comes dashing in through the narrow opening, and you have to keep in behind the omnibus again; presently you think you see a chance, and manage to get to the front, going so near the wheels on each side that half an inch nearer and they would scrape. Well, you get along for a bit, but soon find yourself in a long train of carts and carriages all obliged to go at a walk; perhaps you come to a regular block-up, and have to stand still for minutes together, till something clears out into a side street, or the policeman interferes; you have to be ready for any chance--to dash forward if there be an opening, and be quick as a rat-dog to see if there be room and if there be time, lest you get your own wheels locked or smashed, or the shaft of some other vehicle run into your chest or shoulder. All this is what you have to be ready for. If you want to get through London fast in the middle of the day it wants a deal of practice. Jerry and I were used to it, and no one could beat us at getting through when we were set upon it. I was quick and bold and could always trust my driver; Jerry was quick and patient at the same time, and could trust his horse, which was a great thing too. He very seldom used the whip; I knew by his voice, and his click, click, when he wanted to get on fast, and by the rein where I was to go; so there was no need for whipping; but I must go back to my story. The streets were very full that day, but we got on pretty well as far as the bottom of Cheapside, where there was a block for three or four minutes. The young man put his head out and said anxiously, "I think I had better get out and walk; I shall never get there if this goes on." "I'll do all that can be done, sir," said Jerry; "I think we shall be in time. This block-up cannot last much longer, and your luggage is very heavy for you to carry, sir." Just then the cart in front of us began to move on, and then we had a good turn. In and out, in and out we went, as fast as horseflesh could do it, and for a wonder had a good clear time on London Bridge, for there was a whole train of cabs and carriages all going our way at a quick trot, perhaps wanting to catch that very train. At any rate, we whirled into the station with many more, just as the great clock pointed to eight minutes to twelve o'clock. "Thank God! we are in time," said the young man, "and thank you, too, my friend, and your good horse. You have saved me more than money can ever pay for. Take this extra half-crown." "No, sir, no, thank you all the same; so glad we hit the time, sir; but don't stay now, sir, the bell is ringing. Here, porter! take this gentleman's luggage--Dover line twelve o'clock train--that's it," and without waiting for another word Jerry wheeled me round to make room for other cabs that were dashing up at the last minute, and drew up on one side till the crush was past. "'So glad!' he said, 'so glad!' Poor young fellow! I wonder what it was that made him so anxious!" Jerry often talked to himself quite loud enough for me to hear when we were not moving. On Jerry's return to the rank there was a good deal of laughing and chaffing at him for driving hard to the train for an extra fare, as they said, all against his principles, and they wanted to know how much he had pocketed. "A good deal more than I generally get," said he, nodding slyly; "what he gave me will keep me in little comforts for several days." "Gammon!" said one. "He's a humbug," said another; "preaching to us and then doing the same himself." "Look here, mates," said Jerry; "the gentleman offered me half a crown extra, but I didn't take it; 'twas quite pay enough for me to see how glad he was to catch that train; and if Jack and I choose to have a quick run now and then to please ourselves, that's our business and not yours." "Well," said Larry, "you'll never be a rich man." "Most likely not," said Jerry; "but I don't know that I shall be the less happy for that. I have heard the commandments read a great many times and I never noticed that any of them said, 'Thou shalt be rich'; and there are a good many curious things said in the New Testament about rich men that I think would make me feel rather queer if I was one of them." "If you ever do get rich," said Governor Gray, looking over his shoulder across the top of his cab, "you'll deserve it, Jerry, and you won't find a curse come with your wealth. As for you, Larry, you'll die poor; you spend too much in whipcord." "Well," said Larry, "what is a fellow to do if his horse won't go without it?" "You never take the trouble to see if he will go without it; your whip is always going as if you had the St. Vitus' dance in your arm, and if it does not wear you out it wears your horse out; you know you are always changing your horses; and why? Because you never give them any peace or encouragement." "Well, I have not had good luck," said Larry, "that's where it is." "And you never will," said the governor. "Good Luck is rather particular who she rides with, and mostly prefers those who have got common sense and a good heart; at least that is my experience." Governor Gray turned round again to his newspaper, and the other men went to their cabs. ----------CHAPTER 36--------- 36 The Sunday Cab One morning, as Jerry had just put me into the shafts and was fastening the traces, a gentleman walked into the yard. "Your servant, sir," said Jerry. "Good-morning, Mr. Barker," said the gentleman. "I should be glad to make some arrangements with you for taking Mrs. Briggs regularly to church on Sunday mornings. We go to the New Church now, and that is rather further than she can walk." "Thank you, sir," said Jerry, "but I have only taken out a six-days' license,* and therefore I could not take a fare on a Sunday; it would not be legal." * A few years since the annual charge for a cab license was very much reduced, and the difference between the six and seven days' cabs was abolished. "Oh!" said the other, "I did not know yours was a six-days' cab; but of course it would be very easy to alter your license. I would see that you did not lose by it; the fact is, Mrs. Briggs very much prefers you to drive her." "I should be glad to oblige the lady, sir, but I had a seven-days' license once, and the work was too hard for me, and too hard for my horses. Year in and year out, not a day's rest, and never a Sunday with my wife and children; and never able to go to a place of worship, which I had always been used to do before I took to the driving box. So for the last five years I have only taken a six-days' license, and I find it better all the way round." "Well, of course," replied Mr. Briggs, "it is very proper that every person should have rest, and be able to go to church on Sundays, but I should have thought you would not have minded such a short distance for the horse, and only once a day; you would have all the afternoon and evening for yourself, and we are very good customers, you know." "Yes, sir, that is true, and I am grateful for all favors, I am sure; and anything that I could do to oblige you, or the lady, I should be proud and happy to do; but I can't give up my Sundays, sir, indeed I can't. I read that God made man, and he made horses and all the other beasts, and as soon as He had made them He made a day of rest, and bade that all should rest one day in seven; and I think, sir, He must have known what was good for them, and I am sure it is good for me; I am stronger and healthier altogether, now that I have a day of rest; the horses are fresh too, and do not wear up nearly so fast. The six-day drivers all tell me the same, and I have laid by more money in the savings bank than ever I did before; and as for the wife and children, sir, why, heart alive! they would not go back to the seven days for all they could see." "Oh, very well," said the gentleman. "Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Barker, any further. I will inquire somewhere else," and he walked away. "Well," says Jerry to me, "we can't help it, Jack, old boy; we must have our Sundays." "Polly!" he shouted, "Polly! come here." She was there in a minute. "What is it all about, Jerry?" "Why, my dear, Mr. Briggs wants me to take Mrs. Briggs to church every Sunday morning. I say I have only a six-days' license. He says, 'Get a seven-days' license, and I'll make it worth your while;' and you know, Polly, they are very good customers to us. Mrs. Briggs often goes out shopping for hours, or making calls, and then she pays down fair and honorable like a lady; there's no beating down or making three hours into two hours and a half, as some folks do; and it is easy work for the horses; not like tearing along to catch trains for people that are always a quarter of an hour too late; and if I don't oblige her in this matter it is very likely we shall lose them altogether. What do you say, little woman?" "I say, Jerry," says she, speaking very slowly, "I say, if Mrs. Briggs would give you a sovereign every Sunday morning, I would not have you a seven-days' cabman again. We have known what it was to have no Sundays, and now we know what it is to call them our own. Thank God, you earn enough to keep us, though it is sometimes close work to pay for all the oats and hay, the license, and the rent besides; but Harry will soon be earning something, and I would rather struggle on harder than we do than go back to those horrid times when you hardly had a minute to look at your own children, and we never could go to a place of worship together, or have a happy, quiet day. God forbid that we should ever turn back to those times; that's what I say, Jerry." "And that is just what I told Mr. Briggs, my dear," said Jerry, "and what I mean to stick to. So don't go and fret yourself, Polly" (for she had begun to cry); "I would not go back to the old times if I earned twice as much, so that is settled, little woman. Now, cheer up, and I'll be off to the stand." Three weeks had passed away after this conversation, and no order had come from Mrs. Briggs; so there was nothing but taking jobs from the stand. Jerry took it to heart a good deal, for of course the work was harder for horse and man. But Polly would always cheer him up, and say, "Never mind, father, never, mind. "'Do your best, And leave the rest, 'Twill all come right Some day or night.'" It soon became known that Jerry had lost his best customer, and for what reason. Most of the men said he was a fool, but two or three took his part. "If workingmen don't stick to their Sunday," said Truman, "they'll soon have none left; it is every man's right and every beast's right. By God's law we have a day of rest, and by the law of England we have a day of rest; and I say we ought to hold to the rights these laws give us and keep them for our children." "All very well for you religious chaps to talk so," said Larry; "but I'll turn a shilling when I can. I don't believe in religion, for I don't see that your religious people are any better than the rest." "If they are not better," put in Jerry, "it is because they are not religious. You might as well say that our country's laws are not good because some people break them. If a man gives way to his temper, and speaks evil of his neighbor, and does not pay his debts, he is not religious, I don't care how much he goes to church. If some men are shams and humbugs, that does not make religion untrue. Real religion is the best and truest thing in the world, and the only thing that can make a man really happy or make the world we live in any better." "If religion was good for anything," said Jones, "it would prevent your religious people from making us work on Sundays, as you know many of them do, and that's why I say religion is nothing but a sham; why, if it was not for the church and chapel-goers it would be hardly worth while our coming out on a Sunday. But they have their privileges, as they call them, and I go without. I shall expect them to answer for my soul, if I can't get a chance of saving it." Several of the men applauded this, till Jerry said: "That may sound well enough, but it won't do; every man must look after his own soul; you can't lay it down at another man's door like a foundling and expect him to take care of it; and don't you see, if you are always sitting on your box waiting for a fare, they will say, 'If we don't take him some one else will, and he does not look for any Sunday.' Of course, they don't go to the bottom of it, or they would see if they never came for a cab it would be no use your standing there; but people don't always like to go to the bottom of things; it may not be convenient to do it; but if you Sunday drivers would all strike for a day of rest the thing would be done." "And what would all the good people do if they could not get to their favorite preachers?" said Larry. "'Tis not for me to lay down plans for other people," said Jerry, "but if they can't walk so far they can go to what is nearer; and if it should rain they can put on their mackintoshes as they do on a week-day. If a thing is right it can be done, and if it is wrong it can be done without; and a good man will find a way. And that is as true for us cabmen as it is for the church-goers." ----------CHAPTER 37--------- 37 The Golden Rule Two or three weeks after this, as we came into the yard rather late in the evening, Polly came running across the road with the lantern (she always brought it to him if it was not very wet). "It has all come right, Jerry; Mrs. Briggs sent her servant this afternoon to ask you to take her out to-morrow at eleven o'clock. I said, 'Yes, I thought so, but we supposed she employed some one else now.'" "'Well,' said he, 'the real fact is, master was put out because Mr. Barker refused to come on Sundays, and he has been trying other cabs, but there's something wrong with them all; some drive too fast, and some too slow, and the mistress says there is not one of them so nice and clean as yours, and nothing will suit her but Mr. Barker's cab again.'" Polly was almost out of breath, and Jerry broke out into a merry laugh. "''Twill all come right some day or night': you were right, my dear; you generally are. Run in and get the supper, and I'll have Jack's harness off and make him snug and happy in no time." After this Mrs. Briggs wanted Jerry's cab quite as often as before, never, however, on a Sunday; but there came a day when we had Sunday work, and this was how it happened. We had all come home on the Saturday night very tired, and very glad to think that the next day would be all rest, but so it was not to be. On Sunday morning Jerry was cleaning me in the yard, when Polly stepped up to him, looking very full of something. "What is it?" said Jerry. "Well, my dear," she said, "poor Dinah Brown has just had a letter brought to say that her mother is dangerously ill, and that she must go directly if she wishes to see her alive. The place is more than ten miles away from here, out in the country, and she says if she takes the train she should still have four miles to walk; and so weak as she is, and the baby only four weeks old, of course that would be impossible; and she wants to know if you would take her in your cab, and she promises to pay you faithfully, as she can get the money." "Tut, tut! we'll see about that. It was not the money I was thinking about, but of losing our Sunday; the horses are tired, and I am tired, too--that's where it pinches." "It pinches all round, for that matter," said Polly, "for it's only half Sunday without you, but you know we should do to other people as we should like they should do to us; and I know very well what I should like if my mother was dying; and Jerry, dear, I am sure it won't break the Sabbath; for if pulling a poor beast or donkey out of a pit would not spoil it, I am quite sure taking poor Dinah would not do it." "Why, Polly, you are as good as the minister, and so, as I've had my Sunday-morning sermon early to-day, you may go and tell Dinah that I'll be ready for her as the clock strikes ten; but stop--just step round to butcher Braydon's with my compliments, and ask him if he would lend me his light trap; I know he never uses it on the Sunday, and it would make a wonderful difference to the horse." Away she went, and soon returned, saying that he could have the trap and welcome. "All right," said he; "now put me up a bit of bread and cheese, and I'll be back in the afternoon as soon as I can." "And I'll have the meat pie ready for an early tea instead of for dinner," said Polly; and away she went, while he made his preparations to the tune of "Polly's the woman and no mistake", of which tune he was very fond. I was selected for the journey, and at ten o'clock we started, in a light, high-wheeled gig, which ran so easily that after the four-wheeled cab it seemed like nothing. It was a fine May day, and as soon as we were out of the town, the sweet air, the smell of the fresh grass, and the soft country roads were as pleasant as they used to be in the old times, and I soon began to feel quite fresh. Dinah's family lived in a small farmhouse, up a green lane, close by a meadow with some fine shady trees; there were two cows feeding in it. A young man asked Jerry to bring his trap into the meadow, and he would tie me up in the cowshed; he wished he had a better stable to offer. "If your cows would not be offended," said Jerry, "there is nothing my horse would like so well as to have an hour or two in your beautiful meadow; he's quiet, and it would be a rare treat for him." "Do, and welcome," said the young man; "the best we have is at your service for your kindness to my sister; we shall be having some dinner in an hour, and I hope you'll come in, though with mother so ill we are all out of sorts in the house." Jerry thanked him kindly, but said as he had some dinner with him there was nothing he should like so well as walking about in the meadow. When my harness was taken off I did not know what I should do first--whether to eat the grass, or roll over on my back, or lie down and rest, or have a gallop across the meadow out of sheer spirits at being free; and I did all by turns. Jerry seemed to be quite as happy as I was; he sat down by a bank under a shady tree, and listened to the birds, then he sang himself, and read out of the little brown book he is so fond of, then wandered round the meadow, and down by a little brook, where he picked the flowers and the hawthorn, and tied them up with long sprays of ivy; then he gave me a good feed of the oats which he had brought with him; but the time seemed all too short--I had not been in a field since I left poor Ginger at Earlshall. We came home gently, and Jerry's first words were, as we came into the yard, "Well, Polly, I have not lost my Sunday after all, for the birds were singing hymns in every bush, and I joined in the service; and as for Jack, he was like a young colt." When he handed Dolly the flowers she jumped about for joy.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 38 based on the provided context.

chapter 38|chapter 39|chapter 40|chapter 41|chapter 42

Winter in London is brutal and especially hard for cab horses since they have to wait outside for hours for their fares to return from parties and other events. The weather doesn't make things easy: "When the streets were slippery with frost or snow, that was the worst of all for us horses" . Some of the cab drivers go to pubs to wait, but Jerry prefers sitting in a coffee shop since he doesn't drink. "It was his opinion that spirits and beer made a man colder afterwards, and that dry clothes, good food, cheerfulness, and a comfortable wife at home were the best things to keep a cabman warm" , Beauty says of his master. Polly and Dolly do their best to make sure Jerry has warm food on cold days, and little Dolly often crosses the street to deliver it. One day, a man looking to hire Jerry's cab sees Dolly cross the street, and waits to make sure Jerry gets Dolly across the street safely before they leave. Jerry tells Dolly, "...that's a gentleman; that's a real gentleman, Dolly. He has got time and thought for the comfort of a poor cabman and a little girl" . This gentleman becomes a regular customer, and they discover he owns several dogs and is fond of horses. As Beauty remarks, "It was a very rare thing for any one to notice the horse that had been working for him" . On one outing, the gentleman comes out of a shop to see a man whip his horses for moving forward at the wrong time. The kind gentleman tells the man to stop and threatens to get him arrested. After the man rudely departs, Beauty's gentleman takes down his license number . When his friend asks him why he bothered, the gentleman says, "My doctrine is this, that if we see cruelty or wrong that we have the power to stop, and do nothing, we make ourselves sharers in the guilt" . Deep stuff for a cab ride.

----------CHAPTER 38--------- 38 Dolly and a Real Gentleman Winter came in early, with a great deal of cold and wet. There was snow, or sleet, or rain almost every day for weeks, changing only for keen driving winds or sharp frosts. The horses all felt it very much. When it is a dry cold a couple of good thick rugs will keep the warmth in us; but when it is soaking rain they soon get wet through and are no good. Some of the drivers had a waterproof cover to throw over, which was a fine thing; but some of the men were so poor that they could not protect either themselves or their horses, and many of them suffered very much that winter. When we horses had worked half the day we went to our dry stables, and could rest, while they had to sit on their boxes, sometimes staying out as late as one or two o'clock in the morning if they had a party to wait for. When the streets were slippery with frost or snow that was the worst of all for us horses. One mile of such traveling, with a weight to draw and no firm footing, would take more out of us than four on a good road; every nerve and muscle of our bodies is on the strain to keep our balance; and, added to this, the fear of falling is more exhausting than anything else. If the roads are very bad indeed our shoes are roughed, but that makes us feel nervous at first. When the weather was very bad many of the men would go and sit in the tavern close by, and get some one to watch for them; but they often lost a fare in that way, and could not, as Jerry said, be there without spending money. He never went to the Rising Sun; there was a coffee-shop near, where he now and then went, or he bought of an old man, who came to our rank with tins of hot coffee and pies. It was his opinion that spirits and beer made a man colder afterward, and that dry clothes, good food, cheerfulness, and a comfortable wife at home, were the best things to keep a cabman warm. Polly always supplied him with something to eat when he could not get home, and sometimes he would see little Dolly peeping from the corner of the street, to make sure if "father" was on the stand. If she saw him she would run off at full speed and soon come back with something in a tin or basket, some hot soup or pudding Polly had ready. It was wonderful how such a little thing could get safely across the street, often thronged with horses and carriages; but she was a brave little maid, and felt it quite an honor to bring "father's first course", as he used to call it. She was a general favorite on the stand, and there was not a man who would not have seen her safely across the street, if Jerry had not been able to do it. One cold windy day Dolly had brought Jerry a basin of something hot, and was standing by him while he ate it. He had scarcely begun when a gentleman, walking toward us very fast, held up his umbrella. Jerry touched his hat in return, gave the basin to Dolly, and was taking off my cloth, when the gentleman, hastening up, cried out, "No, no, finish your soup, my friend; I have not much time to spare, but I can wait till you have done, and set your little girl safe on the pavement." So saying, he seated himself in the cab. Jerry thanked him kindly, and came back to Dolly. "There, Dolly, that's a gentleman; that's a real gentleman, Dolly; he has got time and thought for the comfort of a poor cabman and a little girl." Jerry finished his soup, set the child across, and then took his orders to drive to Clapham Rise. Several times after that the same gentleman took our cab. I think he was very fond of dogs and horses, for whenever we took him to his own door two or three dogs would come bounding out to meet him. Sometimes he came round and patted me, saying in his quiet, pleasant way, "This horse has got a good master, and he deserves it." It was a very rare thing for any one to notice the horse that had been working for him. I have known ladies to do it now and then, and this gentleman, and one or two others have given me a pat and a kind word; but ninety-nine persons out of a hundred would as soon think of patting the steam engine that drew the train. The gentleman was not young, and there was a forward stoop in his shoulders as if he was always going at something. His lips were thin and close shut, though they had a very pleasant smile; his eye was keen, and there was something in his jaw and the motion of his head that made one think he was very determined in anything he set about. His voice was pleasant and kind; any horse would trust that voice, though it was just as decided as everything else about him. One day he and another gentleman took our cab; they stopped at a shop in R---- Street, and while his friend went in he stood at the door. A little ahead of us on the other side of the street a cart with two very fine horses was standing before some wine vaults; the carter was not with them, and I cannot tell how long they had been standing, but they seemed to think they had waited long enough, and began to move off. Before they had gone many paces the carter came running out and caught them. He seemed furious at their having moved, and with whip and rein punished them brutally, even beating them about the head. Our gentleman saw it all, and stepping quickly across the street, said in a decided voice: "If you don't stop that directly, I'll have you arrested for leaving your horses, and for brutal conduct." The man, who had clearly been drinking, poured forth some abusive language, but he left off knocking the horses about, and taking the reins, got into his cart; meantime our friend had quietly taken a note-book from his pocket, and looking at the name and address painted on the cart, he wrote something down. "What do you want with that?" growled the carter, as he cracked his whip and was moving on. A nod and a grim smile was the only answer he got. On returning to the cab our friend was joined by his companion, who said laughingly, "I should have thought, Wright, you had enough business of your own to look after, without troubling yourself about other people's horses and servants." Our friend stood still for a moment, and throwing his head a little back, "Do you know why this world is as bad as it is?" "No," said the other. "Then I'll tell you. It is because people think only about their own business, and won't trouble themselves to stand up for the oppressed, nor bring the wrongdoer to light. I never see a wicked thing like this without doing what I can, and many a master has thanked me for letting him know how his horses have been used." "I wish there were more gentlemen like you, sir," said Jerry, "for they are wanted badly enough in this city." After this we continued our journey, and as they got out of the cab our friend was saying, "My doctrine is this, that if we see cruelty or wrong that we have the power to stop, and do nothing, we make ourselves sharers in the guilt." ----------CHAPTER 39--------- 39 Seedy Sam I should say that for a cab-horse I was very well off indeed; my driver was my owner, and it was his interest to treat me well and not overwork me, even had he not been so good a man as he was; but there were a great many horses which belonged to the large cab-owners, who let them out to their drivers for so much money a day. As the horses did not belong to these men the only thing they thought of was how to get their money out of them, first, to pay the master, and then to provide for their own living; and a dreadful time some of these horses had of it. Of course, I understood but little, but it was often talked over on the stand, and the governor, who was a kind-hearted man and fond of horses, would sometimes speak up if one came in very much jaded or ill-used. One day a shabby, miserable-looking driver, who went by the name of "Seedy Sam", brought in his horse looking dreadfully beat, and the governor said: "You and your horse look more fit for the police station than for this rank." The man flung his tattered rug over the horse, turned full round upon the Governor and said in a voice that sounded almost desperate: "If the police have any business with the matter it ought to be with the masters who charge us so much, or with the fares that are fixed so low. If a man has to pay eighteen shillings a day for the use of a cab and two horses, as many of us have to do in the season, and must make that up before we earn a penny for ourselves I say 'tis more than hard work; nine shillings a day to get out of each horse before you begin to get your own living. You know that's true, and if the horses don't work we must starve, and I and my children have known what that is before now. I've six of 'em, and only one earns anything; I am on the stand fourteen or sixteen hours a day, and I haven't had a Sunday these ten or twelve weeks; you know Skinner never gives a day if he can help it, and if I don't work hard, tell me who does! I want a warm coat and a mackintosh, but with so many to feed how can a man get it? I had to pledge my clock a week ago to pay Skinner, and I shall never see it again." Some of the other drivers stood round nodding their heads and saying he was right. The man went on: "You that have your own horses and cabs, or drive for good masters, have a chance of getting on and a chance of doing right; I haven't. We can't charge more than sixpence a mile after the first, within the four-mile radius. This very morning I had to go a clear six miles and only took three shillings. I could not get a return fare, and had to come all the way back; there's twelve miles for the horse and three shillings for me. After that I had a three-mile fare, and there were bags and boxes enough to have brought in a good many twopences if they had been put outside; but you know how people do; all that could be piled up inside on the front seat were put in and three heavy boxes went on the top. That was sixpence, and the fare one and sixpence; then I got a return for a shilling. Now that makes eighteen miles for the horse and six shillings for me; there's three shillings still for that horse to earn and nine shillings for the afternoon horse before I touch a penny. Of course, it is not always so bad as that, but you know it often is, and I say 'tis a mockery to tell a man that he must not overwork his horse, for when a beast is downright tired there's nothing but the whip that will keep his legs a-going; you can't help yourself--you must put your wife and children before the horse; the masters must look to that, we can't. I don't ill-use my horse for the sake of it; none of you can say I do. There's wrong lays somewhere--never a day's rest, never a quiet hour with the wife and children. I often feel like an old man, though I'm only forty-five. You know how quick some of the gentry are to suspect us of cheating and overcharging; why, they stand with their purses in their hands counting it over to a penny and looking at us as if we were pickpockets. I wish some of 'em had got to sit on my box sixteen hours a day and get a living out of it and eighteen shillings beside, and that in all weathers; they would not be so uncommon particular never to give us a sixpence over or to cram all the luggage inside. Of course, some of 'em tip us pretty handsome now and then, or else we could not live; but you can't depend upon that." The men who stood round much approved this speech, and one of them said, "It is desperate hard, and if a man sometimes does what is wrong it is no wonder, and if he gets a dram too much who's to blow him up?" Jerry had taken no part in this conversation, but I never saw his face look so sad before. The governor had stood with both his hands in his pockets; now he took his handkerchief out of his hat and wiped his forehead. "You've beaten me, Sam," he said, "for it's all true, and I won't cast it up to you any more about the police; it was the look in that horse's eye that came over me. It is hard lines for man and it is hard lines for beast, and who's to mend it I don't know: but anyway you might tell the poor beast that you were sorry to take it out of him in that way. Sometimes a kind word is all we can give 'em, poor brutes, and 'tis wonderful what they do understand." A few mornings after this talk a new man came on the stand with Sam's cab. "Halloo!" said one, "what's up with Seedy Sam?" "He's ill in bed," said the man; "he was taken last night in the yard, and could scarcely crawl home. His wife sent a boy this morning to say his father was in a high fever and could not get out, so I'm here instead." The next morning the same man came again. "How is Sam?" inquired the governor. "He's gone," said the man. "What, gone? You don't mean to say he's dead?" "Just snuffed out," said the other; "he died at four o'clock this morning; all yesterday he was raving--raving about Skinner, and having no Sundays. 'I never had a Sunday's rest,' these were his last words." No one spoke for a while, and then the governor said, "I'll tell you what, mates, this is a warning for us." ----------CHAPTER 40--------- 40 Poor Ginger One day, while our cab and many others were waiting outside one of the parks where music was playing, a shabby old cab drove up beside ours. The horse was an old worn-out chestnut, with an ill-kept coat, and bones that showed plainly through it, the knees knuckled over, and the fore-legs were very unsteady. I had been eating some hay, and the wind rolled a little lock of it that way, and the poor creature put out her long thin neck and picked it up, and then turned and looked about for more. There was a hopeless look in the dull eye that I could not help noticing, and then, as I was thinking where I had seen that horse before, she looked full at me and said, "Black Beauty, is that you?" It was Ginger! but how changed! The beautifully arched and glossy neck was now straight, and lank, and fallen in; the clean straight legs and delicate fetlocks were swelled; the joints were grown out of shape with hard work; the face, that was once so full of spirit and life, was now full of suffering, and I could tell by the heaving of her sides, and her frequent cough, how bad her breath was. Our drivers were standing together a little way off, so I sidled up to her a step or two, that we might have a little quiet talk. It was a sad tale that she had to tell. After a twelvemonth's run off at Earlshall, she was considered to be fit for work again, and was sold to a gentleman. For a little while she got on very well, but after a longer gallop than usual the old strain returned, and after being rested and doctored she was again sold. In this way she changed hands several times, but always getting lower down. "And so at last," said she, "I was bought by a man who keeps a number of cabs and horses, and lets them out. You look well off, and I am glad of it, but I could not tell you what my life has been. When they found out my weakness they said I was not worth what they gave for me, and that I must go into one of the low cabs, and just be used up; that is what they are doing, whipping and working with never one thought of what I suffer--they paid for me, and must get it out of me, they say. The man who hires me now pays a deal of money to the owner every day, and so he has to get it out of me too; and so it's all the week round and round, with never a Sunday rest." I said, "You used to stand up for yourself if you were ill-used." "Ah!" she said, "I did once, but it's no use; men are strongest, and if they are cruel and have no feeling, there is nothing that we can do, but just bear it--bear it on and on to the end. I wish the end was come, I wish I was dead. I have seen dead horses, and I am sure they do not suffer pain; I wish I may drop down dead at my work, and not be sent off to the knackers." I was very much troubled, and I put my nose up to hers, but I could say nothing to comfort her. I think she was pleased to see me, for she said, "You are the only friend I ever had." Just then her driver came up, and with a tug at her mouth backed her out of the line and drove off, leaving me very sad indeed. A short time after this a cart with a dead horse in it passed our cab-stand. The head hung out of the cart-tail, the lifeless tongue was slowly dropping with blood; and the sunken eyes! but I can't speak of them, the sight was too dreadful. It was a chestnut horse with a long, thin neck. I saw a white streak down the forehead. I believe it was Ginger; I hoped it was, for then her troubles would be over. Oh! if men were more merciful they would shoot us before we came to such misery. ----------CHAPTER 41--------- 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. ----------CHAPTER 42--------- 42 The Election As we came into the yard one afternoon Polly came out. "Jerry! I've had Mr. B---- here asking about your vote, and he wants to hire your cab for the election; he will call for an answer." "Well, Polly, you may say that my cab will be otherwise engaged. I should not like to have it pasted over with their great bills, and as to making Jack and Captain race about to the public-houses to bring up half-drunken voters, why, I think 'twould be an insult to the horses. No, I shan't do it." "I suppose you'll vote for the gentleman? He said he was of your politics." "So he is in some things, but I shall not vote for him, Polly; you know what his trade is?" "Yes." "Well, a man who gets rich by that trade may be all very well in some ways, but he is blind as to what workingmen want; I could not in my conscience send him up to make the laws. I dare say they'll be angry, but every man must do what he thinks to be the best for his country." On the morning before the election, Jerry was putting me into the shafts, when Dolly came into the yard sobbing and crying, with her little blue frock and white pinafore spattered all over with mud. "Why, Dolly, what is the matter?" "Those naughty boys," she sobbed, "have thrown the dirt all over me, and called me a little raga--raga--" "They called her a little 'blue' ragamuffin, father," said Harry, who ran in looking very angry; "but I have given it to them; they won't insult my sister again. I have given them a thrashing they will remember; a set of cowardly, rascally 'orange' blackguards." Jerry kissed the child and said, "Run in to mother, my pet, and tell her I think you had better stay at home to-day and help her." Then turning gravely to Harry: "My boy, I hope you will always defend your sister, and give anybody who insults her a good thrashing--that is as it should be; but mind, I won't have any election blackguarding on my premises. There are as many 'blue' blackguards as there are 'orange', and as many white as there are purple, or any other color, and I won't have any of my family mixed up with it. Even women and children are ready to quarrel for the sake of a color, and not one in ten of them knows what it is about." "Why, father, I thought blue was for Liberty." "My boy, Liberty does not come from colors, they only show party, and all the liberty you can get out of them is, liberty to get drunk at other people's expense, liberty to ride to the poll in a dirty old cab, liberty to abuse any one that does not wear your color, and to shout yourself hoarse at what you only half-understand--that's your liberty!" "Oh, father, you are laughing." "No, Harry, I am serious, and I am ashamed to see how men go on who ought to know better. An election is a very serious thing; at least it ought to be, and every man ought to vote according to his conscience, and let his neighbor do the same."

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 43 using the context provided.

Election day is incredibly busy for Beauty and Jerry since people are rushing all over the city. Jerry's prepared a special portable lunch for Beauty to get them through the busy time, and Beauty again comments on what an outstanding master he is. Beauty eats his lunch and watches the general chaos as people rush about. Before long a young woman carrying a child crosses the street. She asks Jerry for directions to St. Thomas's Hospital. She's from the country, very lost, and had no idea about the election; her child is sick, and needs to go to the hospital. Jerry tells her there's no way she's walking there through the crazy election crowds: "Now look here, just get into this cab, and I'll drive you safe to the hospital" , he says. We would have expected this from Jerry. The woman argues with him, but Jerry tells her he has a wife and kids at home, and he will take her there for nothing, saying, "I'd be ashamed of myself to let a woman and a sick child run a risk like that" . The woman bursts into tears of gratitude. As the woman is getting into the cab, two men run up and try to get in also. Jerry tells them the cab is already engaged. They refuse to get out, so Jerry shuts them in and refuses to drive. He laughs and tells the woman that they'll be gone soon. And of course he's right; they leave, calling him bad names, but Jerry could care less. As soon as they're gone, he drives the woman to the hospital. It's pouring by the time they drop the woman off, but as they're leaving, a woman leaving the hospital calls out to them and seems to know Jerry. He agrees to take her to Paddington Station, and the woman talks to Jerry for a long time once they get there. Apparently she was once Polly's mistress. The woman asks how Jerry is dealing with the awful winter weather as a cab driver, and Jerry says he's doing okay, but he does get sick--however, he loves his job working with horses. Polly's mistress tells him that " it would be a great pity that you should seriously risk your health in this work, not only for your own, but for Mary and the children's sake" . She drops a heavy hint, saying that if Jerry ever decides to give up cab driving, to get in touch. She then leaves them with a hefty tip and good wishes for Jerry's family.

----------CHAPTER 43--------- 43 A Friend in Need The election day came at last; there was no lack of work for Jerry and me. First came a stout puffy gentleman with a carpet bag; he wanted to go to the Bishopsgate station; then we were called by a party who wished to be taken to the Regent's Park; and next we were wanted in a side street where a timid, anxious old lady was waiting to be taken to the bank; there we had to stop to take her back again, and just as we had set her down a red-faced gentleman, with a handful of papers, came running up out of breath, and before Jerry could get down he had opened the door, popped himself in, and called out, "Bow Street Police Station, quick!" so off we went with him, and when after another turn or two we came back, there was no other cab on the stand. Jerry put on my nose-bag, for as he said, "We must eat when we can on such days as these; so munch away, Jack, and make the best of your time, old boy." I found I had a good feed of crushed oats wetted up with a little bran; this would be a treat any day, but very refreshing then. Jerry was so thoughtful and kind--what horse would not do his best for such a master? Then he took out one of Polly's meat pies, and standing near me, he began to eat it. The streets were very full, and the cabs, with the candidates' colors on them, were dashing about through the crowd as if life and limb were of no consequence; we saw two people knocked down that day, and one was a woman. The horses were having a bad time of it, poor things! but the voters inside thought nothing of that; many of them were half-drunk, hurrahing out of the cab windows if their own party came by. It was the first election I had seen, and I don't want to be in another, though I have heard things are better now. Jerry and I had not eaten many mouthfuls before a poor young woman, carrying a heavy child, came along the street. She was looking this way and that way, and seemed quite bewildered. Presently she made her way up to Jerry and asked if he could tell her the way to St. Thomas' Hospital, and how far it was to get there. She had come from the country that morning, she said, in a market cart; she did not know about the election, and was quite a stranger in London. She had got an order for the hospital for her little boy. The child was crying with a feeble, pining cry. "Poor little fellow!" she said, "he suffers a deal of pain; he is four years old and can't walk any more than a baby; but the doctor said if I could get him into the hospital he might get well; pray, sir, how far is it; and which way is it?" "Why, missis," said Jerry, "you can't get there walking through crowds like this! why, it is three miles away, and that child is heavy." "Yes, bless him, he is; but I am strong, thank God, and if I knew the way I think I should get on somehow; please tell me the way." "You can't do it," said Jerry, "you might be knocked down and the child be run over. Now look here, just get into this cab, and I'll drive you safe to the hospital. Don't you see the rain is coming on?" "No, sir, no; I can't do that, thank you, I have only just money enough to get back with. Please tell me the way." "Look you here, missis," said Jerry, "I've got a wife and dear children at home, and I know a father's feelings; now get you into that cab, and I'll take you there for nothing. I'd be ashamed of myself to let a woman and a sick child run a risk like that." "Heaven bless you!" said the woman, and burst into tears. "There, there, cheer up, my dear, I'll soon take you there; come, let me put you inside." As Jerry went to open the door two men, with colors in their hats and buttonholes, ran up calling out, "Cab!" "Engaged," cried Jerry; but one of the men, pushing past the woman, sprang into the cab, followed by the other. Jerry looked as stern as a policeman. "This cab is already engaged, gentlemen, by that lady." "Lady!" said one of them; "oh! she can wait; our business is very important, besides we were in first, it is our right, and we shall stay in." A droll smile came over Jerry's face as he shut the door upon them. "All right, gentlemen, pray stay in as long as it suits you; I can wait while you rest yourselves." And turning his back upon them he walked up to the young woman, who was standing near me. "They'll soon be gone," he said, laughing; "don't trouble yourself, my dear." And they soon were gone, for when they understood Jerry's dodge they got out, calling him all sorts of bad names and blustering about his number and getting a summons. After this little stoppage we were soon on our way to the hospital, going as much as possible through by-streets. Jerry rung the great bell and helped the young woman out. "Thank you a thousand times," she said; "I could never have got here alone." "You're kindly welcome, and I hope the dear child will soon be better." He watched her go in at the door, and gently he said to himself, "Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these." Then he patted my neck, which was always his way when anything pleased him. The rain was now coming down fast, and just as we were leaving the hospital the door opened again, and the porter called out, "Cab!" We stopped, and a lady came down the steps. Jerry seemed to know her at once; she put back her veil and said, "Barker! Jeremiah Barker, is it you? I am very glad to find you here; you are just the friend I want, for it is very difficult to get a cab in this part of London to-day." "I shall be proud to serve you, ma'am; I am right glad I happened to be here. Where may I take you to, ma'am?" "To the Paddington Station, and then if we are in good time, as I think we shall be, you shall tell me all about Mary and the children." We got to the station in good time, and being under shelter the lady stood a good while talking to Jerry. I found she had been Polly's mistress, and after many inquiries about her she said: "How do you find the cab work suit you in winter? I know Mary was rather anxious about you last year." "Yes, ma'am, she was; I had a bad cough that followed me up quite into the warm weather, and when I am kept out late she does worry herself a good deal. You see, ma'am, it is all hours and all weathers, and that does try a man's constitution; but I am getting on pretty well, and I should feel quite lost if I had not horses to look after. I was brought up to it, and I am afraid I should not do so well at anything else." "Well, Barker," she said, "it would be a great pity that you should seriously risk your health in this work, not only for your own but for Mary's and the children's sake; there are many places where good drivers or good grooms are wanted, and if ever you think you ought to give up this cab work let me know." Then sending some kind messages to Mary she put something into his hand, saying, "There is five shillings each for the two children; Mary will know how to spend it." Jerry thanked her and seemed much pleased, and turning out of the station we at last reached home, and I, at least, was tired. ----------CHAPTER 44--------- 44 Old Captain and His Successor Captain and I were great friends. He was a noble old fellow, and he was very good company. I never thought that he would have to leave his home and go down the hill; but his turn came, and this was how it happened. I was not there, but I heard all about it. He and Jerry had taken a party to the great railway station over London Bridge, and were coming back, somewhere between the bridge and the monument, when Jerry saw a brewer's empty dray coming along, drawn by two powerful horses. The drayman was lashing his horses with his heavy whip; the dray was light, and they started off at a furious rate; the man had no control over them, and the street was full of traffic. One young girl was knocked down and run over, and the next moment they dashed up against our cab; both the wheels were torn off and the cab was thrown over. Captain was dragged down, the shafts splintered, and one of them ran into his side. Jerry, too, was thrown, but was only bruised; nobody could tell how he escaped; he always said 'twas a miracle. When poor Captain was got up he was found to be very much cut and knocked about. Jerry led him home gently, and a sad sight it was to see the blood soaking into his white coat and dropping from his side and shoulder. The drayman was proved to be very drunk, and was fined, and the brewer had to pay damages to our master; but there was no one to pay damages to poor Captain. The farrier and Jerry did the best they could to ease his pain and make him comfortable. The fly had to be mended, and for several days I did not go out, and Jerry earned nothing. The first time we went to the stand after the accident the governor came up to hear how Captain was. "He'll never get over it," said Jerry, "at least not for my work, so the farrier said this morning. He says he may do for carting, and that sort of work. It has put me out very much. Carting, indeed! I've seen what horses come to at that work round London. I only wish all the drunkards could be put in a lunatic asylum instead of being allowed to run foul of sober people. If they would break their own bones, and smash their own carts, and lame their own horses, that would be their own affair, and we might let them alone, but it seems to me that the innocent always suffer; and then they talk about compensation! You can't make compensation; there's all the trouble, and vexation, and loss of time, besides losing a good horse that's like an old friend--it's nonsense talking of compensation! If there's one devil that I should like to see in the bottomless pit more than another, it's the drink devil." "I say, Jerry," said the governor, "you are treading pretty hard on my toes, you know; I'm not so good as you are, more shame to me; I wish I was." "Well," said Jerry, "why don't you cut with it, governor? You are too good a man to be the slave of such a thing." "I'm a great fool, Jerry, but I tried once for two days, and I thought I should have died; how did you do?" "I had hard work at it for several weeks; you see I never did get drunk, but I found that I was not my own master, and that when the craving came on it was hard work to say 'no'. I saw that one of us must knock under, the drink devil or Jerry Barker, and I said that it should not be Jerry Barker, God helping me; but it was a struggle, and I wanted all the help I could get, for till I tried to break the habit I did not know how strong it was; but then Polly took such pains that I should have good food, and when the craving came on I used to get a cup of coffee, or some peppermint, or read a bit in my book, and that was a help to me; sometimes I had to say over and over to myself, 'Give up the drink or lose your soul! Give up the drink or break Polly's heart!' But thanks be to God, and my dear wife, my chains were broken, and now for ten years I have not tasted a drop, and never wish for it." "I've a great mind to try at it," said Grant, "for 'tis a poor thing not to be one's own master." "Do, governor, do, you'll never repent it, and what a help it would be to some of the poor fellows in our rank if they saw you do without it. I know there's two or three would like to keep out of that tavern if they could." At first Captain seemed to do well, but he was a very old horse, and it was only his wonderful constitution, and Jerry's care, that had kept him up at the cab work so long; now he broke down very much. The farrier said he might mend up enough to sell for a few pounds, but Jerry said, no! a few pounds got by selling a good old servant into hard work and misery would canker all the rest of his money, and he thought the kindest thing he could do for the fine old fellow would be to put a sure bullet through his head, and then he would never suffer more; for he did not know where to find a kind master for the rest of his days. The day after this was decided Harry took me to the forge for some new shoes; when I returned Captain was gone. I and the family all felt it very much. Jerry had now to look out for another horse, and he soon heard of one through an acquaintance who was under-groom in a nobleman's stables. He was a valuable young horse, but he had run away, smashed into another carriage, flung his lordship out, and so cut and blemished himself that he was no longer fit for a gentleman's stables, and the coachman had orders to look round, and sell him as well as he could. "I can do with high spirits," said Jerry, "if a horse is not vicious or hard-mouthed." "There is not a bit of vice in him," said the man; "his mouth is very tender, and I think myself that was the cause of the accident; you see he had just been clipped, and the weather was bad, and he had not had exercise enough, and when he did go out he was as full of spring as a balloon. Our governor (the coachman, I mean) had him harnessed in as tight and strong as he could, with the martingale, and the check-rein, a very sharp curb, and the reins put in at the bottom bar. It is my belief that it made the horse mad, being tender in the mouth and so full of spirit." "Likely enough; I'll come and see him," said Jerry. The next day Hotspur, that was his name, came home; he was a fine brown horse, without a white hair in him, as tall as Captain, with a very handsome head, and only five years old. I gave him a friendly greeting by way of good fellowship, but did not ask him any questions. The first night he was very restless. Instead of lying down, he kept jerking his halter rope up and down through the ring, and knocking the block about against the manger till I could not sleep. However, the next day, after five or six hours in the cab, he came in quiet and sensible. Jerry patted and talked to him a good deal, and very soon they understood each other, and Jerry said that with an easy bit and plenty of work he would be as gentle as a lamb; and that it was an ill wind that blew nobody good, for if his lordship had lost a hundred-guinea favorite, the cabman had gained a good horse with all his strength in him. Hotspur thought it a great come-down to be a cab-horse, and was disgusted at standing in the rank, but he confessed to me at the end of the week that an easy mouth and a free head made up for a great deal, and after all, the work was not so degrading as having one's head and tail fastened to each other at the saddle. In fact, he settled in well, and Jerry liked him very much. ----------CHAPTER 45--------- 45 Jerry's New Year For some people Christmas and the New Year are very merry times; but for cabmen and cabmen's horses it is no holiday, though it may be a harvest. There are so many parties, balls, and places of amusement open that the work is hard and often late. Sometimes driver and horse have to wait for hours in the rain or frost, shivering with the cold, while the merry people within are dancing away to the music. I wonder if the beautiful ladies ever think of the weary cabman waiting on his box, and his patient beast standing, till his legs get stiff with cold. I had now most of the evening work, as I was well accustomed to standing, and Jerry was also more afraid of Hotspur taking cold. We had a great deal of late work in the Christmas week, and Jerry's cough was bad; but however late we were, Polly sat up for him, and came out with a lantern to meet him, looking anxious and troubled. On the evening of the New Year we had to take two gentlemen to a house in one of the West End Squares. We set them down at nine o'clock, and were told to come again at eleven, "but," said one, "as it is a card party, you may have to wait a few minutes, but don't be late." As the clock struck eleven we were at the door, for Jerry was always punctual. The clock chimed the quarters, one, two, three, and then struck twelve, but the door did not open. The wind had been very changeable, with squalls of rain during the day, but now it came on sharp, driving sleet, which seemed to come all the way round; it was very cold, and there was no shelter. Jerry got off his box and came and pulled one of my cloths a little more over my neck; then he took a turn or two up and down, stamping his feet; then he began to beat his arms, but that set him off coughing; so he opened the cab door and sat at the bottom with his feet on the pavement, and was a little sheltered. Still the clock chimed the quarters, and no one came. At half-past twelve he rang the bell and asked the servant if he would be wanted that night. "Oh, yes, you'll be wanted safe enough," said the man; "you must not go, it will soon be over," and again Jerry sat down, but his voice was so hoarse I could hardly hear him. At a quarter past one the door opened, and the two gentlemen came out; they got into the cab without a word, and told Jerry where to drive, that was nearly two miles. My legs were numb with cold, and I thought I should have stumbled. When the men got out they never said they were sorry to have kept us waiting so long, but were angry at the charge; however, as Jerry never charged more than was his due, so he never took less, and they had to pay for the two hours and a quarter waiting; but it was hard-earned money to Jerry. At last we got home; he could hardly speak, and his cough was dreadful. Polly asked no questions, but opened the door and held the lantern for him. "Can't I do something?" she said. "Yes; get Jack something warm, and then boil me some gruel." This was said in a hoarse whisper; he could hardly get his breath, but he gave me a rub-down as usual, and even went up into the hayloft for an extra bundle of straw for my bed. Polly brought me a warm mash that made me comfortable, and then they locked the door. It was late the next morning before any one came, and then it was only Harry. He cleaned us and fed us, and swept out the stalls, then he put the straw back again as if it was Sunday. He was very still, and neither whistled nor sang. At noon he came again and gave us our food and water; this time Dolly came with him; she was crying, and I could gather from what they said that Jerry was dangerously ill, and the doctor said it was a bad case. So two days passed, and there was great trouble indoors. We only saw Harry, and sometimes Dolly. I think she came for company, for Polly was always with Jerry, and he had to be kept very quiet. On the third day, while Harry was in the stable, a tap came at the door, and Governor Grant came in. "I wouldn't go to the house, my boy," he said, "but I want to know how your father is." "He is very bad," said Harry, "he can't be much worse; they call it 'bronchitis'; the doctor thinks it will turn one way or another to-night." "That's bad, very bad," said Grant, shaking his head; "I know two men who died of that last week; it takes 'em off in no time; but while there's life there's hope, so you must keep up your spirits." "Yes," said Harry quickly, "and the doctor said that father had a better chance than most men, because he didn't drink. He said yesterday the fever was so high that if father had been a drinking man it would have burned him up like a piece of paper; but I believe he thinks he will get over it; don't you think he will, Mr. Grant?" The governor looked puzzled. "If there's any rule that good men should get over these things, I'm sure he will, my boy; he's the best man I know. I'll look in early to-morrow." Early next morning he was there. "Well?" said he. "Father is better," said Harry. "Mother hopes he will get over it." "Thank God!" said the governor, "and now you must keep him warm, and keep his mind easy, and that brings me to the horses; you see Jack will be all the better for the rest of a week or two in a warm stable, and you can easily take him a turn up and down the street to stretch his legs; but this young one, if he does not get work, he will soon be all up on end, as you may say, and will be rather too much for you; and when he does go out there'll be an accident." "It is like that now," said Harry. "I have kept him short of corn, but he's so full of spirit I don't know what to do with him." "Just so," said Grant. "Now look here, will you tell your mother that if she is agreeable I will come for him every day till something is arranged, and take him for a good spell of work, and whatever he earns, I'll bring your mother half of it, and that will help with the horses' feed. Your father is in a good club, I know, but that won't keep the horses, and they'll be eating their heads off all this time; I'll come at noon and hear what she says," and without waiting for Harry's thanks he was gone. At noon I think he went and saw Polly, for he and Harry came to the stable together, harnessed Hotspur, and took him out. For a week or more he came for Hotspur, and when Harry thanked him or said anything about his kindness, he laughed it off, saying it was all good luck for him, for his horses were wanting a little rest which they would not otherwise have had. Jerry grew better steadily, but the doctor said that he must never go back to the cab work again if he wished to be an old man. The children had many consultations together about what father and mother would do, and how they could help to earn money. One afternoon Hotspur was brought in very wet and dirty. "The streets are nothing but slush," said the governor; "it will give you a good warming, my boy, to get him clean and dry." "All right, governor," said Harry, "I shall not leave him till he is; you know I have been trained by my father." "I wish all the boys had been trained like you," said the governor. While Harry was sponging off the mud from Hotspur's body and legs Dolly came in, looking very full of something. "Who lives at Fairstowe, Harry? Mother has got a letter from Fairstowe; she seemed so glad, and ran upstairs to father with it." "Don't you know? Why, it is the name of Mrs. Fowler's place--mother's old mistress, you know--the lady that father met last summer, who sent you and me five shillings each." "Oh! Mrs. Fowler. Of course, I know all about her. I wonder what she is writing to mother about." "Mother wrote to her last week," said Harry; "you know she told father if ever he gave up the cab work she would like to know. I wonder what she says; run in and see, Dolly." Harry scrubbed away at Hotspur with a huish! huish! like any old hostler. In a few minutes Dolly came dancing into the stable. "Oh! Harry, there never was anything so beautiful; Mrs. Fowler says we are all to go and live near her. There is a cottage now empty that will just suit us, with a garden and a henhouse, and apple-trees, and everything! and her coachman is going away in the spring, and then she will want father in his place; and there are good families round, where you can get a place in the garden or the stable, or as a page-boy; and there's a good school for me; and mother is laughing and crying by turns, and father does look so happy!" "That's uncommon jolly," said Harry, "and just the right thing, I should say; it will suit father and mother both; but I don't intend to be a page-boy with tight clothes and rows of buttons. I'll be a groom or a gardener." It was quickly settled that as soon as Jerry was well enough they should remove to the country, and that the cab and horses should be sold as soon as possible. This was heavy news for me, for I was not young now, and could not look for any improvement in my condition. Since I left Birtwick I had never been so happy as with my dear master Jerry; but three years of cab work, even under the best conditions, will tell on one's strength, and I felt that I was not the horse that I had been. Grant said at once that he would take Hotspur, and there were men on the stand who would have bought me; but Jerry said I should not go to cab work again with just anybody, and the governor promised to find a place for me where I should be comfortable. The day came for going away. Jerry had not been allowed to go out yet, and I never saw him after that New Year's eve. Polly and the children came to bid me good-by. "Poor old Jack! dear old Jack! I wish we could take you with us," she said, and then laying her hand on my mane she put her face close to my neck and kissed me. Dolly was crying and kissed me too. Harry stroked me a great deal, but said nothing, only he seemed very sad, and so I was led away to my new place.

Black Beauty.part 4.chapt

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for part 4, chapter 46 based on the provided context.

Beauty's next owner is a corn dealer and baker, whom Jerry picked thinking Beauty would have "good food and fair work" . Well, he's... almost right. Beauty's new master is decent enough, but unfortunately the foreman who's around more often is a very harsh taskmaster. Beauty's carter Jakes "often said that it was more than ought to take, but the others always overruled him" . At this new place, they use a bearing rein. By now, we know all about the torture of bearing reins--and that people who use them are rarely particularly good to their horses. One day Beauty's given a very heavy load and a steep uphill route. He struggles to pull the cart, but it's too much, and his driver starts to whip him. "The pain of that great cart whip was sharp, but my mind was hurt quite as much as my poor sides. To be punished and abused when I was doing my very best was so hard it took the heart out of me" , Beauty reveals. A passing lady pleads with Jakes, asking him not to flog Beauty. Jakes explains to her that he has no choice, he has to do his job--and he wasn't the one who overloaded the cart. The lady asks Jakes if she can help, and suggests he take off the bearing rein so that Beauty can put his head down. "The rein was taken off, and in a moment I put my head down to my very knees. What a comfort it was" , Beauty says. The lady suggests that Jakes speak kindly to Beauty , and Beauty responds by putting his head down and pulling with all his might until they make it up the hill. The lady implores Jakes not to put the bearing rein back on, but he says all the carters will laugh at him if he doesn't. She argues with him, saying, "Is it not better to lead a good fashion than to follow a bad one?" . She makes a pretty good point, right? Jakes decides to take off the bearing rein while going uphill, and does loosen it, but unfortunately he doesn't remove it completely. Beauty is quickly worn out by overloaded carts, and a younger horse is brought in to take his place. As an aside, Beauty lets us know that his stable was very poorly lit, which weakened his sight. "I believe, had I stayed there very long, I should have become purblind, and that would have been a great misfortune" , he says. However, he's no longer any use to the corn dealer, so he's sold to a large cab owner.

----------PART 4, CHAPTER 46--------- Part IV. 46 Jakes and the Lady I was sold to a corn dealer and baker, whom Jerry knew, and with him he thought I should have good food and fair work. In the first he was quite right, and if my master had always been on the premises I do not think I should have been overloaded, but there was a foreman who was always hurrying and driving every one, and frequently when I had quite a full load he would order something else to be taken on. My carter, whose name was Jakes, often said it was more than I ought to take, but the other always overruled him. "'Twas no use going twice when once would do, and he chose to get business forward." Jakes, like the other carters, always had the check-rein up, which prevented me from drawing easily, and by the time I had been there three or four months I found the work telling very much on my strength. One day I was loaded more than usual, and part of the road was a steep uphill. I used all my strength, but I could not get on, and was obliged continually to stop. This did not please my driver, and he laid his whip on badly. "Get on, you lazy fellow," he said, "or I'll make you." Again I started the heavy load, and struggled on a few yards; again the whip came down, and again I struggled forward. The pain of that great cart whip was sharp, but my mind was hurt quite as much as my poor sides. To be punished and abused when I was doing my very best was so hard it took the heart out of me. A third time he was flogging me cruelly, when a lady stepped quickly up to him, and said in a sweet, earnest voice: "Oh! pray do not whip your good horse any more; I am sure he is doing all he can, and the road is very steep; I am sure he is doing his best." "If doing his best won't get this load up he must do something more than his best; that's all I know, ma'am," said Jakes. "But is it not a heavy load?" she said. "Yes, yes, too heavy," he said; "but that's not my fault; the foreman came just as we were starting, and would have three hundredweight more put on to save him trouble, and I must get on with it as well as I can." He was raising the whip again, when the lady said: "Pray, stop; I think I can help you if you will let me." The man laughed. "You see," she said, "you do not give him a fair chance; he cannot use all his power with his head held back as it is with that check-rein; if you would take it off I am sure he would do better--do try it," she said persuasively, "I should be very glad if you would." "Well, well," said Jakes, with a short laugh, "anything to please a lady, of course. How far would you wish it down, ma'am?" "Quite down, give him his head altogether." The rein was taken off, and in a moment I put my head down to my very knees. What a comfort it was! Then I tossed it up and down several times to get the aching stiffness out of my neck. "Poor fellow! that is what you wanted," said she, patting and stroking me with her gentle hand; "and now if you will speak kindly to him and lead him on I believe he will be able to do better." Jakes took the rein. "Come on, Blackie." I put down my head, and threw my whole weight against the collar; I spared no strength; the load moved on, and I pulled it steadily up the hill, and then stopped to take breath. The lady had walked along the footpath, and now came across into the road. She stroked and patted my neck, as I had not been patted for many a long day. "You see he was quite willing when you gave him the chance; I am sure he is a fine-tempered creature, and I dare say has known better days. You won't put that rein on again, will you?" for he was just going to hitch it up on the old plan. "Well, ma'am, I can't deny that having his head has helped him up the hill, and I'll remember it another time, and thank you, ma'am; but if he went without a check-rein I should be the laughing-stock of all the carters; it is the fashion, you see." "Is it not better," she said, "to lead a good fashion than to follow a bad one? A great many gentlemen do not use check-reins now; our carriage horses have not worn them for fifteen years, and work with much less fatigue than those who have them; besides," she added in a very serious voice, "we have no right to distress any of God's creatures without a very good reason; we call them dumb animals, and so they are, for they cannot tell us how they feel, but they do not suffer less because they have no words. But I must not detain you now; I thank you for trying my plan with your good horse, and I am sure you will find it far better than the whip. Good-day," and with another soft pat on my neck she stepped lightly across the path, and I saw her no more. "That was a real lady, I'll be bound for it," said Jakes to himself; "she spoke just as polite as if I was a gentleman, and I'll try her plan, uphill, at any rate;" and I must do him the justice to say that he let my rein out several holes, and going uphill after that, he always gave me my head; but the heavy loads went on. Good feed and fair rest will keep up one's strength under full work, but no horse can stand against overloading; and I was getting so thoroughly pulled down from this cause that a younger horse was bought in my place. I may as well mention here what I suffered at this time from another cause. I had heard horses speak of it, but had never myself had experience of the evil; this was a badly-lighted stable; there was only one very small window at the end, and the consequence was that the stalls were almost dark. Besides the depressing effect this had on my spirits, it very much weakened my sight, and when I was suddenly brought out of the darkness into the glare of daylight it was very painful to my eyes. Several times I stumbled over the threshold, and could scarcely see where I was going. I believe, had I stayed there very long, I should have become purblind, and that would have been a great misfortune, for I have heard men say that a stone-blind horse was safer to drive than one which had imperfect sight, as it generally makes them very timid. However, I escaped without any permanent injury to my sight, and was sold to a large cab owner. ----------CHAPTER 47--------- 47 Hard Times My new master I shall never forget; he had black eyes and a hooked nose, his mouth was as full of teeth as a bull-dog's, and his voice was as harsh as the grinding of cart wheels over graveled stones. His name was Nicholas Skinner, and I believe he was the man that poor Seedy Sam drove for. I have heard men say that seeing is believing; but I should say that feeling is believing; for much as I had seen before, I never knew till now the utter misery of a cab-horse's life. Skinner had a low set of cabs and a low set of drivers; he was hard on the men, and the men were hard on the horses. In this place we had no Sunday rest, and it was in the heat of summer. Sometimes on a Sunday morning a party of fast men would hire the cab for the day; four of them inside and another with the driver, and I had to take them ten or fifteen miles out into the country, and back again; never would any of them get down to walk up a hill, let it be ever so steep, or the day ever so hot--unless, indeed, when the driver was afraid I should not manage it, and sometimes I was so fevered and worn that I could hardly touch my food. How I used to long for the nice bran mash with niter in it that Jerry used to give us on Saturday nights in hot weather, that used to cool us down and make us so comfortable. Then we had two nights and a whole day for unbroken rest, and on Monday morning we were as fresh as young horses again; but here there was no rest, and my driver was just as hard as his master. He had a cruel whip with something so sharp at the end that it sometimes drew blood, and he would even whip me under the belly, and flip the lash out at my head. Indignities like these took the heart out of me terribly, but still I did my best and never hung back; for, as poor Ginger said, it was no use; men are the strongest. My life was now so utterly wretched that I wished I might, like Ginger, drop down dead at my work and be out of my misery, and one day my wish very nearly came to pass. I went on the stand at eight in the morning, and had done a good share of work, when we had to take a fare to the railway. A long train was just expected in, so my driver pulled up at the back of some of the outside cabs to take the chance of a return fare. It was a very heavy train, and as all the cabs were soon engaged ours was called for. There was a party of four; a noisy, blustering man with a lady, a little boy and a young girl, and a great deal of luggage. The lady and the boy got into the cab, and while the man ordered about the luggage the young girl came and looked at me. "Papa," she said, "I am sure this poor horse cannot take us and all our luggage so far, he is so very weak and worn up. Do look at him." "Oh! he's all right, miss," said my driver, "he's strong enough." The porter, who was pulling about some heavy boxes, suggested to the gentleman, as there was so much luggage, whether he would not take a second cab. "Can your horse do it, or can't he?" said the blustering man. "Oh! he can do it all right, sir; send up the boxes, porter; he could take more than that;" and he helped to haul up a box so heavy that I could feel the springs go down. "Papa, papa, do take a second cab," said the young girl in a beseeching tone. "I am sure we are wrong, I am sure it is very cruel." "Nonsense, Grace, get in at once, and don't make all this fuss; a pretty thing it would be if a man of business had to examine every cab-horse before he hired it--the man knows his own business of course; there, get in and hold your tongue!" My gentle friend had to obey, and box after box was dragged up and lodged on the top of the cab or settled by the side of the driver. At last all was ready, and with his usual jerk at the rein and slash of the whip he drove out of the station. The load was very heavy and I had had neither food nor rest since morning; but I did my best, as I always had done, in spite of cruelty and injustice. I got along fairly till we came to Ludgate Hill; but there the heavy load and my own exhaustion were too much. I was struggling to keep on, goaded by constant chucks of the rein and use of the whip, when in a single moment--I cannot tell how--my feet slipped from under me, and I fell heavily to the ground on my side; the suddenness and the force with which I fell seemed to beat all the breath out of my body. I lay perfectly still; indeed, I had no power to move, and I thought now I was going to die. I heard a sort of confusion round me, loud, angry voices, and the getting down of the luggage, but it was all like a dream. I thought I heard that sweet, pitiful voice saying, "Oh! that poor horse! it is all our fault." Some one came and loosened the throat strap of my bridle, and undid the traces which kept the collar so tight upon me. Some one said, "He's dead, he'll never get up again." Then I could hear a policeman giving orders, but I did not even open my eyes; I could only draw a gasping breath now and then. Some cold water was thrown over my head, and some cordial was poured into my mouth, and something was covered over me. I cannot tell how long I lay there, but I found my life coming back, and a kind-voiced man was patting me and encouraging me to rise. After some more cordial had been given me, and after one or two attempts, I staggered to my feet, and was gently led to some stables which were close by. Here I was put into a well-littered stall, and some warm gruel was brought to me, which I drank thankfully. In the evening I was sufficiently recovered to be led back to Skinner's stables, where I think they did the best for me they could. In the morning Skinner came with a farrier to look at me. He examined me very closely and said: "This is a case of overwork more than disease, and if you could give him a run off for six months he would be able to work again; but now there is not an ounce of strength left in him." "Then he must just go to the dogs," said Skinner. "I have no meadows to nurse sick horses in--he might get well or he might not; that sort of thing don't suit my business; my plan is to work 'em as long as they'll go, and then sell 'em for what they'll fetch, at the knacker's or elsewhere." "If he was broken-winded," said the farrier, "you had better have him killed out of hand, but he is not; there is a sale of horses coming off in about ten days; if you rest him and feed him up he may pick up, and you may get more than his skin is worth, at any rate." Upon this advice Skinner, rather unwillingly, I think, gave orders that I should be well fed and cared for, and the stable man, happily for me, carried out the orders with a much better will than his master had in giving them. Ten days of perfect rest, plenty of good oats, hay, bran mashes, with boiled linseed mixed in them, did more to get up my condition than anything else could have done; those linseed mashes were delicious, and I began to think, after all, it might be better to live than go to the dogs. When the twelfth day after the accident came, I was taken to the sale, a few miles out of London. I felt that any change from my present place must be an improvement, so I held up my head, and hoped for the best. ----------CHAPTER 48--------- 48 Farmer Thoroughgood and His Grandson Willie At this sale, of course I found myself in company with the old broken-down horses--some lame, some broken-winded, some old, and some that I am sure it would have been merciful to shoot. The buyers and sellers, too, many of them, looked not much better off than the poor beasts they were bargaining about. There were poor old men, trying to get a horse or a pony for a few pounds, that might drag about some little wood or coal cart. There were poor men trying to sell a worn-out beast for two or three pounds, rather than have the greater loss of killing him. Some of them looked as if poverty and hard times had hardened them all over; but there were others that I would have willingly used the last of my strength in serving; poor and shabby, but kind and human, with voices that I could trust. There was one tottering old man who took a great fancy to me, and I to him, but I was not strong enough--it was an anxious time! Coming from the better part of the fair, I noticed a man who looked like a gentleman farmer, with a young boy by his side; he had a broad back and round shoulders, a kind, ruddy face, and he wore a broad-brimmed hat. When he came up to me and my companions he stood still and gave a pitiful look round upon us. I saw his eye rest on me; I had still a good mane and tail, which did something for my appearance. I pricked my ears and looked at him. "There's a horse, Willie, that has known better days." "Poor old fellow!" said the boy, "do you think, grandpapa, he was ever a carriage horse?" "Oh, yes! my boy," said the farmer, coming closer, "he might have been anything when he was young; look at his nostrils and his ears, the shape of his neck and shoulder; there's a deal of breeding about that horse." He put out his hand and gave me a kind pat on the neck. I put out my nose in answer to his kindness; the boy stroked my face. "Poor old fellow! see, grandpapa, how well he understands kindness. Could not you buy him and make him young again as you did with Ladybird?" "My dear boy, I can't make all old horses young; besides, Ladybird was not so very old, as she was run down and badly used." "Well, grandpapa, I don't believe that this one is old; look at his mane and tail. I wish you would look into his mouth, and then you could tell; though he is so very thin, his eyes are not sunk like some old horses'." The old gentleman laughed. "Bless the boy! he is as horsey as his old grandfather." "But do look at his mouth, grandpapa, and ask the price; I am sure he would grow young in our meadows." The man who had brought me for sale now put in his word. "The young gentleman's a real knowing one, sir. Now the fact is, this 'ere hoss is just pulled down with overwork in the cabs; he's not an old one, and I heerd as how the vetenary should say, that a six months' run off would set him right up, being as how his wind was not broken. I've had the tending of him these ten days past, and a gratefuller, pleasanter animal I never met with, and 'twould be worth a gentleman's while to give a five-pound note for him, and let him have a chance. I'll be bound he'd be worth twenty pounds next spring." The old gentleman laughed, and the little boy looked up eagerly. "Oh, grandpapa, did you not say the colt sold for five pounds more than you expected? You would not be poorer if you did buy this one." The farmer slowly felt my legs, which were much swelled and strained; then he looked at my mouth. "Thirteen or fourteen, I should say; just trot him out, will you?" I arched my poor thin neck, raised my tail a little, and threw out my legs as well as I could, for they were very stiff. "What is the lowest you will take for him?" said the farmer as I came back. "Five pounds, sir; that was the lowest price my master set." "'Tis a speculation," said the old gentleman, shaking his head, but at the same time slowly drawing out his purse, "quite a speculation! Have you any more business here?" he said, counting the sovereigns into his hand. "No, sir, I can take him for you to the inn, if you please." "Do so, I am now going there." They walked forward, and I was led behind. The boy could hardly control his delight, and the old gentleman seemed to enjoy his pleasure. I had a good feed at the inn, and was then gently ridden home by a servant of my new master's, and turned into a large meadow with a shed in one corner of it. Mr. Thoroughgood, for that was the name of my benefactor, gave orders that I should have hay and oats every night and morning, and the run of the meadow during the day, and, "you, Willie," said he, "must take the oversight of him; I give him in charge to you." The boy was proud of his charge, and undertook it in all seriousness. There was not a day when he did not pay me a visit; sometimes picking me out from among the other horses, and giving me a bit of carrot, or something good, or sometimes standing by me while I ate my oats. He always came with kind words and caresses, and of course I grew very fond of him. He called me Old Crony, as I used to come to him in the field and follow him about. Sometimes he brought his grandfather, who always looked closely at my legs. "This is our point, Willie," he would say; "but he is improving so steadily that I think we shall see a change for the better in the spring." The perfect rest, the good food, the soft turf, and gentle exercise, soon began to tell on my condition and my spirits. I had a good constitution from my mother, and I was never strained when I was young, so that I had a better chance than many horses who have been worked before they came to their full strength. During the winter my legs improved so much that I began to feel quite young again. The spring came round, and one day in March Mr. Thoroughgood determined that he would try me in the phaeton. I was well pleased, and he and Willie drove me a few miles. My legs were not stiff now, and I did the work with perfect ease. "He's growing young, Willie; we must give him a little gentle work now, and by mid-summer he will be as good as Ladybird. He has a beautiful mouth and good paces; they can't be better." "Oh, grandpapa, how glad I am you bought him!" "So am I, my boy; but he has to thank you more than me; we must now be looking out for a quiet, genteel place for him, where he will be valued." ----------CHAPTER 49--------- 49 My Last Home One day during this summer the groom cleaned and dressed me with such extraordinary care that I thought some new change must be at hand; he trimmed my fetlocks and legs, passed the tarbrush over my hoofs, and even parted my forelock. I think the harness had an extra polish. Willie seemed half-anxious, half-merry, as he got into the chaise with his grandfather. "If the ladies take to him," said the old gentleman, "they'll be suited and he'll be suited. We can but try." At the distance of a mile or two from the village we came to a pretty, low house, with a lawn and shrubbery at the front and a drive up to the door. Willie rang the bell, and asked if Miss Blomefield or Miss Ellen was at home. Yes, they were. So, while Willie stayed with me, Mr. Thoroughgood went into the house. In about ten minutes he returned, followed by three ladies; one tall, pale lady, wrapped in a white shawl, leaned on a younger lady, with dark eyes and a merry face; the other, a very stately-looking person, was Miss Blomefield. They all came and looked at me and asked questions. The younger lady--that was Miss Ellen--took to me very much; she said she was sure she should like me, I had such a good face. The tall, pale lady said that she should always be nervous in riding behind a horse that had once been down, as I might come down again, and if I did she should never get over the fright. "You see, ladies," said Mr. Thoroughgood, "many first-rate horses have had their knees broken through the carelessness of their drivers without any fault of their own, and from what I see of this horse I should say that is his case; but of course I do not wish to influence you. If you incline you can have him on trial, and then your coachman will see what he thinks of him." "You have always been such a good adviser to us about our horses," said the stately lady, "that your recommendation would go a long way with me, and if my sister Lavinia sees no objection we will accept your offer of a trial, with thanks." It was then arranged that I should be sent for the next day. In the morning a smart-looking young man came for me. At first he looked pleased; but when he saw my knees he said in a disappointed voice: "I didn't think, sir, you would have recommended my ladies a blemished horse like that." "'Handsome is that handsome does'," said my master; "you are only taking him on trial, and I am sure you will do fairly by him, young man. If he is not as safe as any horse you ever drove send him back." I was led to my new home, placed in a comfortable stable, fed, and left to myself. The next day, when the groom was cleaning my face, he said: "That is just like the star that 'Black Beauty' had; he is much the same height, too. I wonder where he is now." A little further on he came to the place in my neck where I was bled and where a little knot was left in the skin. He almost started, and began to look me over carefully, talking to himself. "White star in the forehead, one white foot on the off side, this little knot just in that place;" then looking at the middle of my back--"and, as I am alive, there is that little patch of white hair that John used to call 'Beauty's three-penny bit'. It must be 'Black Beauty'! Why, Beauty! Beauty! do you know me?--little Joe Green, that almost killed you?" And he began patting and patting me as if he was quite overjoyed. I could not say that I remembered him, for now he was a fine grown young fellow, with black whiskers and a man's voice, but I was sure he knew me, and that he was Joe Green, and I was very glad. I put my nose up to him, and tried to say that we were friends. I never saw a man so pleased. "Give you a fair trial! I should think so indeed! I wonder who the rascal was that broke your knees, my old Beauty! you must have been badly served out somewhere; well, well, it won't be my fault if you haven't good times of it now. I wish John Manly was here to see you." In the afternoon I was put into a low park chair and brought to the door. Miss Ellen was going to try me, and Green went with her. I soon found that she was a good driver, and she seemed pleased with my paces. I heard Joe telling her about me, and that he was sure I was Squire Gordon's old "Black Beauty". When we returned the other sisters came out to hear how I had behaved myself. She told them what she had just heard, and said: "I shall certainly write to Mrs. Gordon, and tell her that her favorite horse has come to us. How pleased she will be!" After this I was driven every day for a week or so, and as I appeared to be quite safe, Miss Lavinia at last ventured out in the small close carriage. After this it was quite decided to keep me and call me by my old name of "Black Beauty". I have now lived in this happy place a whole year. Joe is the best and kindest of grooms. My work is easy and pleasant, and I feel my strength and spirits all coming back again. Mr. Thoroughgood said to Joe the other day: "In your place he will last till he is twenty years old--perhaps more." Willie always speaks to me when he can, and treats me as his special friend. My ladies have promised that I shall never be sold, and so I have nothing to fear; and here my story ends. My troubles are all over, and I am at home; and often before I am quite awake, I fancy I am still in the orchard at Birtwick, standing with my old friends under the apple-trees.

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 1

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

The play opens with a mutinous crowd of Roman citizens on the verge of rebellion due to the scarcity of grain. It is one of the most tumultuous openings of all of Shakespeares plays. The citizens are armed with weapons and are hostile towards the patrician, Caius Marcius. The First Citizen emerges out of the crowd as the chief spokesman and tests the mobs resolve to die rather than endure starvation. He voices the general opinion that Caius Marcius is the chief enemy to the people and incites the mob to kill him so that they can have corn at their own price. The First Citizen further denounces the patricians whose subhuman treatment of the plebeians has become too much to bear. He states that their actions are motivated by hunger for bread and not by thirst for revenge. The First Citizen derogatorily dismisses Caius Marcius as a very dog to the commonalty and says that though he has performed great services to the state. Shouts are heard from within, and the mob realizes that there has been an uprising in another part of the city. This news further incites the mob, which is now about to rush towards the Capitol, but are stopped by the arrival of Menenius Agrippa. Menenius Agrippa is a friend of Caius Marcius and one that hath always loved the people. Even the First Citizen admits that Menenius is honest enough: would all the rest were so! Seeing the frenzied mob armed with clubs and staves, he inquires about their purpose. He tries to dissuade the plebeians from attacking the Capitol by pointing out that the patricians have their welfare genuinely at heart. Agrippa blames their suffering and lack of food, not on the government, but on the gods; he tells the crowd that supplication on their knees and not armed rebellion would alleviate their misery. This only serves to further incite the mob, and the First Citizen reiterates their grievances against the patricians, who are supposedly hoarding grain. Menenius attempts to convince the crowd that the patricians do have their welfare at heart by recounting a fable in which the members of the body revolt against the belly, but eventually realize that the belly sustains them all. He likens the Senate to the belly and the crowd to the mutinous members and alludes to the First Citizen as being the great toe of this assembly. At this point Caius Marcius enters and addresses the mob most disrespectfully as dissentious rogues. When he learns from Menenius that the crowd is rebelling because grain prices are high, Caius becomes enraged. He criticizes the mobs presumptive attitude that prompts them to dispute the Senate. He threatens to slaughter them and reveals that the uprising in another part of the city has been quelled. He also explains that five tribunes have been appointed to protect the commoners interests. Caius is so infuriated by these appointments that he can only recall the names of two tribunes --- Sicinius Velutus and Junius Brutus. A messenger rushes onstage with the news that the Volscians are in arms and intend to attack Rome. Marcius is overjoyed at this news and says that a war will disperse the mob. Soon a delegation of Roman Senators and Tribunes arrive. They include Cominius, Titus Lartius, Sicinius Velutus, and Brutus. The Senators reaffirm the news of the Volscian attack and ask Marcius to assist Cominius in the war, which he is eager to do. Marcius then praises the valor of the Volscian leader, Aufidius, describing him as a lion whom he is proud to hunt. After everyone has departed except two of the tribunes, Sicinius tells Brutus that he is surprised that the proud Marcius is willing to be second in command to Cominius. Brutus shrewdly observes that the second in command is not a bad position; if the Romans are defeated, all the blame will fall on Cominius, and if they emerge victorious, Marcius will receive great praise for his valor and courage. The scene closes as the two tribunes leave for the Capitol.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter a company of mutinous citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons FIRST CITIZEN. Before we proceed any further, hear me speak. ALL. Speak, speak. FIRST CITIZEN. You are all resolv'd rather to die than to famish? ALL. Resolv'd, resolv'd. FIRST CITIZEN. First, you know Caius Marcius is chief enemy to the people. ALL. We know't, we know't. FIRST CITIZEN. Let us kill him, and we'll have corn at our own price. Is't a verdict? ALL. No more talking on't; let it be done. Away, away! SECOND CITIZEN. One word, good citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us; if they would yield us but the superfluity while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely; but they think we are too dear. The leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes ere we become rakes; for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge. SECOND CITIZEN. Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius? FIRST CITIZEN. Against him first; he's a very dog to the commonalty. SECOND CITIZEN. Consider you what services he has done for his country? FIRST CITIZEN. Very well, and could be content to give him good report for't but that he pays himself with being proud. SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, but speak not maliciously. FIRST CITIZEN. I say unto you, what he hath done famously he did it to that end; though soft-conscienc'd men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud, which he is, even to the altitude of his virtue. SECOND CITIZEN. What he cannot help in his nature you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous. FIRST CITIZEN. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations; he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [Shouts within] What shouts are these? The other side o' th' city is risen. Why stay we prating here? To th' Capitol! ALL. Come, come. FIRST CITIZEN. Soft! who comes here? Enter MENENIUS AGRIPPA SECOND CITIZEN. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always lov'd the people. FIRST CITIZEN. He's one honest enough; would all the rest were so! MENENIUS. What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you. FIRST CITIZEN. Our business is not unknown to th' Senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we'll show 'em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths; they shall know we have strong arms too. MENENIUS. Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours, Will you undo yourselves? FIRST CITIZEN. We cannot, sir; we are undone already. MENENIUS. I tell you, friends, most charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them Against the Roman state; whose course will on The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity Thither where more attends you; and you slander The helms o' th' state, who care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies. FIRST CITIZEN. Care for us! True, indeed! They ne'er car'd for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses cramm'd with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there's all the love they bear us. MENENIUS. Either you must Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, Or be accus'd of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it; But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale't a little more. FIRST CITIZEN. Well, I'll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale. But, an't please you, deliver. MENENIUS. There was a time when all the body's members Rebell'd against the belly; thus accus'd it: That only like a gulf it did remain I' th' midst o' th' body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the rest; where th' other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. The belly answer'd- FIRST CITIZEN. Well, sir, what answer made the belly? MENENIUS. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile, Which ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus- For look you, I may make the belly smile As well as speak- it tauntingly replied To th' discontented members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt; even so most fitly As you malign our senators for that They are not such as you. FIRST CITIZEN. Your belly's answer- What? The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, With other muniments and petty helps Is this our fabric, if that they- MENENIUS. What then? Fore me, this fellow speaks! What then? What then? FIRST CITIZEN. Should by the cormorant belly be restrain'd, Who is the sink o' th' body- MENENIUS. Well, what then? FIRST CITIZEN. The former agents, if they did complain, What could the belly answer? MENENIUS. I will tell you; If you'll bestow a small- of what you have little- Patience awhile, you'st hear the belly's answer. FIRST CITIZEN. Y'are long about it. MENENIUS. Note me this, good friend: Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered. 'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he 'That I receive the general food at first Which you do live upon; and fit it is, Because I am the storehouse and the shop Of the whole body. But, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to the court, the heart, to th' seat o' th' brain; And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. And though that all at once You, my good friends'- this says the belly; mark me. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, sir; well, well. MENENIUS. 'Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.' What say you to' t? FIRST CITIZEN. It was an answer. How apply you this? MENENIUS. The senators of Rome are this good belly, And you the mutinous members; for, examine Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly Touching the weal o' th' common, you shall find No public benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you, And no way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly? FIRST CITIZEN. I the great toe? Why the great toe? MENENIUS. For that, being one o' th' lowest, basest, poorest, Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest foremost. Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead'st first to win some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs. Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; The one side must have bale. Enter CAIUS MARCIUS Hail, noble Marcius! MARCIUS. Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs? FIRST CITIZEN. We have ever your good word. MARCIUS. He that will give good words to thee will flatter Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you, The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geese; you are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland. What's the matter That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble Senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another? What's their seeking? MENENIUS. For corn at their own rates, whereof they say The city is well stor'd. MARCIUS. Hang 'em! They say! They'll sit by th' fire and presume to know What's done i' th' Capitol, who's like to rise, Who thrives and who declines; side factions, and give out Conjectural marriages, making parties strong, And feebling such as stand not in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there's grain enough! Would the nobility lay aside their ruth And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high As I could pick my lance. MENENIUS. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you, What says the other troop? MARCIUS. They are dissolv'd. Hang 'em! They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs- That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds They vented their complainings; which being answer'd, And a petition granted them- a strange one, To break the heart of generosity And make bold power look pale- they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation. MENENIUS. What is granted them? MARCIUS. Five tribunes, to defend their vulgar wisdoms, Of their own choice. One's Junius Brutus- Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. 'Sdeath! The rabble should have first unroof'd the city Ere so prevail'd with me; it will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection's arguing. MENENIUS. This is strange. MARCIUS. Go get you home, you fragments. Enter a MESSENGER, hastily MESSENGER. Where's Caius Marcius? MARCIUS. Here. What's the matter? MESSENGER. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. I am glad on't; then we shall ha' means to vent Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. Enter COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with other SENATORS; JUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS VELUTUS FIRST SENATOR. Marcius, 'tis true that you have lately told us: The Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to't. I sin in envying his nobility; And were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he. COMINIUS. You have fought together? MARCIUS. Were half to half the world by th' ears, and he Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make Only my wars with him. He is a lion That I am proud to hunt. FIRST SENATOR. Then, worthy Marcius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. COMINIUS. It is your former promise. MARCIUS. Sir, it is; And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus' face. What, art thou stiff? Stand'st out? LARTIUS. No, Caius Marcius; I'll lean upon one crutch and fight with t'other Ere stay behind this business. MENENIUS. O, true bred! FIRST SENATOR. Your company to th' Capitol; where, I know, Our greatest friends attend us. LARTIUS. [To COMINIUS] Lead you on. [To MARCIUS] Follow Cominius; we must follow you; Right worthy your priority. COMINIUS. Noble Marcius! FIRST SENATOR. [To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; be gone. MARCIUS. Nay, let them follow. The Volsces have much corn: take these rats thither To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutineers, Your valour puts well forth; pray follow. Ciitzens steal away. Exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius? BRUTUS. He has no equal. SICINIUS. When we were chosen tribunes for the people- BRUTUS. Mark'd you his lip and eyes? SICINIUS. Nay, but his taunts! BRUTUS. Being mov'd, he will not spare to gird the gods. SICINIUS. Bemock the modest moon. BRUTUS. The present wars devour him! He is grown Too proud to be so valiant. SICINIUS. Such a nature, Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder His insolence can brook to be commanded Under Cominius. BRUTUS. Fame, at the which he aims- In whom already he is well grac'd- cannot Better be held nor more attain'd than by A place below the first; for what miscarries Shall be the general's fault, though he perform To th' utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then cry out of Marcius 'O, if he Had borne the business!' SICINIUS. Besides, if things go well, Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall Of his demerits rob Cominius. BRUTUS. Come. Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius, Though Marcius earn'd them not; and all his faults To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed In aught he merit not. SICINIUS. Let's hence and hear How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than his singularity, he goes Upon this present action. BRUTUS. Let's along. Exeunt ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter a company of mutinous citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons FIRST CITIZEN. Before we proceed any further, hear me speak. ALL. Speak, speak. FIRST CITIZEN. You are all resolv'd rather to die than to famish? ALL. Resolv'd, resolv'd. FIRST CITIZEN. First, you know Caius Marcius is chief enemy to the people. ALL. We know't, we know't. FIRST CITIZEN. Let us kill him, and we'll have corn at our own price. Is't a verdict? ALL. No more talking on't; let it be done. Away, away! SECOND CITIZEN. One word, good citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us; if they would yield us but the superfluity while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely; but they think we are too dear. The leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes ere we become rakes; for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge. SECOND CITIZEN. Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius? FIRST CITIZEN. Against him first; he's a very dog to the commonalty. SECOND CITIZEN. Consider you what services he has done for his country? FIRST CITIZEN. Very well, and could be content to give him good report for't but that he pays himself with being proud. SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, but speak not maliciously. FIRST CITIZEN. I say unto you, what he hath done famously he did it to that end; though soft-conscienc'd men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud, which he is, even to the altitude of his virtue. SECOND CITIZEN. What he cannot help in his nature you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous. FIRST CITIZEN. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations; he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [Shouts within] What shouts are these? The other side o' th' city is risen. Why stay we prating here? To th' Capitol! ALL. Come, come. FIRST CITIZEN. Soft! who comes here? Enter MENENIUS AGRIPPA SECOND CITIZEN. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always lov'd the people. FIRST CITIZEN. He's one honest enough; would all the rest were so! MENENIUS. What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you. FIRST CITIZEN. Our business is not unknown to th' Senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we'll show 'em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths; they shall know we have strong arms too. MENENIUS. Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours, Will you undo yourselves? FIRST CITIZEN. We cannot, sir; we are undone already. MENENIUS. I tell you, friends, most charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them Against the Roman state; whose course will on The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity Thither where more attends you; and you slander The helms o' th' state, who care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies. FIRST CITIZEN. Care for us! True, indeed! They ne'er car'd for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses cramm'd with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there's all the love they bear us. MENENIUS. Either you must Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, Or be accus'd of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it; But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale't a little more. FIRST CITIZEN. Well, I'll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale. But, an't please you, deliver. MENENIUS. There was a time when all the body's members Rebell'd against the belly; thus accus'd it: That only like a gulf it did remain I' th' midst o' th' body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the rest; where th' other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. The belly answer'd- FIRST CITIZEN. Well, sir, what answer made the belly? MENENIUS. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile, Which ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus- For look you, I may make the belly smile As well as speak- it tauntingly replied To th' discontented members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt; even so most fitly As you malign our senators for that They are not such as you. FIRST CITIZEN. Your belly's answer- What? The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, With other muniments and petty helps Is this our fabric, if that they- MENENIUS. What then? Fore me, this fellow speaks! What then? What then? FIRST CITIZEN. Should by the cormorant belly be restrain'd, Who is the sink o' th' body- MENENIUS. Well, what then? FIRST CITIZEN. The former agents, if they did complain, What could the belly answer? MENENIUS. I will tell you; If you'll bestow a small- of what you have little- Patience awhile, you'st hear the belly's answer. FIRST CITIZEN. Y'are long about it. MENENIUS. Note me this, good friend: Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered. 'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he 'That I receive the general food at first Which you do live upon; and fit it is, Because I am the storehouse and the shop Of the whole body. But, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to the court, the heart, to th' seat o' th' brain; And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. And though that all at once You, my good friends'- this says the belly; mark me. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, sir; well, well. MENENIUS. 'Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.' What say you to' t? FIRST CITIZEN. It was an answer. How apply you this? MENENIUS. The senators of Rome are this good belly, And you the mutinous members; for, examine Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly Touching the weal o' th' common, you shall find No public benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you, And no way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly? FIRST CITIZEN. I the great toe? Why the great toe? MENENIUS. For that, being one o' th' lowest, basest, poorest, Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest foremost. Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead'st first to win some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs. Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; The one side must have bale. Enter CAIUS MARCIUS Hail, noble Marcius! MARCIUS. Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs? FIRST CITIZEN. We have ever your good word. MARCIUS. He that will give good words to thee will flatter Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you, The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geese; you are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland. What's the matter That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble Senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another? What's their seeking? MENENIUS. For corn at their own rates, whereof they say The city is well stor'd. MARCIUS. Hang 'em! They say! They'll sit by th' fire and presume to know What's done i' th' Capitol, who's like to rise, Who thrives and who declines; side factions, and give out Conjectural marriages, making parties strong, And feebling such as stand not in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there's grain enough! Would the nobility lay aside their ruth And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high As I could pick my lance. MENENIUS. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you, What says the other troop? MARCIUS. They are dissolv'd. Hang 'em! They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs- That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds They vented their complainings; which being answer'd, And a petition granted them- a strange one, To break the heart of generosity And make bold power look pale- they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation. MENENIUS. What is granted them? MARCIUS. Five tribunes, to defend their vulgar wisdoms, Of their own choice. One's Junius Brutus- Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. 'Sdeath! The rabble should have first unroof'd the city Ere so prevail'd with me; it will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection's arguing. MENENIUS. This is strange. MARCIUS. Go get you home, you fragments. Enter a MESSENGER, hastily MESSENGER. Where's Caius Marcius? MARCIUS. Here. What's the matter? MESSENGER. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. I am glad on't; then we shall ha' means to vent Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. Enter COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with other SENATORS; JUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS VELUTUS FIRST SENATOR. Marcius, 'tis true that you have lately told us: The Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to't. I sin in envying his nobility; And were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he. COMINIUS. You have fought together? MARCIUS. Were half to half the world by th' ears, and he Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make Only my wars with him. He is a lion That I am proud to hunt. FIRST SENATOR. Then, worthy Marcius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. COMINIUS. It is your former promise. MARCIUS. Sir, it is; And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus' face. What, art thou stiff? Stand'st out? LARTIUS. No, Caius Marcius; I'll lean upon one crutch and fight with t'other Ere stay behind this business. MENENIUS. O, true bred! FIRST SENATOR. Your company to th' Capitol; where, I know, Our greatest friends attend us. LARTIUS. [To COMINIUS] Lead you on. [To MARCIUS] Follow Cominius; we must follow you; Right worthy your priority. COMINIUS. Noble Marcius! FIRST SENATOR. [To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; be gone. MARCIUS. Nay, let them follow. The Volsces have much corn: take these rats thither To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutineers, Your valour puts well forth; pray follow. Ciitzens steal away. Exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius? BRUTUS. He has no equal. SICINIUS. When we were chosen tribunes for the people- BRUTUS. Mark'd you his lip and eyes? SICINIUS. Nay, but his taunts! BRUTUS. Being mov'd, he will not spare to gird the gods. SICINIUS. Bemock the modest moon. BRUTUS. The present wars devour him! He is grown Too proud to be so valiant. SICINIUS. Such a nature, Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder His insolence can brook to be commanded Under Cominius. BRUTUS. Fame, at the which he aims- In whom already he is well grac'd- cannot Better be held nor more attain'd than by A place below the first; for what miscarries Shall be the general's fault, though he perform To th' utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then cry out of Marcius 'O, if he Had borne the business!' SICINIUS. Besides, if things go well, Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall Of his demerits rob Cominius. BRUTUS. Come. Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius, Though Marcius earn'd them not; and all his faults To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed In aught he merit not. SICINIUS. Let's hence and hear How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than his singularity, he goes Upon this present action. BRUTUS. Let's along. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 10

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 1, scene 10 based on the provided context.

Meanwhile, over at the defeated Volscian camp, Tullus Aufidius is super bummed about losing to his arch enemy. Then Aufidius is all, "I'll be back."

----------ACT 1, SCENE 10--------- SCENE X. The camp of the Volsces A flourish. Cornets. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS bloody, with two or three soldiers AUFIDIUS. The town is ta'en. FIRST SOLDIER. 'Twill be deliver'd back on good condition. AUFIDIUS. Condition! I would I were a Roman; for I cannot, Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition? What good condition can a treaty find I' th' part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius, I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me; And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter As often as we eat. By th' elements, If e'er again I meet him beard to beard, He's mine or I am his. Mine emulation Hath not that honour in't it had; for where I thought to crush him in an equal force, True sword to sword, I'll potch at him some way, Or wrath or craft may get him. FIRST SOLDIER. He's the devil. AUFIDIUS. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour's poison'd With only suff'ring stain by him; for him Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor sanctuary, Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it At home, upon my brother's guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to th' city; Learn how 'tis held, and what they are that must Be hostages for Rome. FIRST SOLDIER. Will not you go? AUFIDIUS. I am attended at the cypress grove; I pray you- 'Tis south the city mills- bring me word thither How the world goes, that to the pace of it I may spur on my journey. FIRST SOLDIER. I shall, sir. Exeunt ----------SCENE 10--------- SCENE X. The camp of the Volsces A flourish. Cornets. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS bloody, with two or three soldiers AUFIDIUS. The town is ta'en. FIRST SOLDIER. 'Twill be deliver'd back on good condition. AUFIDIUS. Condition! I would I were a Roman; for I cannot, Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition? What good condition can a treaty find I' th' part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius, I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me; And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter As often as we eat. By th' elements, If e'er again I meet him beard to beard, He's mine or I am his. Mine emulation Hath not that honour in't it had; for where I thought to crush him in an equal force, True sword to sword, I'll potch at him some way, Or wrath or craft may get him. FIRST SOLDIER. He's the devil. AUFIDIUS. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour's poison'd With only suff'ring stain by him; for him Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor sanctuary, Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it At home, upon my brother's guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to th' city; Learn how 'tis held, and what they are that must Be hostages for Rome. FIRST SOLDIER. Will not you go? AUFIDIUS. I am attended at the cypress grove; I pray you- 'Tis south the city mills- bring me word thither How the world goes, that to the pace of it I may spur on my journey. FIRST SOLDIER. I shall, sir. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 2

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 1, scene 2 based on the provided context.

Now we head over to a Volscian city called Corioles. Tullus Aufidius is at the Senate House talking to the Volscian senators about their military plans. Aufidius reports that Rome already knows they're planning an attack, so there goes the element of surprise. Plus, Roman soldiers may be headed to Corioles right now as they speak. The Senators order Aufidius to get his troops ready to invade Rome. Nah, nothing to worry about! Aufidius shouldn't come back to Corioles unless he hears that the Romans show up and invade the city.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Corioli. The Senate House. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with SENATORS of Corioli FIRST SENATOR. So, your opinion is, Aufidius, That they of Rome are ent'red in our counsels And know how we proceed. AUFIDIUS. Is it not yours? What ever have been thought on in this state That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome Had circumvention? 'Tis not four days gone Since I heard thence; these are the words- I think I have the letter here; yes, here it is: [Reads] 'They have press'd a power, but it is not known Whether for east or west. The dearth is great; The people mutinous; and it is rumour'd, Cominius, Marcius your old enemy, Who is of Rome worse hated than of you, And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, These three lead on this preparation Whither 'tis bent. Most likely 'tis for you; Consider of it.' FIRST SENATOR. Our army's in the field; We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready To answer us. AUFIDIUS. Nor did you think it folly To keep your great pretences veil'd till when They needs must show themselves; which in the hatching, It seem'd, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery We shall be short'ned in our aim, which was To take in many towns ere almost Rome Should know we were afoot. SECOND SENATOR. Noble Aufidius, Take your commission; hie you to your bands; Let us alone to guard Corioli. If they set down before's, for the remove Bring up your army; but I think you'll find Th' have not prepar'd for us. AUFIDIUS. O, doubt not that! I speak from certainties. Nay more, Some parcels of their power are forth already, And only hitherward. I leave your honours. If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet, 'Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike Till one can do no more. ALL. The gods assist you! AUFIDIUS. And keep your honours safe! FIRST SENATOR. Farewell. SECOND SENATOR. Farewell. ALL. Farewell. Exeunt ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Corioli. The Senate House. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with SENATORS of Corioli FIRST SENATOR. So, your opinion is, Aufidius, That they of Rome are ent'red in our counsels And know how we proceed. AUFIDIUS. Is it not yours? What ever have been thought on in this state That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome Had circumvention? 'Tis not four days gone Since I heard thence; these are the words- I think I have the letter here; yes, here it is: [Reads] 'They have press'd a power, but it is not known Whether for east or west. The dearth is great; The people mutinous; and it is rumour'd, Cominius, Marcius your old enemy, Who is of Rome worse hated than of you, And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, These three lead on this preparation Whither 'tis bent. Most likely 'tis for you; Consider of it.' FIRST SENATOR. Our army's in the field; We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready To answer us. AUFIDIUS. Nor did you think it folly To keep your great pretences veil'd till when They needs must show themselves; which in the hatching, It seem'd, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery We shall be short'ned in our aim, which was To take in many towns ere almost Rome Should know we were afoot. SECOND SENATOR. Noble Aufidius, Take your commission; hie you to your bands; Let us alone to guard Corioli. If they set down before's, for the remove Bring up your army; but I think you'll find Th' have not prepar'd for us. AUFIDIUS. O, doubt not that! I speak from certainties. Nay more, Some parcels of their power are forth already, And only hitherward. I leave your honours. If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet, 'Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike Till one can do no more. ALL. The gods assist you! AUFIDIUS. And keep your honours safe! FIRST SENATOR. Farewell. SECOND SENATOR. Farewell. ALL. Farewell. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 3

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 3 using the context provided.

This domestic scene, presented largely in prose, moves back to Rome and focuses on Virgilia, Marcius wife, and Volumnia, Marcius mother. The scene opens with Volumnia sensing that Virgilia is saddened by Marcius departure; she tries to encourage her daughter-in-law, claiming that she should be happy that her husband is going off to war and will return with great honor. She further admonishes the girl for her vow to remain in the house until Marcius returns home. Volumnia then reminisces about Marcius childhood and her affection for him since he was tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb. She recounts the difficulty with which she sent him early to war, but she was determined to make him into a soldier of honor and renown. Volumnia proudly recalls the day Marcius returned victorious from the battle against the Tarquins; he was wearing his first oak garland. Virgilia responds by asking her mother-in-law, But had he died in the business, madam, how then? Volumnia promptly replies that his honor would have been her solace and comfort. She vehemently claims that even if she had a dozen sons, she would rather have all of them die nobly for their state than have one lead a less noble life. A gentlewoman interrupts the conversation and announces the arrival of Valeria, who has come to pay a social visit. Virgilia begs to leave, but Volumnia insists that she stay, suspecting that the visitor has come with some news of Marcius. While waiting for Valeria, Volumnia fantasizes out loud about her son in battle, seeing him exhorting his men to fight courageously, slaying Aufidius and the Volscians, and gaining a bloody brow. The images clearly upset Virgilia. Valeria enters and inquires about young Marcius, Virgilias son. Volumnia remarks on the childs fondness for swords and drums. Valeria affirms that he indeed has all the characteristics of a potential soldier and describes an incident where young Marcius was playing with a butterfly and suddenly tore it to pieces with his teeth in a fit of rage. Volumnia proudly says the child is like his father. Valeria appears to be a frivolous minded lady who urges Virgilia to come to her house for a visit. Virgilia asserts her vow not to step out of doors until Marcius returns safely. Valeria protests against this and reminds her of Penelopes fate, for all the yarn she spun in Ulysses absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Virgilia, however, remains firm and refuses to leave the house. Valeria then reveals news about Marcius that she has heard. She tells that Cominius has encountered the Volscian army, while Marcius and Lartius have camped near Corioli, which they soon plan to attack and destroy.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Rome. MARCIUS' house Enter VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA, mother and wife to MARCIUS; they set them down on two low stools and sew VOLUMNIA. I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when youth with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way; when, for a day of kings' entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding; I, considering how honour would become such a person- that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th' wall, if renown made it not stir- was pleas'd to let him seek danger where he was to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he return'd his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man. VIRGILIA. But had he died in the business, madam, how then? VOLUMNIA. Then his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. Enter a GENTLEWOMAN GENTLEWOMAN. Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you. VIRGILIA. Beseech you give me leave to retire myself. VOLUMNIA. Indeed you shall not. Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum; See him pluck Aufidius down by th' hair; As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him. Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus: 'Come on, you cowards! You were got in fear, Though you were born in Rome.' His bloody brow With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes, Like to a harvest-man that's task'd to mow Or all or lose his hire. VIRGILIA. His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood! VOLUMNIA. Away, you fool! It more becomes a man Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood At Grecian sword, contemning. Tell Valeria We are fit to bid her welcome. Exit GENTLEWOMAN VIRGILIA. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius! VOLUMNIA. He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee And tread upon his neck. Re-enter GENTLEWOMAN, With VALERIA and an usher VALERIA. My ladies both, good day to you. VOLUMNIA. Sweet madam! VIRGILIA. I am glad to see your ladyship. VALERIA. How do you both? You are manifest housekeepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son? VIRGILIA. I thank your ladyship; well, good madam. VOLUMNIA. He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than look upon his schoolmaster. VALERIA. O' my word, the father's son! I'll swear 'tis a very pretty boy. O' my troth, I look'd upon him a Wednesday half an hour together; has such a confirm'd countenance! I saw him run after a gilded butterfly; and when he caught it he let it go again, and after it again, and over and over he comes, and up again, catch'd it again; or whether his fall enrag'd him, or how 'twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant, how he mammock'd it! VOLUMNIA. One on's father's moods. VALERIA. Indeed, la, 'tis a noble child. VIRGILIA. A crack, madam. VALERIA. Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must have you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon. VIRGILIA. No, good madam; I will not out of doors. VALERIA. Not out of doors! VOLUMNIA. She shall, she shall. VIRGILIA. Indeed, no, by your patience; I'll not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars. VALERIA. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably; come, you must go visit the good lady that lies in. VIRGILIA. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my prayers; but I cannot go thither. VOLUMNIA. Why, I pray you? VIRGILIA. 'Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love. VALERIA. You would be another Penelope; yet they say all the yarn she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come, I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us. VIRGILIA. No, good madam, pardon me; indeed I will not forth. VALERIA. In truth, la, go with me; and I'll tell you excellent news of your husband. VIRGILIA. O, good madam, there can be none yet. VALERIA. Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news from him last night. VIRGILIA. Indeed, madam? VALERIA. In earnest, it's true; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army forth; against whom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of our Roman power. Your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli; they nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us. VIRGILIA. Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in everything hereafter. VOLUMNIA. Let her alone, lady; as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth. VALERIA. In troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then. Come, good sweet lady. Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o' door and go along with us. VIRGILIA. No, at a word, madam; indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth. VALERIA. Well then, farewell. Exeunt ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Rome. MARCIUS' house Enter VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA, mother and wife to MARCIUS; they set them down on two low stools and sew VOLUMNIA. I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when youth with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way; when, for a day of kings' entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding; I, considering how honour would become such a person- that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th' wall, if renown made it not stir- was pleas'd to let him seek danger where he was to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he return'd his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man. VIRGILIA. But had he died in the business, madam, how then? VOLUMNIA. Then his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. Enter a GENTLEWOMAN GENTLEWOMAN. Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you. VIRGILIA. Beseech you give me leave to retire myself. VOLUMNIA. Indeed you shall not. Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum; See him pluck Aufidius down by th' hair; As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him. Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus: 'Come on, you cowards! You were got in fear, Though you were born in Rome.' His bloody brow With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes, Like to a harvest-man that's task'd to mow Or all or lose his hire. VIRGILIA. His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood! VOLUMNIA. Away, you fool! It more becomes a man Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood At Grecian sword, contemning. Tell Valeria We are fit to bid her welcome. Exit GENTLEWOMAN VIRGILIA. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius! VOLUMNIA. He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee And tread upon his neck. Re-enter GENTLEWOMAN, With VALERIA and an usher VALERIA. My ladies both, good day to you. VOLUMNIA. Sweet madam! VIRGILIA. I am glad to see your ladyship. VALERIA. How do you both? You are manifest housekeepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son? VIRGILIA. I thank your ladyship; well, good madam. VOLUMNIA. He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than look upon his schoolmaster. VALERIA. O' my word, the father's son! I'll swear 'tis a very pretty boy. O' my troth, I look'd upon him a Wednesday half an hour together; has such a confirm'd countenance! I saw him run after a gilded butterfly; and when he caught it he let it go again, and after it again, and over and over he comes, and up again, catch'd it again; or whether his fall enrag'd him, or how 'twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant, how he mammock'd it! VOLUMNIA. One on's father's moods. VALERIA. Indeed, la, 'tis a noble child. VIRGILIA. A crack, madam. VALERIA. Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must have you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon. VIRGILIA. No, good madam; I will not out of doors. VALERIA. Not out of doors! VOLUMNIA. She shall, she shall. VIRGILIA. Indeed, no, by your patience; I'll not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars. VALERIA. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably; come, you must go visit the good lady that lies in. VIRGILIA. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my prayers; but I cannot go thither. VOLUMNIA. Why, I pray you? VIRGILIA. 'Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love. VALERIA. You would be another Penelope; yet they say all the yarn she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come, I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us. VIRGILIA. No, good madam, pardon me; indeed I will not forth. VALERIA. In truth, la, go with me; and I'll tell you excellent news of your husband. VIRGILIA. O, good madam, there can be none yet. VALERIA. Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news from him last night. VIRGILIA. Indeed, madam? VALERIA. In earnest, it's true; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army forth; against whom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of our Roman power. Your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli; they nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us. VIRGILIA. Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in everything hereafter. VOLUMNIA. Let her alone, lady; as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth. VALERIA. In troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then. Come, good sweet lady. Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o' door and go along with us. VIRGILIA. No, at a word, madam; indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth. VALERIA. Well then, farewell. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 4

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 4 with the given context.

This scene shifts quickly from the gentle domestic world to the brutal world of war. It depicts the events already mentioned by Valeria in the earlier scene. Marcius, Titus Lartius, and a group of soldiers arrive before the city of Corioli to the sound of beating drums. When a messenger is spied, Marcius bets his horse that the messenger will bring news that Cominius has met Aufidius and is engaged in battle with him. When the messenger says that Cominius has not yet met Aufidius, Titus Lartius jestingly claims Marcius horse, for he has won the bet. The messenger states that Cominius and his army and the Volscian army are both within a mile and a half of Corioli. When Marcius sends out an alarm to Corioli, the Senators of the city appear on the walls. They defiantly tell Marcius that they are not afraid of him and the Romans. In fact, they believe that Aufidius has been victorious aver Cominius. When Lartius orders ladders to be placed against the Corioli wall so a Roman foray can be made, the Volscians respond by attacking the Romans and pushing them back to their trenches. Marcius is infuriated by the Roman retreat and denounces the army for their faintheartedness, calling them shames of Rome and a herd of boils and plagues. When Marcius commands his soldiers to follow him into the city in pursuit of the retreating enemy, nobody complies. Marcius himself is shut inside the city gates, which have been drawn closed; it is assumed he will not come out alive. Lartius is so certain he will never see Marcius again that he gives a funeral oration for him, saying, Thou wast a soldier. . . Thou madst thine enemies shake, as if the world were feverous. As Lartius finishes, the gates of the city open, and Marcius emerges, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy. This amazing sight of Marcius single-handedly fighting the enemy rallies the Roman soldiers; they come to his aid and capture the city.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Before Corioli Enter MARCIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with drum and colours, with CAPTAINS and soldiers. To them a MESSENGER MARCIUS. Yonder comes news; a wager- they have met. LARTIUS. My horse to yours- no. MARCIUS. 'Tis done. LARTIUS. Agreed. MARCIUS. Say, has our general met the enemy? MESSENGER. They lie in view, but have not spoke as yet. LARTIUS. So, the good horse is mine. MARCIUS. I'll buy him of you. LARTIUS. No, I'll nor sell nor give him; lend you him I will For half a hundred years. Summon the town. MARCIUS. How far off lie these armies? MESSENGER. Within this mile and half. MARCIUS. Then shall we hear their 'larum, and they ours. Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work, That we with smoking swords may march from hence To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast. They sound a parley. Enter two SENATORS with others, on the walls of Corioli Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls? FIRST SENATOR. No, nor a man that fears you less than he: That's lesser than a little. [Drum afar off] Hark, our drums Are bringing forth our youth. We'll break our walls Rather than they shall pound us up; our gates, Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn'd with rushes; They'll open of themselves. [Alarum far off] Hark you far off! There is Aufidius. List what work he makes Amongst your cloven army. MARCIUS. O, they are at it! LARTIUS. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho! Enter the army of the Volsces MARCIUS. They fear us not, but issue forth their city. Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus. They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows. He that retires, I'll take him for a Volsce, And he shall feel mine edge. Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their trenches. Re-enter MARCIUS, cursing MARCIUS. All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! you herd of- Boils and plagues Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd Farther than seen, and one infect another Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! All hurt behind! Backs red, and faces pale With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge home, Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe And make my wars on you. Look to't. Come on; If you'll stand fast we'll beat them to their wives, As they us to our trenches. Follow me. Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and MARCIUS follows them to the gates So, now the gates are ope; now prove good seconds; 'Tis for the followers fortune widens them, Not for the fliers. Mark me, and do the like. [MARCIUS enters the gates] FIRST SOLDIER. Fool-hardiness; not I. SECOND SOLDIER. Not I. [MARCIUS is shut in] FIRST SOLDIER. See, they have shut him in. ALL. To th' pot, I warrant him. [Alarum continues] Re-enter TITUS LARTIUS LARTIUS. What is become of Marcius? ALL. Slain, sir, doubtless. FIRST SOLDIER. Following the fliers at the very heels, With them he enters; who, upon the sudden, Clapp'd to their gates. He is himself alone, To answer all the city. LARTIUS. O noble fellow! Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, And when it bows stand'st up. Thou art left, Marcius; A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier Even to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible Only in strokes; but with thy grim looks and The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the world Were feverous and did tremble. Re-enter MARCIUS, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy FIRST SOLDIER. Look, sir. LARTIUS. O, 'tis Marcius! Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike. [They fight, and all enter the city] ----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Before Corioli Enter MARCIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with drum and colours, with CAPTAINS and soldiers. To them a MESSENGER MARCIUS. Yonder comes news; a wager- they have met. LARTIUS. My horse to yours- no. MARCIUS. 'Tis done. LARTIUS. Agreed. MARCIUS. Say, has our general met the enemy? MESSENGER. They lie in view, but have not spoke as yet. LARTIUS. So, the good horse is mine. MARCIUS. I'll buy him of you. LARTIUS. No, I'll nor sell nor give him; lend you him I will For half a hundred years. Summon the town. MARCIUS. How far off lie these armies? MESSENGER. Within this mile and half. MARCIUS. Then shall we hear their 'larum, and they ours. Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work, That we with smoking swords may march from hence To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast. They sound a parley. Enter two SENATORS with others, on the walls of Corioli Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls? FIRST SENATOR. No, nor a man that fears you less than he: That's lesser than a little. [Drum afar off] Hark, our drums Are bringing forth our youth. We'll break our walls Rather than they shall pound us up; our gates, Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn'd with rushes; They'll open of themselves. [Alarum far off] Hark you far off! There is Aufidius. List what work he makes Amongst your cloven army. MARCIUS. O, they are at it! LARTIUS. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho! Enter the army of the Volsces MARCIUS. They fear us not, but issue forth their city. Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus. They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows. He that retires, I'll take him for a Volsce, And he shall feel mine edge. Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their trenches. Re-enter MARCIUS, cursing MARCIUS. All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! you herd of- Boils and plagues Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd Farther than seen, and one infect another Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! All hurt behind! Backs red, and faces pale With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge home, Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe And make my wars on you. Look to't. Come on; If you'll stand fast we'll beat them to their wives, As they us to our trenches. Follow me. Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and MARCIUS follows them to the gates So, now the gates are ope; now prove good seconds; 'Tis for the followers fortune widens them, Not for the fliers. Mark me, and do the like. [MARCIUS enters the gates] FIRST SOLDIER. Fool-hardiness; not I. SECOND SOLDIER. Not I. [MARCIUS is shut in] FIRST SOLDIER. See, they have shut him in. ALL. To th' pot, I warrant him. [Alarum continues] Re-enter TITUS LARTIUS LARTIUS. What is become of Marcius? ALL. Slain, sir, doubtless. FIRST SOLDIER. Following the fliers at the very heels, With them he enters; who, upon the sudden, Clapp'd to their gates. He is himself alone, To answer all the city. LARTIUS. O noble fellow! Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, And when it bows stand'st up. Thou art left, Marcius; A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier Even to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible Only in strokes; but with thy grim looks and The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the world Were feverous and did tremble. Re-enter MARCIUS, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy FIRST SOLDIER. Look, sir. LARTIUS. O, 'tis Marcius! Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike. [They fight, and all enter the city]

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 5

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 5 using the context provided.

This scene opens with the noise of a distant battle in the background, probably between Aufidius and Cominius, while the Roman soldiers in Corioli carry away the spoils of victory. Marcius enters with Lartius and scorns the soldiers for ransacking the town, especially since there is still fighting to be done. He directs Titus Lartius to keep part of the army to maintain control over Corioli, while he leads the others away to support Cominius. Titus Lartius counsels him to refrain from fighting another round of battle, for his wounds are still bleeding; Marcius will not think of staying back, for he is determined to fight Aufidius. Lartius praises his valor and wishes him luck.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Within Corioli. A street Enter certain Romans, with spoils FIRST ROMAN. This will I carry to Rome. SECOND ROMAN. And I this. THIRD ROMAN. A murrain on 't! I took this for silver. [Alarum continues still afar off] Enter MARCIUS and TITUS LARTIUS With a trumpeter MARCIUS. See here these movers that do prize their hours At a crack'd drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons, Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves, Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them! Exeunt pillagers And hark, what noise the general makes! To him! There is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius, Piercing our Romans; then, valiant Titus, take Convenient numbers to make good the city; Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste To help Cominius. LARTIUS. Worthy sir, thou bleed'st; Thy exercise hath been too violent For a second course of fight. MARCIUS. Sir, praise me not; My work hath yet not warm'd me. Fare you well; The blood I drop is rather physical Than dangerous to me. To Aufidius thus I will appear, and fight. LARTIUS. Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords! Bold gentleman, Prosperity be thy page! MARCIUS. Thy friend no less Than those she placeth highest! So farewell. LARTIUS. Thou worthiest Marcius! Exit MARCIUS Go sound thy trumpet in the market-place; Call thither all the officers o' th' town, Where they shall know our mind. Away! Exeunt ----------SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Within Corioli. A street Enter certain Romans, with spoils FIRST ROMAN. This will I carry to Rome. SECOND ROMAN. And I this. THIRD ROMAN. A murrain on 't! I took this for silver. [Alarum continues still afar off] Enter MARCIUS and TITUS LARTIUS With a trumpeter MARCIUS. See here these movers that do prize their hours At a crack'd drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons, Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves, Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them! Exeunt pillagers And hark, what noise the general makes! To him! There is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius, Piercing our Romans; then, valiant Titus, take Convenient numbers to make good the city; Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste To help Cominius. LARTIUS. Worthy sir, thou bleed'st; Thy exercise hath been too violent For a second course of fight. MARCIUS. Sir, praise me not; My work hath yet not warm'd me. Fare you well; The blood I drop is rather physical Than dangerous to me. To Aufidius thus I will appear, and fight. LARTIUS. Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords! Bold gentleman, Prosperity be thy page! MARCIUS. Thy friend no less Than those she placeth highest! So farewell. LARTIUS. Thou worthiest Marcius! Exit MARCIUS Go sound thy trumpet in the market-place; Call thither all the officers o' th' town, Where they shall know our mind. Away! Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 6

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 6 using the context provided.

This scene opens with Cominius and his soldiers taking a break after they have retreated. Since they have heard nothing from Marcius and Lartius, Cominius prays for their success. A messenger then enters bearing the old news that the Romans have been forced to retreat back to their trenches. When Cominius learns that it has taken the messenger more than an hour to arrive, he hopes that the situation in Corioli has taken a turn for the better. Marcius enters; he is bleeding so profusely from his wounds that for a moment Cominius cannot recognize him. He then informs Cominius of their victory. When Cominius asks him for the details, Marcius impatiently tells him that the time is not right for telling stories and questions Cominius about why they are not fighting. Marcius is disgusted when Cominius tells how he has been forced to retreat. Marcius then inquires about Aufidius and learns that he is head of the army. Marcius pleads for permission to attack Aufidius without any further delay. Marcius orders four offices to select the most valiant soldiers. He leads them into the battlefield with the cry, O me alone! Make you a sword of me!

----------ACT 1, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Near the camp of COMINIUS Enter COMINIUS, as it were in retire, with soldiers COMINIUS. Breathe you, my friends. Well fought; we are come off Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands Nor cowardly in retire. Believe me, sirs, We shall be charg'd again. Whiles we have struck, By interims and conveying gusts we have heard The charges of our friends. The Roman gods, Lead their successes as we wish our own, That both our powers, with smiling fronts encount'ring, May give you thankful sacrifice! Enter A MESSENGER Thy news? MESSENGER. The citizens of Corioli have issued And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle; I saw our party to their trenches driven, And then I came away. COMINIUS. Though thou speak'st truth, Methinks thou speak'st not well. How long is't since? MESSENGER. Above an hour, my lord. COMINIUS. 'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums. How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour, And bring thy news so late? MESSENGER. Spies of the Volsces Held me in chase, that I was forc'd to wheel Three or four miles about; else had I, sir, Half an hour since brought my report. Enter MARCIUS COMINIUS. Who's yonder That does appear as he were flay'd? O gods! He has the stamp of Marcius, and I have Before-time seen him thus. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue From every meaner man. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, But mantled in your own. MARCIUS. O! let me clip ye In arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done, And tapers burn'd to bedward. COMINIUS. Flower of warriors, How is't with Titus Lartius? MARCIUS. As with a man busied about decrees: Condemning some to death and some to exile; Ransoming him or pitying, threat'ning th' other; Holding Corioli in the name of Rome Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, To let him slip at will. COMINIUS. Where is that slave Which told me they had beat you to your trenches? Where is he? Call him hither. MARCIUS. Let him alone; He did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen, The common file- a plague! tribunes for them! The mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat as they did budge From rascals worse than they. COMINIUS. But how prevail'd you? MARCIUS. Will the time serve to tell? I do not think. Where is the enemy? Are you lords o' th' field? If not, why cease you till you are so? COMINIUS. Marcius, We have at disadvantage fought, and did Retire to win our purpose. MARCIUS. How lies their battle? Know you on which side They have plac'd their men of trust? COMINIUS. As I guess, Marcius, Their bands i' th' vaward are the Antiates, Of their best trust; o'er them Aufidius, Their very heart of hope. MARCIUS. I do beseech you, By all the battles wherein we have fought, By th' blood we have shed together, by th' vows We have made to endure friends, that you directly Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates; And that you not delay the present, but, Filling the air with swords advanc'd and darts, We prove this very hour. COMINIUS. Though I could wish You were conducted to a gentle bath And balms applied to you, yet dare I never Deny your asking: take your choice of those That best can aid your action. MARCIUS. Those are they That most are willing. If any such be here- As it were sin to doubt- that love this painting Wherein you see me smear'd; if any fear Lesser his person than an ill report; If any think brave death outweighs bad life And that his country's dearer than himself; Let him alone, or so many so minded, Wave thus to express his disposition, And follow Marcius. [They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in their arms and cast up their caps] O, me alone! Make you a sword of me? If these shows be not outward, which of you But is four Volsces? None of you but is Able to bear against the great Aufidius A shield as hard as his. A certain number, Though thanks to all, must I select from all; the rest Shall bear the business in some other fight, As cause will be obey'd. Please you to march; And four shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best inclin'd. COMINIUS. March on, my fellows; Make good this ostentation, and you shall Divide in all with us. Exeunt ----------SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Near the camp of COMINIUS Enter COMINIUS, as it were in retire, with soldiers COMINIUS. Breathe you, my friends. Well fought; we are come off Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands Nor cowardly in retire. Believe me, sirs, We shall be charg'd again. Whiles we have struck, By interims and conveying gusts we have heard The charges of our friends. The Roman gods, Lead their successes as we wish our own, That both our powers, with smiling fronts encount'ring, May give you thankful sacrifice! Enter A MESSENGER Thy news? MESSENGER. The citizens of Corioli have issued And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle; I saw our party to their trenches driven, And then I came away. COMINIUS. Though thou speak'st truth, Methinks thou speak'st not well. How long is't since? MESSENGER. Above an hour, my lord. COMINIUS. 'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums. How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour, And bring thy news so late? MESSENGER. Spies of the Volsces Held me in chase, that I was forc'd to wheel Three or four miles about; else had I, sir, Half an hour since brought my report. Enter MARCIUS COMINIUS. Who's yonder That does appear as he were flay'd? O gods! He has the stamp of Marcius, and I have Before-time seen him thus. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue From every meaner man. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, But mantled in your own. MARCIUS. O! let me clip ye In arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done, And tapers burn'd to bedward. COMINIUS. Flower of warriors, How is't with Titus Lartius? MARCIUS. As with a man busied about decrees: Condemning some to death and some to exile; Ransoming him or pitying, threat'ning th' other; Holding Corioli in the name of Rome Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, To let him slip at will. COMINIUS. Where is that slave Which told me they had beat you to your trenches? Where is he? Call him hither. MARCIUS. Let him alone; He did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen, The common file- a plague! tribunes for them! The mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat as they did budge From rascals worse than they. COMINIUS. But how prevail'd you? MARCIUS. Will the time serve to tell? I do not think. Where is the enemy? Are you lords o' th' field? If not, why cease you till you are so? COMINIUS. Marcius, We have at disadvantage fought, and did Retire to win our purpose. MARCIUS. How lies their battle? Know you on which side They have plac'd their men of trust? COMINIUS. As I guess, Marcius, Their bands i' th' vaward are the Antiates, Of their best trust; o'er them Aufidius, Their very heart of hope. MARCIUS. I do beseech you, By all the battles wherein we have fought, By th' blood we have shed together, by th' vows We have made to endure friends, that you directly Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates; And that you not delay the present, but, Filling the air with swords advanc'd and darts, We prove this very hour. COMINIUS. Though I could wish You were conducted to a gentle bath And balms applied to you, yet dare I never Deny your asking: take your choice of those That best can aid your action. MARCIUS. Those are they That most are willing. If any such be here- As it were sin to doubt- that love this painting Wherein you see me smear'd; if any fear Lesser his person than an ill report; If any think brave death outweighs bad life And that his country's dearer than himself; Let him alone, or so many so minded, Wave thus to express his disposition, And follow Marcius. [They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in their arms and cast up their caps] O, me alone! Make you a sword of me? If these shows be not outward, which of you But is four Volsces? None of you but is Able to bear against the great Aufidius A shield as hard as his. A certain number, Though thanks to all, must I select from all; the rest Shall bear the business in some other fight, As cause will be obey'd. Please you to march; And four shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best inclin'd. COMINIUS. March on, my fellows; Make good this ostentation, and you shall Divide in all with us. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 7

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 1, scene 7 based on the provided context.

Outside the gates of Corioles, Titus Lartius and a bunch of Roman soldiers have stayed behind to guard the city they've just sacked. Shakespeare ups the dramatic tension by letting us know that if Caius Martius and his troops lose the battle in the field, there's no way Rome can keep the city....

----------ACT 1, SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The gates of Corioli TITUS LARTIUS, having set a guard upon Corioli, going with drum and trumpet toward COMINIUS and CAIUS MARCIUS, enters with a LIEUTENANT, other soldiers, and a scout LARTIUS. So, let the ports be guarded; keep your duties As I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve For a short holding. If we lose the field We cannot keep the town. LIEUTENANT. Fear not our care, sir. LARTIUS. Hence, and shut your gates upon's. Our guider, come; to th' Roman camp conduct us. Exeunt ----------SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The gates of Corioli TITUS LARTIUS, having set a guard upon Corioli, going with drum and trumpet toward COMINIUS and CAIUS MARCIUS, enters with a LIEUTENANT, other soldiers, and a scout LARTIUS. So, let the ports be guarded; keep your duties As I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve For a short holding. If we lose the field We cannot keep the town. LIEUTENANT. Fear not our care, sir. LARTIUS. Hence, and shut your gates upon's. Our guider, come; to th' Roman camp conduct us. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 8

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 8 with the given context.

This scene depicts the critical encounter between Caius Marcius and Aufidius. An alarum is sounded, and Marcius and Aufidius enter from opposite sides. Marcius proclaims that he will fight with none except Aufidius, whom he hates worse than a person who breaks promises. Aufidius rejoins with equal scorn, saying he hates Marcius more than a serpent. Both of them swear that they will not stop fighting until one of them is defeated. Marcius tells Aufidius that the blood covering his body is that of the Volscian soldiers whom he had slain while capturing Corioli only three hours earlier. As the duel progresses, Marcius has the upper hand and Aufidius, breaking his promise, retreats.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 8--------- SCENE VIII. A field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps Alarum, as in battle. Enter MARCIUS and AUFIDIUS at several doors MARCIUS. I'll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee Worse than a promise-breaker. AUFIDIUS. We hate alike: Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot. MARCIUS. Let the first budger die the other's slave, And the gods doom him after! AUFIDIUS. If I fly, Marcius, Halloa me like a hare. MARCIUS. Within these three hours, Tullus, Alone I fought in your Corioli walls, And made what work I pleas'd. 'Tis not my blood Wherein thou seest me mask'd. For thy revenge Wrench up thy power to th' highest. AUFIDIUS. Wert thou the Hector That was the whip of your bragg'd progeny, Thou shouldst not scape me here. Here they fight, and certain Volsces come in the aid of AUFIDIUS. MARCIUS fights till they be driven in breathless Officious, and not valiant, you have sham'd me In your condemned seconds. Exeunt ----------SCENE 8--------- SCENE VIII. A field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps Alarum, as in battle. Enter MARCIUS and AUFIDIUS at several doors MARCIUS. I'll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee Worse than a promise-breaker. AUFIDIUS. We hate alike: Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot. MARCIUS. Let the first budger die the other's slave, And the gods doom him after! AUFIDIUS. If I fly, Marcius, Halloa me like a hare. MARCIUS. Within these three hours, Tullus, Alone I fought in your Corioli walls, And made what work I pleas'd. 'Tis not my blood Wherein thou seest me mask'd. For thy revenge Wrench up thy power to th' highest. AUFIDIUS. Wert thou the Hector That was the whip of your bragg'd progeny, Thou shouldst not scape me here. Here they fight, and certain Volsces come in the aid of AUFIDIUS. MARCIUS fights till they be driven in breathless Officious, and not valiant, you have sham'd me In your condemned seconds. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 1.scene 9

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 1, scene 9 based on the provided context.

As the scene opens, the Romans are celebrating their victory with flying chest bumps and stuff. Caius Martius is super embarrassed by all the attention and refuses to take his share of the war spoils. This, of course, makes him an even bigger rock-star. While the crowd of soldiers cheers him on, Martius gives a modest little victory speech about how he was just doing his military duty. Cominius declares that Caius Martius is so getting a new nickname name for his service to Rome. From here on out, he'll be called "Caius Martius Coriolanus." You know, after the city he just destroyed. Next, Caius Martius Coriolanus says he really wants to help out a Volscian guy who was nice to him during his stay in Corioles. The only problem is, he can't remember the dude's name. Then he's all, "Oops! Oh, well" and runs off to wash all the sticky blood from his face.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 9--------- SCENE IX. The Roman camp Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter, at one door, COMINIUS with the Romans; at another door, MARCIUS, with his arm in a scarf COMINIUS. If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work, Thou't not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles; Where great patricians shall attend, and shrug, I' th' end admire; where ladies shall be frighted And, gladly quak'd, hear more; where the dull tribunes, That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours, Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods Our Rome hath such a soldier.' Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast, Having fully din'd before. Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit LARTIUS. O General, Here is the steed, we the caparison. Hadst thou beheld- MARCIUS. Pray now, no more; my mother, Who has a charter to extol her blood, When she does praise me grieves me. I have done As you have done- that's what I can; induc'd As you have been- that's for my country. He that has but effected his good will Hath overta'en mine act. COMINIUS. You shall not be The grave of your deserving; Rome must know The value of her own. 'Twere a concealment Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, To hide your doings and to silence that Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd, Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you, In sign of what you are, not to reward What you have done, before our army hear me. MARCIUS. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves rememb'red. COMINIUS. Should they not, Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses- Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store- of all The treasure in this field achiev'd and city, We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth Before the common distribution at Your only choice. MARCIUS. I thank you, General, But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it, And stand upon my common part with those That have beheld the doing. A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius, Marcius!' cast up their caps and lances. COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare May these same instruments which you profane Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall I' th' field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made all of false-fac'd soothing. When steel grows Soft as the parasite's silk, let him be made An overture for th' wars. No more, I say. For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled, Or foil'd some debile wretch, which without note Here's many else have done, you shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical, As if I lov'd my little should be dieted In praises sauc'd with lies. COMINIUS. Too modest are you; More cruel to your good report than grateful To us that give you truly. By your patience, If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd, we'll put you- Like one that means his proper harm- in manacles, Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known, As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius Wears this war's garland; in token of the which, My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, With all his trim belonging; and from this time, For what he did before Corioli, call him With all th' applause-and clamour of the host, Caius Marcius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition nobly ever! [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums] ALL. Caius Marcius Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. I will go wash; And when my face is fair you shall perceive Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you; I mean to stride your steed, and at all times To undercrest your good addition To th' fairness of my power. COMINIUS. So, to our tent; Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, Must to Corioli back. Send us to Rome The best, with whom we may articulate For their own good and ours. LARTIUS. I shall, my lord. CORIOLANUS. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my Lord General. COMINIUS. Take't- 'tis yours; what is't? CORIOLANUS. I sometime lay here in Corioli At a poor man's house; he us'd me kindly. He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; But then Aufidius was within my view, And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity. I request you To give my poor host freedom. COMINIUS. O, well begg'd! Were he the butcher of my son, he should Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. LARTIUS. Marcius, his name? CORIOLANUS. By Jupiter, forgot! I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd. Have we no wine here? COMINIUS. Go we to our tent. The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time It should be look'd to. Come. Exeunt ----------SCENE 9--------- SCENE IX. The Roman camp Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter, at one door, COMINIUS with the Romans; at another door, MARCIUS, with his arm in a scarf COMINIUS. If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work, Thou't not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles; Where great patricians shall attend, and shrug, I' th' end admire; where ladies shall be frighted And, gladly quak'd, hear more; where the dull tribunes, That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours, Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods Our Rome hath such a soldier.' Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast, Having fully din'd before. Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit LARTIUS. O General, Here is the steed, we the caparison. Hadst thou beheld- MARCIUS. Pray now, no more; my mother, Who has a charter to extol her blood, When she does praise me grieves me. I have done As you have done- that's what I can; induc'd As you have been- that's for my country. He that has but effected his good will Hath overta'en mine act. COMINIUS. You shall not be The grave of your deserving; Rome must know The value of her own. 'Twere a concealment Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, To hide your doings and to silence that Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd, Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you, In sign of what you are, not to reward What you have done, before our army hear me. MARCIUS. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves rememb'red. COMINIUS. Should they not, Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses- Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store- of all The treasure in this field achiev'd and city, We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth Before the common distribution at Your only choice. MARCIUS. I thank you, General, But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it, And stand upon my common part with those That have beheld the doing. A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius, Marcius!' cast up their caps and lances. COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare May these same instruments which you profane Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall I' th' field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made all of false-fac'd soothing. When steel grows Soft as the parasite's silk, let him be made An overture for th' wars. No more, I say. For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled, Or foil'd some debile wretch, which without note Here's many else have done, you shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical, As if I lov'd my little should be dieted In praises sauc'd with lies. COMINIUS. Too modest are you; More cruel to your good report than grateful To us that give you truly. By your patience, If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd, we'll put you- Like one that means his proper harm- in manacles, Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known, As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius Wears this war's garland; in token of the which, My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, With all his trim belonging; and from this time, For what he did before Corioli, call him With all th' applause-and clamour of the host, Caius Marcius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition nobly ever! [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums] ALL. Caius Marcius Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. I will go wash; And when my face is fair you shall perceive Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you; I mean to stride your steed, and at all times To undercrest your good addition To th' fairness of my power. COMINIUS. So, to our tent; Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, Must to Corioli back. Send us to Rome The best, with whom we may articulate For their own good and ours. LARTIUS. I shall, my lord. CORIOLANUS. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my Lord General. COMINIUS. Take't- 'tis yours; what is't? CORIOLANUS. I sometime lay here in Corioli At a poor man's house; he us'd me kindly. He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; But then Aufidius was within my view, And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity. I request you To give my poor host freedom. COMINIUS. O, well begg'd! Were he the butcher of my son, he should Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. LARTIUS. Marcius, his name? CORIOLANUS. By Jupiter, forgot! I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd. Have we no wine here? COMINIUS. Go we to our tent. The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time It should be look'd to. Come. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 2.scene 1

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 1 with the given context.

Back in Rome, a conversation ensues between Menenius and the two tribunes, Sicinius and Brutus, as they anticipate Marcius return. The tone of their conversation soon changes from playful jesting to vindictive anger. Menenius tells the tribunes that a fortuneteller has predicted that significant news of the Roman army will come tonight. But the news will not be in accord with the wishes of the people since they hate Marcius. Sicinius adopts a hostile tone and replies that Nature herself teaches beasts to know their friends. Menenius denounces the plebeians as wolves who would devour the noble Marcius. The situation is fraught with animosity. Menenius then lures the two tribunes into cataloguing Marcius faults. Sicinius and Brutus state that Marcius is a braggart; Menenius responds by deriding the ambition of the tribunes themselves and charging them of being proud. He calls them a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates --- alias fools Before they can retaliate, Menenius relates his own faults, acknowledging that he is a humorous patrician who enjoys drinking and women, is imperfect as a judge, and inclined to show favors. He also grants that he is short-tempered and gets irritated hearing people criticize him. Despite all these faults, he says that he is a man of integrity who speaks his own mind and spends his malice in breath. He then criticizes the tribunes for their exploitation of the common people despite the fact that they are supposed to serve their interests. Menenius draws this spiteful conversation to a close by remarking that even priests would become mockers if they encountered the likes of Sicinius and Brutus and by emphasizing that Marcius is worth all of their ancestors. As he leaves the tribunes, Menenius runs into Volumnia, Virgilia, and, Valeria who are rushing off somewhere in a great hurry. Menenius tone undergoes a complete change as he greets the ladies respectfully and courteously. When Volumnia informs him that Marcius is coming home and with most prosperous approbation, Menenius declares his amazement and disbelief. They tell him that letters have been sent telling of the news of the Roman victory. Menenius is overjoyed. A discussion follows about the wounds that Marcius has received. Virgilia, with typical wifely concern, shudders at the thought; in contrast, Volumnia thanks the gods for Marcius wounds. Menenius even admits that wounds are the proud marks of a true soldier. As Volumnia boasts about Marcius achievements, Menenius shouts out the news of Marcius triumph to the tribunes, who are standing aside. Suddenly there is a shout and a flourish, signaling the approach of the victorious Roman army. Accompanied by Cominius, Titus Lartius and the soldiers, Marcius enters to the sound of trumpets. A Herald makes a public proclamation of Coriolanus brave deeds, saying that all alone Marcius did fight/ Within Corioli gates: where he hath won / With fame, a name. . .Coriolanus. Embarrassed by this public display, Marcius silences the crowd. Then spying his family, he kneels deferentially to his mother and gently admonishes his wife for crying. Volumnia expresses her happiness and says that this day marks the fulfillment of her dreams and anticipates the consulship that will be bestowed on him. Coriolanus modestly states that he would rather serve the state as a soldier than be a part of the governing body. He then he leaves for the State. The two tribunes, again alone, gossip with envy about the recent developments. Brutus dislikes Rome fawning over Coriolanus, and Sicinius fears that he may be made consul, diminishing the tribunes influence and power. Sicinius insists that Marcius is temperamentally unfit to assume the office of consulship and will not be able to retain his office if elected. He claims that the plebeians will soon forget his services to the state when he shows his insolence and denounces them. The two tribunes plan Marcius downfall, agreeing to make him show his disdain for the commoners. A messenger enters with reports of the public praise for Coriolanus. He also informs them that their presence is required at the Capitol because it is rumored that Marcius is to be made consul.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, with the two Tribunes of the people, SICINIUS and BRUTUS MENENIUS. The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight. BRUTUS. Good or bad? MENENIUS. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius. SICINIUS. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. MENENIUS. Pray you, who does the wolf love? SICINIUS. The lamb. MENENIUS. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius. BRUTUS. He's a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear. MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, sir. MENENIUS. In what enormity is Marcius poor in that you two have not in abundance? BRUTUS. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all. SICINIUS. Especially in pride. BRUTUS. And topping all others in boasting. MENENIUS. This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured here in the city- I mean of us o' th' right-hand file? Do you? BOTH TRIBUNES. Why, how are we censur'd? MENENIUS. Because you talk of pride now- will you not be angry? BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, well, sir, well. MENENIUS. Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures- at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud? BRUTUS. We do it not alone, sir. MENENIUS. I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride. O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could! BOTH TRIBUNES. What then, sir? MENENIUS. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates-alias fools- as any in Rome. SICINIUS. Menenius, you are known well enough too. MENENIUS. I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in't; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are- I cannot call you Lycurguses- if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have deliver'd the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables; and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too? BRUTUS. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. MENENIUS. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs; you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing. All the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones. BRUTUS. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol. MENENIUS. Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's cushion or to be entomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion; though peradventure some of the best of 'em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships. More of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you. [BRUTUS and SICINIUS go aside] Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA How now, my as fair as noble ladies- and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler- whither do you follow your eyes so fast? VOLUMNIA. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's go. MENENIUS. Ha! Marcius coming home? VOLUMNIA. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation. MENENIUS. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo! Marcius coming home! VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA. Nay, 'tis true. VOLUMNIA. Look, here's a letter from him; the state hath another, his wife another; and I think there's one at home for you. MENENIUS. I will make my very house reel to-night. A letter for me? VIRGILIA. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw't. MENENIUS. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician. The most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded. VIRGILIA. O, no, no, no. VOLUMNIA. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't. MENENIUS. So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings a victory in his pocket? The wounds become him. VOLUMNIA. On's brows, Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland. MENENIUS. Has he disciplin'd Aufidius soundly? VOLUMNIA. Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off. MENENIUS. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that; an he had stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidius'd for all the chests in Corioli and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate possess'd of this? VOLUMNIA. Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes: the Senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war; he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly. VALERIA. In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him. MENENIUS. Wondrous! Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing. VIRGILIA. The gods grant them true! VOLUMNIA. True! pow, waw. MENENIUS. True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [To the TRIBUNES] God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded? VOLUMNIA. I' th' shoulder and i' th' left arm; there will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' th' body. MENENIUS. One i' th' neck and two i' th' thigh- there's nine that I know. VOLUMNIA. He had before this last expedition twenty-five wounds upon him. MENENIUS. Now it's twenty-seven; every gash was an enemy's grave. [A shout and flourish] Hark! the trumpets. VOLUMNIA. These are the ushers of Marcius. Before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears; Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie, Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die. A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the GENERAL, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crown'd with an oaken garland; with CAPTAINS and soldiers and a HERALD HERALD. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! [Flourish] ALL. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. No more of this, it does offend my heart. Pray now, no more. COMINIUS. Look, sir, your mother! CORIOLANUS. O, You have, I know, petition'd all the gods For my prosperity! [Kneels] VOLUMNIA. Nay, my good soldier, up; My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd- What is it? Coriolanus must I call thee? But, O, thy wife! CORIOLANUS. My gracious silence, hail! Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home, That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, And mothers that lack sons. MENENIUS. Now the gods crown thee! CORIOLANUS. And live you yet? [To VALERIA] O my sweet lady, pardon. VOLUMNIA. I know not where to turn. O, welcome home! And welcome, General. And y'are welcome all. MENENIUS. A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. Welcome! A curse begin at very root on's heart That is not glad to see thee! You are three That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men, We have some old crab trees here at home that will not Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors. We call a nettle but a nettle, and The faults of fools but folly. COMINIUS. Ever right. CORIOLANUS. Menenius ever, ever. HERALD. Give way there, and go on. CORIOLANUS. [To his wife and mother] Your hand, and yours. Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited; From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings, But with them change of honours. VOLUMNIA. I have lived To see inherited my very wishes, And the buildings of my fancy; only There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will cast upon thee. CORIOLANUS. Know, good mother, I had rather be their servant in my way Than sway with them in theirs. COMINIUS. On, to the Capitol. [Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before] BRUTUS and SICINIUS come forward BRUTUS. All tongues speak of him and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she chats him; the kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck, Clamb'ring the walls to eye him; stalls, bulks, windows, Are smother'd up, leads fill'd and ridges hors'd With variable complexions, all agreeing In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs and puff To win a vulgar station; our veil'd dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely gawded cheeks to th' wanton spoil Of Phoebus' burning kisses. Such a pother, As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slily crept into his human powers, And gave him graceful posture. SICINIUS. On the sudden I warrant him consul. BRUTUS. Then our office may During his power go sleep. SICINIUS. He cannot temp'rately transport his honours From where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won. BRUTUS. In that there's comfort. SICINIUS. Doubt not The commoners, for whom we stand, but they Upon their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours; which That he will give them make our as little question As he is proud to do't. BRUTUS. I heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear i' th' market-place, nor on him put The napless vesture of humility; Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds To th' people, beg their stinking breaths. SICINIUS. 'Tis right. BRUTUS. It was his word. O, he would miss it rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him And the desire of the nobles. SICINIUS. I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it In execution. BRUTUS. 'Tis most like he will. SICINIUS. It shall be to him then as our good wills: A sure destruction. BRUTUS. So it must fall out To him or our authorities. For an end, We must suggest the people in what hatred He still hath held them; that to's power he would Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them In human action and capacity Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than camels in their war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them. SICINIUS. This, as you say, suggested At some time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people- which time shall not want, If he be put upon't, and that's as easy As to set dogs on sheep- will be his fire To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze Shall darken him for ever. Enter A MESSENGER BRUTUS. What's the matter? MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought That Marcius shall be consul. I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and The blind to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves, Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers, Upon him as he pass'd; the nobles bended As to Jove's statue, and the commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts. I never saw the like. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol, And carry with us ears and eyes for th' time, But hearts for the event. SICINIUS. Have with you. Exeunt ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, with the two Tribunes of the people, SICINIUS and BRUTUS MENENIUS. The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight. BRUTUS. Good or bad? MENENIUS. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius. SICINIUS. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. MENENIUS. Pray you, who does the wolf love? SICINIUS. The lamb. MENENIUS. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius. BRUTUS. He's a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear. MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, sir. MENENIUS. In what enormity is Marcius poor in that you two have not in abundance? BRUTUS. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all. SICINIUS. Especially in pride. BRUTUS. And topping all others in boasting. MENENIUS. This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured here in the city- I mean of us o' th' right-hand file? Do you? BOTH TRIBUNES. Why, how are we censur'd? MENENIUS. Because you talk of pride now- will you not be angry? BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, well, sir, well. MENENIUS. Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures- at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud? BRUTUS. We do it not alone, sir. MENENIUS. I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride. O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could! BOTH TRIBUNES. What then, sir? MENENIUS. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates-alias fools- as any in Rome. SICINIUS. Menenius, you are known well enough too. MENENIUS. I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in't; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are- I cannot call you Lycurguses- if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have deliver'd the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables; and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too? BRUTUS. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. MENENIUS. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs; you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing. All the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones. BRUTUS. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol. MENENIUS. Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's cushion or to be entomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion; though peradventure some of the best of 'em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships. More of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you. [BRUTUS and SICINIUS go aside] Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA How now, my as fair as noble ladies- and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler- whither do you follow your eyes so fast? VOLUMNIA. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's go. MENENIUS. Ha! Marcius coming home? VOLUMNIA. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation. MENENIUS. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo! Marcius coming home! VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA. Nay, 'tis true. VOLUMNIA. Look, here's a letter from him; the state hath another, his wife another; and I think there's one at home for you. MENENIUS. I will make my very house reel to-night. A letter for me? VIRGILIA. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw't. MENENIUS. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician. The most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded. VIRGILIA. O, no, no, no. VOLUMNIA. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't. MENENIUS. So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings a victory in his pocket? The wounds become him. VOLUMNIA. On's brows, Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland. MENENIUS. Has he disciplin'd Aufidius soundly? VOLUMNIA. Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off. MENENIUS. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that; an he had stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidius'd for all the chests in Corioli and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate possess'd of this? VOLUMNIA. Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes: the Senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war; he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly. VALERIA. In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him. MENENIUS. Wondrous! Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing. VIRGILIA. The gods grant them true! VOLUMNIA. True! pow, waw. MENENIUS. True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [To the TRIBUNES] God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded? VOLUMNIA. I' th' shoulder and i' th' left arm; there will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' th' body. MENENIUS. One i' th' neck and two i' th' thigh- there's nine that I know. VOLUMNIA. He had before this last expedition twenty-five wounds upon him. MENENIUS. Now it's twenty-seven; every gash was an enemy's grave. [A shout and flourish] Hark! the trumpets. VOLUMNIA. These are the ushers of Marcius. Before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears; Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie, Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die. A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the GENERAL, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crown'd with an oaken garland; with CAPTAINS and soldiers and a HERALD HERALD. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! [Flourish] ALL. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. No more of this, it does offend my heart. Pray now, no more. COMINIUS. Look, sir, your mother! CORIOLANUS. O, You have, I know, petition'd all the gods For my prosperity! [Kneels] VOLUMNIA. Nay, my good soldier, up; My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd- What is it? Coriolanus must I call thee? But, O, thy wife! CORIOLANUS. My gracious silence, hail! Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home, That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, And mothers that lack sons. MENENIUS. Now the gods crown thee! CORIOLANUS. And live you yet? [To VALERIA] O my sweet lady, pardon. VOLUMNIA. I know not where to turn. O, welcome home! And welcome, General. And y'are welcome all. MENENIUS. A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. Welcome! A curse begin at very root on's heart That is not glad to see thee! You are three That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men, We have some old crab trees here at home that will not Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors. We call a nettle but a nettle, and The faults of fools but folly. COMINIUS. Ever right. CORIOLANUS. Menenius ever, ever. HERALD. Give way there, and go on. CORIOLANUS. [To his wife and mother] Your hand, and yours. Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited; From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings, But with them change of honours. VOLUMNIA. I have lived To see inherited my very wishes, And the buildings of my fancy; only There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will cast upon thee. CORIOLANUS. Know, good mother, I had rather be their servant in my way Than sway with them in theirs. COMINIUS. On, to the Capitol. [Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before] BRUTUS and SICINIUS come forward BRUTUS. All tongues speak of him and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she chats him; the kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck, Clamb'ring the walls to eye him; stalls, bulks, windows, Are smother'd up, leads fill'd and ridges hors'd With variable complexions, all agreeing In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs and puff To win a vulgar station; our veil'd dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely gawded cheeks to th' wanton spoil Of Phoebus' burning kisses. Such a pother, As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slily crept into his human powers, And gave him graceful posture. SICINIUS. On the sudden I warrant him consul. BRUTUS. Then our office may During his power go sleep. SICINIUS. He cannot temp'rately transport his honours From where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won. BRUTUS. In that there's comfort. SICINIUS. Doubt not The commoners, for whom we stand, but they Upon their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours; which That he will give them make our as little question As he is proud to do't. BRUTUS. I heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear i' th' market-place, nor on him put The napless vesture of humility; Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds To th' people, beg their stinking breaths. SICINIUS. 'Tis right. BRUTUS. It was his word. O, he would miss it rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him And the desire of the nobles. SICINIUS. I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it In execution. BRUTUS. 'Tis most like he will. SICINIUS. It shall be to him then as our good wills: A sure destruction. BRUTUS. So it must fall out To him or our authorities. For an end, We must suggest the people in what hatred He still hath held them; that to's power he would Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them In human action and capacity Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than camels in their war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them. SICINIUS. This, as you say, suggested At some time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people- which time shall not want, If he be put upon't, and that's as easy As to set dogs on sheep- will be his fire To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze Shall darken him for ever. Enter A MESSENGER BRUTUS. What's the matter? MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought That Marcius shall be consul. I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and The blind to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves, Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers, Upon him as he pass'd; the nobles bended As to Jove's statue, and the commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts. I never saw the like. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol, And carry with us ears and eyes for th' time, But hearts for the event. SICINIUS. Have with you. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 2.scene 2

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 2, scene 2, utilizing the provided context.

At the Capitol, a couple of Officers prepare for the senate and talk about Coriolanus' chances of getting elected. On the one hand, he's a "brave" war hero. On the other hand, he's way too proud and hates the "common people." One of the Officers points out that plenty of politicians hate the commoners but they're good at flattering voters. The only difference is that Coriolanus refuses to pander. The Senators show up and get down to business. It's official: Coriolanus is running for "consul." Cominius gets up and gives a big speech. Mostly, he fanboys about Coriolanus' bravery in battle. Coriolanus is so embarrassed that he leaves the room, but the Senators can't get enough and say they want to make him consul. Next step is for Coriolanus to get the plebes' votes. This involves wearing a special toga, getting "naked," and showing the people his war wounds. Hey, it's tradition. Coriolanus is not happy about this, but he promises the Senate he'll do it anyway. Everyone exits except Sicinius and Brutus. After talking more smack about Coriolanus, they decide to bad mouth him to the Citizens.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Rome. The Capitol Enter two OFFICERS, to lay cushions, as it were in the Capitol FIRST OFFICER. Come, come, they are almost here. How many stand for consulships? SECOND OFFICER. Three, they say; but 'tis thought of every one Coriolanus will carry it. FIRST OFFICER. That's a brave fellow; but he's vengeance proud and loves not the common people. SECOND OFFICER. Faith, there have been many great men that have flatter'd the people, who ne'er loved them; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore; so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition, and out of his noble carelessness lets them plainly see't. FIRST OFFICER. If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently 'twixt doing them neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him, and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes- to flatter them for their love. SECOND OFFICER. He hath deserved worthily of his country; and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any further deed to have them at all, into their estimation and report; but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes and his actions in their hearts that for their tongues to be silent and not confess so much were a kind of ingrateful injury; to report otherwise were a malice that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it. FIRST OFFICER. No more of him; he's a worthy man. Make way, they are coming. A sennet. Enter the PATRICIANS and the TRIBUNES OF THE PEOPLE, LICTORS before them; CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, COMINIUS the Consul. SICINIUS and BRUTUS take their places by themselves. CORIOLANUS stands MENENIUS. Having determin'd of the Volsces, and To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, As the main point of this our after-meeting, To gratify his noble service that Hath thus stood for his country. Therefore please you, Most reverend and grave elders, to desire The present consul and last general In our well-found successes to report A little of that worthy work perform'd By Caius Marcius Coriolanus; whom We met here both to thank and to remember With honours like himself. [CORIOLANUS sits] FIRST SENATOR. Speak, good Cominius. Leave nothing out for length, and make us think Rather our state's defective for requital Than we to stretch it out. Masters o' th' people, We do request your kindest ears; and, after, Your loving motion toward the common body, To yield what passes here. SICINIUS. We are convented Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts Inclinable to honour and advance The theme of our assembly. BRUTUS. Which the rather We shall be bless'd to do, if he remember A kinder value of the people than He hath hereto priz'd them at. MENENIUS. That's off, that's off; I would you rather had been silent. Please you To hear Cominius speak? BRUTUS. Most willingly. But yet my caution was more pertinent Than the rebuke you give it. MENENIUS. He loves your people; But tie him not to be their bedfellow. Worthy Cominius, speak. [CORIOLANUS rises, and offers to go away] Nay, keep your place. FIRST SENATOR. Sit, Coriolanus, never shame to hear What you have nobly done. CORIOLANUS. Your Honours' pardon. I had rather have my wounds to heal again Than hear say how I got them. BRUTUS. Sir, I hope My words disbench'd you not. CORIOLANUS. No, sir; yet oft, When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. You sooth'd not, therefore hurt not. But your people, I love them as they weigh- MENENIUS. Pray now, sit down. CORIOLANUS. I had rather have one scratch my head i' th' sun When the alarum were struck than idly sit To hear my nothings monster'd. Exit MENENIUS. Masters of the people, Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter- That's thousand to one good one- when you now see He had rather venture all his limbs for honour Than one on's ears to hear it? Proceed, Cominius. COMINIUS. I shall lack voice; the deeds of Coriolanus Should not be utter'd feebly. It is held That valour is the chiefest virtue and Most dignifies the haver. If it be, The man I speak of cannot in the world Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years, When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought Beyond the mark of others; our then Dictator, Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight When with his Amazonian chin he drove The bristled lips before him; he bestrid An o'erpress'd Roman and i' th' consul's view Slew three opposers; Tarquin's self he met, And struck him on his knee. In that day's feats, When he might act the woman in the scene, He prov'd best man i' th' field, and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-ent'red thus, he waxed like a sea, And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurch'd all swords of the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say I cannot speak him home. He stopp'd the fliers, And by his rare example made the coward Turn terror into sport; as weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obey'd And fell below his stem. His sword, death's stamp, Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was tim'd with dying cries. Alone he ent'red The mortal gate of th' city, which he painted With shunless destiny; aidless came off, And with a sudden re-enforcement struck Corioli like a planet. Now all's his. When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce His ready sense, then straight his doubled spirit Re-quick'ned what in flesh was fatigate, And to the battle came he; where he did Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if 'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we call'd Both field and city ours he never stood To ease his breast with panting. MENENIUS. Worthy man! FIRST SENATOR. He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we devise him. COMINIUS. Our spoils he kick'd at, And look'd upon things precious as they were The common muck of the world. He covets less Than misery itself would give, rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend the time to end it. MENENIUS. He's right noble; Let him be call'd for. FIRST SENATOR. Call Coriolanus. OFFICER. He doth appear. Re-enter CORIOLANUS MENENIUS. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas'd To make thee consul. CORIOLANUS. I do owe them still My life and services. MENENIUS. It then remains That you do speak to the people. CORIOLANUS. I do beseech you Let me o'erleap that custom; for I cannot Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them For my wounds' sake to give their suffrage. Please you That I may pass this doing. SICINIUS. Sir, the people Must have their voices; neither will they bate One jot of ceremony. MENENIUS. Put them not to't. Pray you go fit you to the custom, and Take to you, as your predecessors have, Your honour with your form. CORIOLANUS. It is a part That I shall blush in acting, and might well Be taken from the people. BRUTUS. Mark you that? CORIOLANUS. To brag unto them 'Thus I did, and thus!' Show them th' unaching scars which I should hide, As if I had receiv'd them for the hire Of their breath only! MENENIUS. Do not stand upon't. We recommend to you, Tribunes of the People, Our purpose to them; and to our noble consul Wish we all joy and honour. SENATORS. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour! [Flourish. Cornets. Then exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS] BRUTUS. You see how he intends to use the people. SICINIUS. May they perceive's intent! He will require them As if he did contemn what he requested Should be in them to give. BRUTUS. Come, we'll inform them Of our proceedings here. On th' market-place I know they do attend us. Exeunt ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Rome. The Capitol Enter two OFFICERS, to lay cushions, as it were in the Capitol FIRST OFFICER. Come, come, they are almost here. How many stand for consulships? SECOND OFFICER. Three, they say; but 'tis thought of every one Coriolanus will carry it. FIRST OFFICER. That's a brave fellow; but he's vengeance proud and loves not the common people. SECOND OFFICER. Faith, there have been many great men that have flatter'd the people, who ne'er loved them; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore; so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition, and out of his noble carelessness lets them plainly see't. FIRST OFFICER. If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently 'twixt doing them neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him, and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes- to flatter them for their love. SECOND OFFICER. He hath deserved worthily of his country; and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any further deed to have them at all, into their estimation and report; but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes and his actions in their hearts that for their tongues to be silent and not confess so much were a kind of ingrateful injury; to report otherwise were a malice that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it. FIRST OFFICER. No more of him; he's a worthy man. Make way, they are coming. A sennet. Enter the PATRICIANS and the TRIBUNES OF THE PEOPLE, LICTORS before them; CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, COMINIUS the Consul. SICINIUS and BRUTUS take their places by themselves. CORIOLANUS stands MENENIUS. Having determin'd of the Volsces, and To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, As the main point of this our after-meeting, To gratify his noble service that Hath thus stood for his country. Therefore please you, Most reverend and grave elders, to desire The present consul and last general In our well-found successes to report A little of that worthy work perform'd By Caius Marcius Coriolanus; whom We met here both to thank and to remember With honours like himself. [CORIOLANUS sits] FIRST SENATOR. Speak, good Cominius. Leave nothing out for length, and make us think Rather our state's defective for requital Than we to stretch it out. Masters o' th' people, We do request your kindest ears; and, after, Your loving motion toward the common body, To yield what passes here. SICINIUS. We are convented Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts Inclinable to honour and advance The theme of our assembly. BRUTUS. Which the rather We shall be bless'd to do, if he remember A kinder value of the people than He hath hereto priz'd them at. MENENIUS. That's off, that's off; I would you rather had been silent. Please you To hear Cominius speak? BRUTUS. Most willingly. But yet my caution was more pertinent Than the rebuke you give it. MENENIUS. He loves your people; But tie him not to be their bedfellow. Worthy Cominius, speak. [CORIOLANUS rises, and offers to go away] Nay, keep your place. FIRST SENATOR. Sit, Coriolanus, never shame to hear What you have nobly done. CORIOLANUS. Your Honours' pardon. I had rather have my wounds to heal again Than hear say how I got them. BRUTUS. Sir, I hope My words disbench'd you not. CORIOLANUS. No, sir; yet oft, When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. You sooth'd not, therefore hurt not. But your people, I love them as they weigh- MENENIUS. Pray now, sit down. CORIOLANUS. I had rather have one scratch my head i' th' sun When the alarum were struck than idly sit To hear my nothings monster'd. Exit MENENIUS. Masters of the people, Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter- That's thousand to one good one- when you now see He had rather venture all his limbs for honour Than one on's ears to hear it? Proceed, Cominius. COMINIUS. I shall lack voice; the deeds of Coriolanus Should not be utter'd feebly. It is held That valour is the chiefest virtue and Most dignifies the haver. If it be, The man I speak of cannot in the world Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years, When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought Beyond the mark of others; our then Dictator, Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight When with his Amazonian chin he drove The bristled lips before him; he bestrid An o'erpress'd Roman and i' th' consul's view Slew three opposers; Tarquin's self he met, And struck him on his knee. In that day's feats, When he might act the woman in the scene, He prov'd best man i' th' field, and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-ent'red thus, he waxed like a sea, And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurch'd all swords of the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say I cannot speak him home. He stopp'd the fliers, And by his rare example made the coward Turn terror into sport; as weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obey'd And fell below his stem. His sword, death's stamp, Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was tim'd with dying cries. Alone he ent'red The mortal gate of th' city, which he painted With shunless destiny; aidless came off, And with a sudden re-enforcement struck Corioli like a planet. Now all's his. When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce His ready sense, then straight his doubled spirit Re-quick'ned what in flesh was fatigate, And to the battle came he; where he did Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if 'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we call'd Both field and city ours he never stood To ease his breast with panting. MENENIUS. Worthy man! FIRST SENATOR. He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we devise him. COMINIUS. Our spoils he kick'd at, And look'd upon things precious as they were The common muck of the world. He covets less Than misery itself would give, rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend the time to end it. MENENIUS. He's right noble; Let him be call'd for. FIRST SENATOR. Call Coriolanus. OFFICER. He doth appear. Re-enter CORIOLANUS MENENIUS. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas'd To make thee consul. CORIOLANUS. I do owe them still My life and services. MENENIUS. It then remains That you do speak to the people. CORIOLANUS. I do beseech you Let me o'erleap that custom; for I cannot Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them For my wounds' sake to give their suffrage. Please you That I may pass this doing. SICINIUS. Sir, the people Must have their voices; neither will they bate One jot of ceremony. MENENIUS. Put them not to't. Pray you go fit you to the custom, and Take to you, as your predecessors have, Your honour with your form. CORIOLANUS. It is a part That I shall blush in acting, and might well Be taken from the people. BRUTUS. Mark you that? CORIOLANUS. To brag unto them 'Thus I did, and thus!' Show them th' unaching scars which I should hide, As if I had receiv'd them for the hire Of their breath only! MENENIUS. Do not stand upon't. We recommend to you, Tribunes of the People, Our purpose to them; and to our noble consul Wish we all joy and honour. SENATORS. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour! [Flourish. Cornets. Then exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS] BRUTUS. You see how he intends to use the people. SICINIUS. May they perceive's intent! He will require them As if he did contemn what he requested Should be in them to give. BRUTUS. Come, we'll inform them Of our proceedings here. On th' market-place I know they do attend us. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 2.scene 3

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 3 using the context provided.

Scene three opens in the market place where the citizens gather to meet Coriolanus. The conversation prior to the entrance of Coriolanus provides us with a glimpse of the public opinion. A discussion among the citizens reveals the discontent which Coriolanus provokes among the commoners. Although they admire him, they do not think he has their best interests in mind. This leads to general comments about the patricians, all of whom appear self-serving and disdainful towards them. Menenius arrives with Coriolanus, who is wearing a gown of humility and has come to solicit the citizens votes by displaying his wounds. Coriolanus continues to complain to Menenius about the formalities, saying that he would rather mock the cowardice of the commoners who retreated in the war than falsely flatter; but he promises Menenius that he will be on his best behavior, hiding his true feelings. When Menenius leaves, Coriolanus attempts to ingratiate himself to the commoners and beg for their votes, but most of his comments sound condescending and reveal his distaste for them. When Coriolanus is finally left alone, he enters into his first soliloquy in the play. He reflects that it is better to die than to solicit votes from the commoners and wear this wolvish toge. He consoles himself that only half of the ordeal remains. As other commoners enter, Coriolanus sarcastically solicits their votes. Finally Menenius enters with the tribunes; they announce that Coriolanus has gained the votes of all the citizens and says that now they can go to the Senate to complete the proceedings. Coriolanus says that he wants to change his garments before going to the Senate, and Menenius offers to go with him. The two tribunes are left alone to discuss the results of the vote. When the citizens re-enter, they inform the tribunes that Coriolanus has gained their votes, but that public opinion has already started turning against him. As the citizens begin to recount their encounters with Coriolanus and his disdainful comments to them, a general dismay about him is revealed. Sicinius cleverly expresses disbelief over his behavior, which serves to further excite the commoners. Sicinius and Brutus then both emphasize Coriolanus excessive pride. Before long, the crowd has totally reversed its opinion of Coriolanus, and the two tribunes again reveal their insidious power play by begging the commoners to blame their decision to vote for him on them. The commoners now call Coriolanus their chief enemy; wanting to revoke their vote, they set off for the Capitol. When the tribunes are again alone, Brutus comments that it is better for the citizens to rebel now than later. They also predict that Coriolanus will surely fly into a fit of anger when he learns that the citizens have changed their minds. The two men leave for the Capitol to witness Coriolanus next public outrage.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Rome. The Forum Enter seven or eight citizens FIRST CITIZEN. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him. SECOND CITIZEN. We may, sir, if we will. THIRD CITIZEN. We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do; for if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them; so, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude; of the which we being members should bring ourselves to be monstrous members. FIRST CITIZEN. And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude. THIRD CITIZEN. We have been call'd so of many; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely colour'd; and truly I think if all our wits were to issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south, and their consent of one direct way should be at once to all the points o' th' compass. SECOND CITIZEN. Think you so? Which way do you judge my wit would fly? THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's will- 'tis strongly wedg'd up in a block-head; but if it were at liberty 'twould sure southward. SECOND CITIZEN. Why that way? THIRD CITIZEN. To lose itself in a fog; where being three parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for conscience' sake, to help to get thee a wife. SECOND CITIZEN. You are never without your tricks; you may, you may. THIRD CITIZEN. Are you all resolv'd to give your voices? But that's no matter, the greater part carries it. I say, if he would incline to the people, there was never a worthier man. Enter CORIOLANUS, in a gown of humility, with MENENIUS Here he comes, and in the gown of humility. Mark his behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He's to make his requests by particulars, wherein every one of us has a single honour, in giving him our own voices with our own tongues; therefore follow me, and I'll direct you how you shall go by him. ALL. Content, content. Exeunt citizens MENENIUS. O sir, you are not right; have you not known The worthiest men have done't? CORIOLANUS. What must I say? 'I pray, sir'- Plague upon't! I cannot bring My tongue to such a pace. 'Look, sir, my wounds I got them in my country's service, when Some certain of your brethren roar'd and ran From th' noise of our own drums.' MENENIUS. O me, the gods! You must not speak of that. You must desire them To think upon you. CORIOLANUS. Think upon me? Hang 'em! I would they would forget me, like the virtues Which our divines lose by 'em. MENENIUS. You'll mar all. I'll leave you. Pray you speak to 'em, I pray you, In wholesome manner. Exit Re-enter three of the citizens CORIOLANUS. Bid them wash their faces And keep their teeth clean. So, here comes a brace. You know the cause, sir, of my standing here. THIRD CITIZEN. We do, sir; tell us what hath brought you to't. CORIOLANUS. Mine own desert. SECOND CITIZEN. Your own desert? CORIOLANUS. Ay, not mine own desire. THIRD CITIZEN. How, not your own desire? CORIOLANUS. No, sir, 'twas never my desire yet to trouble the poor with begging. THIRD CITIZEN. You must think, if we give you anything, we hope to gain by you. CORIOLANUS. Well then, I pray, your price o' th' consulship? FIRST CITIZEN. The price is to ask it kindly. CORIOLANUS. Kindly, sir, I pray let me ha't. I have wounds to show you, which shall be yours in private. Your good voice, sir; what say you? SECOND CITIZEN. You shall ha' it, worthy sir. CORIOLANUS. A match, sir. There's in all two worthy voices begg'd. I have your alms. Adieu. THIRD CITIZEN. But this is something odd. SECOND CITIZEN. An 'twere to give again- but 'tis no matter. Exeunt the three citizens Re-enter two other citizens CORIOLANUS. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown. FOURTH CITIZEN. You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly. CORIOLANUS. Your enigma? FOURTH CITIZEN. You have been a scourge to her enemies; you have been a rod to her friends. You have not indeed loved the common people. CORIOLANUS. You should account me the more virtuous, that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; 'tis a condition they account gentle; and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the insinuating nod and be off to them most counterfeitly. That is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular man and give it bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you I may be consul. FIFTH CITIZEN. We hope to find you our friend; and therefore give you our voices heartily. FOURTH CITIZEN. You have received many wounds for your country. CORIOLANUS. I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no farther. BOTH CITIZENS. The gods give you joy, sir, heartily! Exeunt citizens CORIOLANUS. Most sweet voices! Better it is to die, better to starve, Than crave the hire which first we do deserve. Why in this wolvish toge should I stand here To beg of Hob and Dick that do appear Their needless vouches? Custom calls me to't. What custom wills, in all things should we do't, The dust on antique time would lie unswept, And mountainous error be too highly heap'd For truth to o'erpeer. Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one that would do thus. I am half through: The one part suffered, the other will I do. Re-enter three citizens more Here come more voices. Your voices. For your voices I have fought; Watch'd for your voices; for your voices bear Of wounds two dozen odd; battles thrice six I have seen and heard of; for your voices have Done many things, some less, some more. Your voices? Indeed, I would be consul. SIXTH CITIZEN. He has done nobly, and cannot go without any honest man's voice. SEVENTH CITIZEN. Therefore let him be consul. The gods give him joy, and make him good friend to the people! ALL. Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul! Exeunt citizens CORIOLANUS. Worthy voices! Re-enter MENENIUS with BRUTUS and SICINIUS MENENIUS. You have stood your limitation, and the tribunes Endue you with the people's voice. Remains That, in th' official marks invested, you Anon do meet the Senate. CORIOLANUS. Is this done? SICINIUS. The custom of request you have discharg'd. The people do admit you, and are summon'd To meet anon, upon your approbation. CORIOLANUS. Where? At the Senate House? SICINIUS. There, Coriolanus. CORIOLANUS. May I change these garments? SICINIUS. You may, sir. CORIOLANUS. That I'll straight do, and, knowing myself again, Repair to th' Senate House. MENENIUS. I'll keep you company. Will you along? BRUTUS. We stay here for the people. SICINIUS. Fare you well. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and MENENIUS He has it now; and by his looks methinks 'Tis warm at's heart. BRUTUS. With a proud heart he wore His humble weeds. Will you dismiss the people? Re-enter citizens SICINIUS. How now, my masters! Have you chose this man? FIRST CITIZEN. He has our voices, sir. BRUTUS. We pray the gods he may deserve your loves. SECOND CITIZEN. Amen, sir. To my poor unworthy notice, He mock'd us when he begg'd our voices. THIRD CITIZEN. Certainly; He flouted us downright. FIRST CITIZEN. No, 'tis his kind of speech- he did not mock us. SECOND CITIZEN. Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says He us'd us scornfully. He should have show'd us His marks of merit, wounds receiv'd for's country. SICINIUS. Why, so he did, I am sure. ALL. No, no; no man saw 'em. THIRD CITIZEN. He said he had wounds which he could show in private, And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, 'I would be consul,' says he; 'aged custom But by your voices will not so permit me; Your voices therefore.' When we granted that, Here was 'I thank you for your voices. Thank you, Your most sweet voices. Now you have left your voices, I have no further with you.' Was not this mockery? SICINIUS. Why either were you ignorant to see't, Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness To yield your voices? BRUTUS. Could you not have told him- As you were lesson'd- when he had no power But was a petty servant to the state, He was your enemy; ever spake against Your liberties and the charters that you bear I' th' body of the weal; and now, arriving A place of potency and sway o' th' state, If he should still malignantly remain Fast foe to th' plebeii, your voices might Be curses to yourselves? You should have said That as his worthy deeds did claim no less Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature Would think upon you for your voices, and Translate his malice towards you into love, Standing your friendly lord. SICINIUS. Thus to have said, As you were fore-advis'd, had touch'd his spirit And tried his inclination; from him pluck'd Either his gracious promise, which you might, As cause had call'd you up, have held him to; Or else it would have gall'd his surly nature, Which easily endures not article Tying him to aught. So, putting him to rage, You should have ta'en th' advantage of his choler And pass'd him unelected. BRUTUS. Did you perceive He did solicit you in free contempt When he did need your loves; and do you think That his contempt shall not be bruising to you When he hath power to crush? Why, had your bodies No heart among you? Or had you tongues to cry Against the rectorship of judgment? SICINIUS. Have you Ere now denied the asker, and now again, Of him that did not ask but mock, bestow Your su'd-for tongues? THIRD CITIZEN. He's not confirm'd: we may deny him yet. SECOND CITIZENS. And will deny him; I'll have five hundred voices of that sound. FIRST CITIZEN. I twice five hundred, and their friends to piece 'em. BRUTUS. Get you hence instantly, and tell those friends They have chose a consul that will from them take Their liberties, make them of no more voice Than dogs, that are as often beat for barking As therefore kept to do so. SICINIUS. Let them assemble; And, on a safer judgment, all revoke Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride And his old hate unto you; besides, forget not With what contempt he wore the humble weed; How in his suit he scorn'd you; but your loves, Thinking upon his services, took from you Th' apprehension of his present portance, Which, most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion After the inveterate hate he bears you. BRUTUS. Lay A fault on us, your tribunes, that we labour'd, No impediment between, but that you must Cast your election on him. SICINIUS. Say you chose him More after our commandment than as guided By your own true affections; and that your minds, Pre-occupied with what you rather must do Than what you should, made you against the grain To voice him consul. Lay the fault on us. BRUTUS. Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you, How youngly he began to serve his country, How long continued; and what stock he springs of- The noble house o' th' Marcians; from whence came That Ancus Marcius, Numa's daughter's son, Who, after great Hostilius, here was king; Of the same house Publius and Quintus were, That our best water brought by conduits hither; And Censorinus, nobly named so, Twice being by the people chosen censor, Was his great ancestor. SICINIUS. One thus descended, That hath beside well in his person wrought To be set high in place, we did commend To your remembrances; but you have found, Scaling his present bearing with his past, That he's your fixed enemy, and revoke Your sudden approbation. BRUTUS. Say you ne'er had done't- Harp on that still- but by our putting on; And presently, when you have drawn your number, Repair to th' Capitol. CITIZENS. We will so; almost all Repent in their election. Exeunt plebeians BRUTUS. Let them go on; This mutiny were better put in hazard Than stay, past doubt, for greater. If, as his nature is, he fall in rage With their refusal, both observe and answer The vantage of his anger. SICINIUS. To th' Capitol, come. We will be there before the stream o' th' people; And this shall seem, as partly 'tis, their own, Which we have goaded onward. Exeunt ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Rome. The Forum Enter seven or eight citizens FIRST CITIZEN. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him. SECOND CITIZEN. We may, sir, if we will. THIRD CITIZEN. We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do; for if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them; so, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude; of the which we being members should bring ourselves to be monstrous members. FIRST CITIZEN. And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude. THIRD CITIZEN. We have been call'd so of many; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely colour'd; and truly I think if all our wits were to issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south, and their consent of one direct way should be at once to all the points o' th' compass. SECOND CITIZEN. Think you so? Which way do you judge my wit would fly? THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's will- 'tis strongly wedg'd up in a block-head; but if it were at liberty 'twould sure southward. SECOND CITIZEN. Why that way? THIRD CITIZEN. To lose itself in a fog; where being three parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for conscience' sake, to help to get thee a wife. SECOND CITIZEN. You are never without your tricks; you may, you may. THIRD CITIZEN. Are you all resolv'd to give your voices? But that's no matter, the greater part carries it. I say, if he would incline to the people, there was never a worthier man. Enter CORIOLANUS, in a gown of humility, with MENENIUS Here he comes, and in the gown of humility. Mark his behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He's to make his requests by particulars, wherein every one of us has a single honour, in giving him our own voices with our own tongues; therefore follow me, and I'll direct you how you shall go by him. ALL. Content, content. Exeunt citizens MENENIUS. O sir, you are not right; have you not known The worthiest men have done't? CORIOLANUS. What must I say? 'I pray, sir'- Plague upon't! I cannot bring My tongue to such a pace. 'Look, sir, my wounds I got them in my country's service, when Some certain of your brethren roar'd and ran From th' noise of our own drums.' MENENIUS. O me, the gods! You must not speak of that. You must desire them To think upon you. CORIOLANUS. Think upon me? Hang 'em! I would they would forget me, like the virtues Which our divines lose by 'em. MENENIUS. You'll mar all. I'll leave you. Pray you speak to 'em, I pray you, In wholesome manner. Exit Re-enter three of the citizens CORIOLANUS. Bid them wash their faces And keep their teeth clean. So, here comes a brace. You know the cause, sir, of my standing here. THIRD CITIZEN. We do, sir; tell us what hath brought you to't. CORIOLANUS. Mine own desert. SECOND CITIZEN. Your own desert? CORIOLANUS. Ay, not mine own desire. THIRD CITIZEN. How, not your own desire? CORIOLANUS. No, sir, 'twas never my desire yet to trouble the poor with begging. THIRD CITIZEN. You must think, if we give you anything, we hope to gain by you. CORIOLANUS. Well then, I pray, your price o' th' consulship? FIRST CITIZEN. The price is to ask it kindly. CORIOLANUS. Kindly, sir, I pray let me ha't. I have wounds to show you, which shall be yours in private. Your good voice, sir; what say you? SECOND CITIZEN. You shall ha' it, worthy sir. CORIOLANUS. A match, sir. There's in all two worthy voices begg'd. I have your alms. Adieu. THIRD CITIZEN. But this is something odd. SECOND CITIZEN. An 'twere to give again- but 'tis no matter. Exeunt the three citizens Re-enter two other citizens CORIOLANUS. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown. FOURTH CITIZEN. You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly. CORIOLANUS. Your enigma? FOURTH CITIZEN. You have been a scourge to her enemies; you have been a rod to her friends. You have not indeed loved the common people. CORIOLANUS. You should account me the more virtuous, that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; 'tis a condition they account gentle; and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the insinuating nod and be off to them most counterfeitly. That is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular man and give it bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you I may be consul. FIFTH CITIZEN. We hope to find you our friend; and therefore give you our voices heartily. FOURTH CITIZEN. You have received many wounds for your country. CORIOLANUS. I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no farther. BOTH CITIZENS. The gods give you joy, sir, heartily! Exeunt citizens CORIOLANUS. Most sweet voices! Better it is to die, better to starve, Than crave the hire which first we do deserve. Why in this wolvish toge should I stand here To beg of Hob and Dick that do appear Their needless vouches? Custom calls me to't. What custom wills, in all things should we do't, The dust on antique time would lie unswept, And mountainous error be too highly heap'd For truth to o'erpeer. Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one that would do thus. I am half through: The one part suffered, the other will I do. Re-enter three citizens more Here come more voices. Your voices. For your voices I have fought; Watch'd for your voices; for your voices bear Of wounds two dozen odd; battles thrice six I have seen and heard of; for your voices have Done many things, some less, some more. Your voices? Indeed, I would be consul. SIXTH CITIZEN. He has done nobly, and cannot go without any honest man's voice. SEVENTH CITIZEN. Therefore let him be consul. The gods give him joy, and make him good friend to the people! ALL. Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul! Exeunt citizens CORIOLANUS. Worthy voices! Re-enter MENENIUS with BRUTUS and SICINIUS MENENIUS. You have stood your limitation, and the tribunes Endue you with the people's voice. Remains That, in th' official marks invested, you Anon do meet the Senate. CORIOLANUS. Is this done? SICINIUS. The custom of request you have discharg'd. The people do admit you, and are summon'd To meet anon, upon your approbation. CORIOLANUS. Where? At the Senate House? SICINIUS. There, Coriolanus. CORIOLANUS. May I change these garments? SICINIUS. You may, sir. CORIOLANUS. That I'll straight do, and, knowing myself again, Repair to th' Senate House. MENENIUS. I'll keep you company. Will you along? BRUTUS. We stay here for the people. SICINIUS. Fare you well. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and MENENIUS He has it now; and by his looks methinks 'Tis warm at's heart. BRUTUS. With a proud heart he wore His humble weeds. Will you dismiss the people? Re-enter citizens SICINIUS. How now, my masters! Have you chose this man? FIRST CITIZEN. He has our voices, sir. BRUTUS. We pray the gods he may deserve your loves. SECOND CITIZEN. Amen, sir. To my poor unworthy notice, He mock'd us when he begg'd our voices. THIRD CITIZEN. Certainly; He flouted us downright. FIRST CITIZEN. No, 'tis his kind of speech- he did not mock us. SECOND CITIZEN. Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says He us'd us scornfully. He should have show'd us His marks of merit, wounds receiv'd for's country. SICINIUS. Why, so he did, I am sure. ALL. No, no; no man saw 'em. THIRD CITIZEN. He said he had wounds which he could show in private, And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, 'I would be consul,' says he; 'aged custom But by your voices will not so permit me; Your voices therefore.' When we granted that, Here was 'I thank you for your voices. Thank you, Your most sweet voices. Now you have left your voices, I have no further with you.' Was not this mockery? SICINIUS. Why either were you ignorant to see't, Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness To yield your voices? BRUTUS. Could you not have told him- As you were lesson'd- when he had no power But was a petty servant to the state, He was your enemy; ever spake against Your liberties and the charters that you bear I' th' body of the weal; and now, arriving A place of potency and sway o' th' state, If he should still malignantly remain Fast foe to th' plebeii, your voices might Be curses to yourselves? You should have said That as his worthy deeds did claim no less Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature Would think upon you for your voices, and Translate his malice towards you into love, Standing your friendly lord. SICINIUS. Thus to have said, As you were fore-advis'd, had touch'd his spirit And tried his inclination; from him pluck'd Either his gracious promise, which you might, As cause had call'd you up, have held him to; Or else it would have gall'd his surly nature, Which easily endures not article Tying him to aught. So, putting him to rage, You should have ta'en th' advantage of his choler And pass'd him unelected. BRUTUS. Did you perceive He did solicit you in free contempt When he did need your loves; and do you think That his contempt shall not be bruising to you When he hath power to crush? Why, had your bodies No heart among you? Or had you tongues to cry Against the rectorship of judgment? SICINIUS. Have you Ere now denied the asker, and now again, Of him that did not ask but mock, bestow Your su'd-for tongues? THIRD CITIZEN. He's not confirm'd: we may deny him yet. SECOND CITIZENS. And will deny him; I'll have five hundred voices of that sound. FIRST CITIZEN. I twice five hundred, and their friends to piece 'em. BRUTUS. Get you hence instantly, and tell those friends They have chose a consul that will from them take Their liberties, make them of no more voice Than dogs, that are as often beat for barking As therefore kept to do so. SICINIUS. Let them assemble; And, on a safer judgment, all revoke Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride And his old hate unto you; besides, forget not With what contempt he wore the humble weed; How in his suit he scorn'd you; but your loves, Thinking upon his services, took from you Th' apprehension of his present portance, Which, most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion After the inveterate hate he bears you. BRUTUS. Lay A fault on us, your tribunes, that we labour'd, No impediment between, but that you must Cast your election on him. SICINIUS. Say you chose him More after our commandment than as guided By your own true affections; and that your minds, Pre-occupied with what you rather must do Than what you should, made you against the grain To voice him consul. Lay the fault on us. BRUTUS. Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you, How youngly he began to serve his country, How long continued; and what stock he springs of- The noble house o' th' Marcians; from whence came That Ancus Marcius, Numa's daughter's son, Who, after great Hostilius, here was king; Of the same house Publius and Quintus were, That our best water brought by conduits hither; And Censorinus, nobly named so, Twice being by the people chosen censor, Was his great ancestor. SICINIUS. One thus descended, That hath beside well in his person wrought To be set high in place, we did commend To your remembrances; but you have found, Scaling his present bearing with his past, That he's your fixed enemy, and revoke Your sudden approbation. BRUTUS. Say you ne'er had done't- Harp on that still- but by our putting on; And presently, when you have drawn your number, Repair to th' Capitol. CITIZENS. We will so; almost all Repent in their election. Exeunt plebeians BRUTUS. Let them go on; This mutiny were better put in hazard Than stay, past doubt, for greater. If, as his nature is, he fall in rage With their refusal, both observe and answer The vantage of his anger. SICINIUS. To th' Capitol, come. We will be there before the stream o' th' people; And this shall seem, as partly 'tis, their own, Which we have goaded onward. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 3.scene 2

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 2 with the given context.

Coriolanus is at home with a few patricians and swears that he will not change his mind, even under threat of the worst possible method of death. Coriolanus voices his fear that although his mother also hates the commoners, she will not approve of his decision. As Volumnia enters, Coriolanus asks her why had she has wished him to be milder in his dealings with the plebeians and, thereby, be false to his true self. Volumnia answers that she has only wanted him to be patient until he is elected consul. Menenius enters with some Senators and protests that Coriolanus has been too rough and must return to the marketplace and make amends for his rash outburst of anger. The first Senator underlines the gravity of the situation by saying that unless he does so, Rome may be threatened by a civil war. Volumnia claims that although she has a heart of mettle, as easily aroused as that of Coriolanus, she also has a brain, which guides her to use her anger advantageously. Menenius backs Volumnia and advises Coriolanus to disguise his true feelings by putting on an armor of indifference. After much pleading with Coriolanus to be more diplomatic, Coriolanus says that he cannot do so, and Volumnia reproaches him by saying, you are too absolute. She adds that if he lies to the tribunes in order to achieve his ends, it will not be dishonorable, for his fortune and fame are at stake. She paints a vivid picture of how he should act in front of the commoners. With his cap in his outstretched hand, Volumnia says Coriolanus should kneel before the commoners and shake his head in repentance. Menenius compliments for her wise words of counsel. Cominius enters with the news that the commoners are seething with anger in the marketplace and warns that Coriolanus must be ready to defend himself or soothe them. Volumnia insists that Coriolanus must and will placate the people. When he finally relents, Coriolanus hates himself for stooping so low. Volumnia, Menenius, and Cominius send him off with reminders that mildly should be the keynote of his apology.

----------ACT 3, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Rome. The house of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS with NOBLES CORIOLANUS. Let them pull all about mine ears, present me Death on the wheel or at wild horses' heels; Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight; yet will I still Be thus to them. FIRST PATRICIAN. You do the nobler. CORIOLANUS. I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call them woollen vassals, things created To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder, When one but of my ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war. Enter VOLUMNIA I talk of you: Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me False to my nature? Rather say I play The man I am. VOLUMNIA. O, sir, sir, sir, I would have had you put your power well on Before you had worn it out. CORIOLANUS. Let go. VOLUMNIA. You might have been enough the man you are With striving less to be so; lesser had been The thwartings of your dispositions, if You had not show'd them how ye were dispos'd, Ere they lack'd power to cross you. CORIOLANUS. Let them hang. VOLUMNIA. Ay, and burn too. Enter MENENIUS with the SENATORS MENENIUS. Come, come, you have been too rough, something too rough; You must return and mend it. FIRST SENATOR. There's no remedy, Unless, by not so doing, our good city Cleave in the midst and perish. VOLUMNIA. Pray be counsell'd; I have a heart as little apt as yours, But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better vantage. MENENIUS. Well said, noble woman! Before he should thus stoop to th' herd, but that The violent fit o' th' time craves it as physic For the whole state, I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear. CORIOLANUS. What must I do? MENENIUS. Return to th' tribunes. CORIOLANUS. Well, what then, what then? MENENIUS. Repent what you have spoke. CORIOLANUS. For them! I cannot do it to the gods; Must I then do't to them? VOLUMNIA. You are too absolute; Though therein you can never be too noble But when extremities speak. I have heard you say Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends, I' th' war do grow together; grant that, and tell me In peace what each of them by th' other lose That they combine not there. CORIOLANUS. Tush, tush! MENENIUS. A good demand. VOLUMNIA. If it be honour in your wars to seem The same you are not, which for your best ends You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour as in war; since that to both It stands in like request? CORIOLANUS. Why force you this? VOLUMNIA. Because that now it lies you on to speak To th' people, not by your own instruction, Nor by th' matter which your heart prompts you, But with such words that are but roted in Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance to your bosom's truth. Now, this no more dishonours you at all Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune and The hazard of much blood. I would dissemble with my nature where My fortunes and my friends at stake requir'd I should do so in honour. I am in this Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles; And you will rather show our general louts How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon 'em For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard Of what that want might ruin. MENENIUS. Noble lady! Come, go with us, speak fair; you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the loss Of what is past. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, my son, Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand; And thus far having stretch'd it- here be with them- Thy knee bussing the stones- for in such busines Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th' ignorant More learned than the ears- waving thy head, Which often thus correcting thy stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling. Or say to them Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils, Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person. MENENIUS. This but done Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free As words to little purpose. VOLUMNIA. Prithee now, Go, and be rul'd; although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. Enter COMINIUS Here is Cominius. COMINIUS. I have been i' th' market-place; and, sir, 'tis fit You make strong party, or defend yourself By calmness or by absence; all's in anger. MENENIUS. Only fair speech. COMINIUS. I think 'twill serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit. VOLUMNIA. He must and will. Prithee now, say you will, and go about it. CORIOLANUS. Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce? Must I With my base tongue give to my noble heart A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do't; Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it, And throw't against the wind. To th' market-place! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge to th' life. COMINIUS. Come, come, we'll prompt you. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so, To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before. CORIOLANUS. Well, I must do't. Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot's spirit! My throat of war be turn'd, Which quier'd with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys' tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongue Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees, Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath receiv'd an alms! I will not do't, Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth, And by my body's action teach my mind A most inherent baseness. VOLUMNIA. At thy choice, then. To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear Thy dangerous stoutness; for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me; But owe thy pride thyself. CORIOLANUS. Pray be content. Mother, I am going to the market-place; Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov'd Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going. Commend me to my wife. I'll return consul, Or never trust to what my tongue can do I' th' way of flattery further. VOLUMNIA. Do your will. Exit COMINIUS. Away! The tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself To answer mildly; for they are prepar'd With accusations, as I hear, more strong Than are upon you yet. CORIOLANUS. The word is 'mildly.' Pray you let us go. Let them accuse me by invention; I Will answer in mine honour. MENENIUS. Ay, but mildly. CORIOLANUS. Well, mildly be it then- mildly. Exeunt ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Rome. The house of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS with NOBLES CORIOLANUS. Let them pull all about mine ears, present me Death on the wheel or at wild horses' heels; Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight; yet will I still Be thus to them. FIRST PATRICIAN. You do the nobler. CORIOLANUS. I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call them woollen vassals, things created To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder, When one but of my ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war. Enter VOLUMNIA I talk of you: Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me False to my nature? Rather say I play The man I am. VOLUMNIA. O, sir, sir, sir, I would have had you put your power well on Before you had worn it out. CORIOLANUS. Let go. VOLUMNIA. You might have been enough the man you are With striving less to be so; lesser had been The thwartings of your dispositions, if You had not show'd them how ye were dispos'd, Ere they lack'd power to cross you. CORIOLANUS. Let them hang. VOLUMNIA. Ay, and burn too. Enter MENENIUS with the SENATORS MENENIUS. Come, come, you have been too rough, something too rough; You must return and mend it. FIRST SENATOR. There's no remedy, Unless, by not so doing, our good city Cleave in the midst and perish. VOLUMNIA. Pray be counsell'd; I have a heart as little apt as yours, But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better vantage. MENENIUS. Well said, noble woman! Before he should thus stoop to th' herd, but that The violent fit o' th' time craves it as physic For the whole state, I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear. CORIOLANUS. What must I do? MENENIUS. Return to th' tribunes. CORIOLANUS. Well, what then, what then? MENENIUS. Repent what you have spoke. CORIOLANUS. For them! I cannot do it to the gods; Must I then do't to them? VOLUMNIA. You are too absolute; Though therein you can never be too noble But when extremities speak. I have heard you say Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends, I' th' war do grow together; grant that, and tell me In peace what each of them by th' other lose That they combine not there. CORIOLANUS. Tush, tush! MENENIUS. A good demand. VOLUMNIA. If it be honour in your wars to seem The same you are not, which for your best ends You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour as in war; since that to both It stands in like request? CORIOLANUS. Why force you this? VOLUMNIA. Because that now it lies you on to speak To th' people, not by your own instruction, Nor by th' matter which your heart prompts you, But with such words that are but roted in Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance to your bosom's truth. Now, this no more dishonours you at all Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune and The hazard of much blood. I would dissemble with my nature where My fortunes and my friends at stake requir'd I should do so in honour. I am in this Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles; And you will rather show our general louts How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon 'em For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard Of what that want might ruin. MENENIUS. Noble lady! Come, go with us, speak fair; you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the loss Of what is past. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, my son, Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand; And thus far having stretch'd it- here be with them- Thy knee bussing the stones- for in such busines Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th' ignorant More learned than the ears- waving thy head, Which often thus correcting thy stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling. Or say to them Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils, Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person. MENENIUS. This but done Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free As words to little purpose. VOLUMNIA. Prithee now, Go, and be rul'd; although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. Enter COMINIUS Here is Cominius. COMINIUS. I have been i' th' market-place; and, sir, 'tis fit You make strong party, or defend yourself By calmness or by absence; all's in anger. MENENIUS. Only fair speech. COMINIUS. I think 'twill serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit. VOLUMNIA. He must and will. Prithee now, say you will, and go about it. CORIOLANUS. Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce? Must I With my base tongue give to my noble heart A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do't; Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it, And throw't against the wind. To th' market-place! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge to th' life. COMINIUS. Come, come, we'll prompt you. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so, To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before. CORIOLANUS. Well, I must do't. Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot's spirit! My throat of war be turn'd, Which quier'd with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys' tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongue Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees, Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath receiv'd an alms! I will not do't, Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth, And by my body's action teach my mind A most inherent baseness. VOLUMNIA. At thy choice, then. To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear Thy dangerous stoutness; for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me; But owe thy pride thyself. CORIOLANUS. Pray be content. Mother, I am going to the market-place; Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov'd Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going. Commend me to my wife. I'll return consul, Or never trust to what my tongue can do I' th' way of flattery further. VOLUMNIA. Do your will. Exit COMINIUS. Away! The tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself To answer mildly; for they are prepar'd With accusations, as I hear, more strong Than are upon you yet. CORIOLANUS. The word is 'mildly.' Pray you let us go. Let them accuse me by invention; I Will answer in mine honour. MENENIUS. Ay, but mildly. CORIOLANUS. Well, mildly be it then- mildly. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 3.scene 3

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 3, scene 3, utilizing the provided context.

Coriolanus shows up at the marketplace ready to deliver the big apology. The plebeians, along with Sicinius and Brutus, are waiting for him. First, Menenius reminds everyone that Coriolanus is a big war hero with the scars to prove it. The tribunes decide it's time to pounce and waste no time provoking Coriolanus. Sicinius officially accuses him of acting like a big old tyrant and a traitor, which--big shock--sends Coriolanus into yet another rage. Coriolanus proceeds to insult the tribunes and plebeians, daring them to punish him with exile, death, or torture. Meanwhile, his senator buddies can only stand by and watch this train wreck unfold. Finally, the tribunes declare that Coriolanus is banned from Rome 4EVA. Coriolanus is all "Oh yeah? I don't think so. You're not banishing me. I'm banishing you!"

----------ACT 3, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Rome. The Forum Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS BRUTUS. In this point charge him home, that he affects Tyrannical power. If he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to the people, And that the spoil got on the Antiates Was ne'er distributed. Enter an AEDILE What, will he come? AEDILE. He's coming. BRUTUS. How accompanied? AEDILE. With old Menenius, and those senators That always favour'd him. SICINIUS. Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have procur'd, Set down by th' poll? AEDILE. I have; 'tis ready. SICINIUS. Have you collected them by tribes? AEDILE. I have. SICINIUS. Assemble presently the people hither; And when they hear me say 'It shall be so I' th' right and strength o' th' commons' be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them, If I say fine, cry 'Fine!'- if death, cry 'Death!' Insisting on the old prerogative And power i' th' truth o' th' cause. AEDILE. I shall inform them. BRUTUS. And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease, but with a din confus'd Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to sentence. AEDILE. Very well. SICINIUS. Make them be strong, and ready for this hint, When we shall hap to give't them. BRUTUS. Go about it. Exit AEDILE Put him to choler straight. He hath been us'd Ever to conquer, and to have his worth Of contradiction; being once chaf'd, he cannot Be rein'd again to temperance; then he speaks What's in his heart, and that is there which looks With us to break his neck. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS and COMINIUS, with others SICINIUS. Well, here he comes. MENENIUS. Calmly, I do beseech you. CORIOLANUS. Ay, as an ostler, that for th' poorest piece Will bear the knave by th' volume. Th' honour'd gods Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice Supplied with worthy men! plant love among's! Throng our large temples with the shows of peace, And not our streets with war! FIRST SENATOR. Amen, amen! MENENIUS. A noble wish. Re-enter the AEDILE,with the plebeians SICINIUS. Draw near, ye people. AEDILE. List to your tribunes. Audience! peace, I say! CORIOLANUS. First, hear me speak. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, say. Peace, ho! CORIOLANUS. Shall I be charg'd no further than this present? Must all determine here? SICINIUS. I do demand, If you submit you to the people's voices, Allow their officers, and are content To suffer lawful censure for such faults As shall be prov'd upon you. CORIOLANUS. I am content. MENENIUS. Lo, citizens, he says he is content. The warlike service he has done, consider; think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i' th' holy churchyard. CORIOLANUS. Scratches with briers, Scars to move laughter only. MENENIUS. Consider further, That when he speaks not like a citizen, You find him like a soldier; do not take His rougher accents for malicious sounds, But, as I say, such as become a soldier Rather than envy you. COMINIUS. Well, well! No more. CORIOLANUS. What is the matter, That being pass'd for consul with full voice, I am so dishonour'd that the very hour You take it off again? SICINIUS. Answer to us. CORIOLANUS. Say then; 'tis true, I ought so. SICINIUS. We charge you that you have contriv'd to take From Rome all season'd office, and to wind Yourself into a power tyrannical; For which you are a traitor to the people. CORIOLANUS. How- traitor? MENENIUS. Nay, temperately! Your promise. CORIOLANUS. The fires i' th' lowest hell fold in the people! Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune! Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say 'Thou liest' unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray the gods. SICINIUS. Mark you this, people? PLEBEIANS. To th' rock, to th' rock, with him! SICINIUS. Peace! We need not put new matter to his charge. What you have seen him do and heard him speak, Beating your officers, cursing yourselves, Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying Those whose great power must try him- even this, So criminal and in such capital kind, Deserves th' extremest death. BRUTUS. But since he hath Serv'd well for Rome- CORIOLANUS. What do you prate of service? BRUTUS. I talk of that that know it. CORIOLANUS. You! MENENIUS. Is this the promise that you made your mother? COMINIUS. Know, I pray you- CORIOLANUS. I'll know no further. Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair word, Nor check my courage for what they can give, To have't with saying 'Good morrow.' SICINIUS. For that he has- As much as in him lies- from time to time Envied against the people, seeking means To pluck away their power; as now at last Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers That do distribute it- in the name o' th' people, And in the power of us the tribunes, we, Ev'n from this instant, banish him our city, In peril of precipitation From off the rock Tarpeian, never more To enter our Rome gates. I' th' people's name, I say it shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so! Let him away! He's banish'd, and it shall be so. COMINIUS. Hear me, my masters and my common friends- SICINIUS. He's sentenc'd; no more hearing. COMINIUS. Let me speak. I have been consul, and can show for Rome Her enemies' marks upon me. I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life, My dear wife's estimate, her womb's increase And treasure of my loins. Then if I would Speak that- SICINIUS. We know your drift. Speak what? BRUTUS. There's no more to be said, but he is banish'd, As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so. CORIOLANUS. You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate As reek o' th' rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air- I banish you. And here remain with your uncertainty! Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts; Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair! Have the power still To banish your defenders, till at length Your ignorance- which finds not till it feels, Making but reservation of yourselves Still your own foes- deliver you As most abated captives to some nation That won you without blows! Despising For you the city, thus I turn my back; There is a world elsewhere. Exeunt CORIOLANUS, COMINIUS, MENENIUS, with the other PATRICIANS AEDILE. The people's enemy is gone, is gone! [They all shout and throw up their caps] PLEBEIANS. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone! Hoo-oo! SICINIUS. Go see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath follow'd you, with all despite; Give him deserv'd vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city. PLEBEIANS. Come, come, let's see him out at gates; come! The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come. Exeunt ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Rome. The Forum Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS BRUTUS. In this point charge him home, that he affects Tyrannical power. If he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to the people, And that the spoil got on the Antiates Was ne'er distributed. Enter an AEDILE What, will he come? AEDILE. He's coming. BRUTUS. How accompanied? AEDILE. With old Menenius, and those senators That always favour'd him. SICINIUS. Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have procur'd, Set down by th' poll? AEDILE. I have; 'tis ready. SICINIUS. Have you collected them by tribes? AEDILE. I have. SICINIUS. Assemble presently the people hither; And when they hear me say 'It shall be so I' th' right and strength o' th' commons' be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them, If I say fine, cry 'Fine!'- if death, cry 'Death!' Insisting on the old prerogative And power i' th' truth o' th' cause. AEDILE. I shall inform them. BRUTUS. And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease, but with a din confus'd Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to sentence. AEDILE. Very well. SICINIUS. Make them be strong, and ready for this hint, When we shall hap to give't them. BRUTUS. Go about it. Exit AEDILE Put him to choler straight. He hath been us'd Ever to conquer, and to have his worth Of contradiction; being once chaf'd, he cannot Be rein'd again to temperance; then he speaks What's in his heart, and that is there which looks With us to break his neck. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS and COMINIUS, with others SICINIUS. Well, here he comes. MENENIUS. Calmly, I do beseech you. CORIOLANUS. Ay, as an ostler, that for th' poorest piece Will bear the knave by th' volume. Th' honour'd gods Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice Supplied with worthy men! plant love among's! Throng our large temples with the shows of peace, And not our streets with war! FIRST SENATOR. Amen, amen! MENENIUS. A noble wish. Re-enter the AEDILE,with the plebeians SICINIUS. Draw near, ye people. AEDILE. List to your tribunes. Audience! peace, I say! CORIOLANUS. First, hear me speak. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, say. Peace, ho! CORIOLANUS. Shall I be charg'd no further than this present? Must all determine here? SICINIUS. I do demand, If you submit you to the people's voices, Allow their officers, and are content To suffer lawful censure for such faults As shall be prov'd upon you. CORIOLANUS. I am content. MENENIUS. Lo, citizens, he says he is content. The warlike service he has done, consider; think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i' th' holy churchyard. CORIOLANUS. Scratches with briers, Scars to move laughter only. MENENIUS. Consider further, That when he speaks not like a citizen, You find him like a soldier; do not take His rougher accents for malicious sounds, But, as I say, such as become a soldier Rather than envy you. COMINIUS. Well, well! No more. CORIOLANUS. What is the matter, That being pass'd for consul with full voice, I am so dishonour'd that the very hour You take it off again? SICINIUS. Answer to us. CORIOLANUS. Say then; 'tis true, I ought so. SICINIUS. We charge you that you have contriv'd to take From Rome all season'd office, and to wind Yourself into a power tyrannical; For which you are a traitor to the people. CORIOLANUS. How- traitor? MENENIUS. Nay, temperately! Your promise. CORIOLANUS. The fires i' th' lowest hell fold in the people! Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune! Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say 'Thou liest' unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray the gods. SICINIUS. Mark you this, people? PLEBEIANS. To th' rock, to th' rock, with him! SICINIUS. Peace! We need not put new matter to his charge. What you have seen him do and heard him speak, Beating your officers, cursing yourselves, Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying Those whose great power must try him- even this, So criminal and in such capital kind, Deserves th' extremest death. BRUTUS. But since he hath Serv'd well for Rome- CORIOLANUS. What do you prate of service? BRUTUS. I talk of that that know it. CORIOLANUS. You! MENENIUS. Is this the promise that you made your mother? COMINIUS. Know, I pray you- CORIOLANUS. I'll know no further. Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair word, Nor check my courage for what they can give, To have't with saying 'Good morrow.' SICINIUS. For that he has- As much as in him lies- from time to time Envied against the people, seeking means To pluck away their power; as now at last Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers That do distribute it- in the name o' th' people, And in the power of us the tribunes, we, Ev'n from this instant, banish him our city, In peril of precipitation From off the rock Tarpeian, never more To enter our Rome gates. I' th' people's name, I say it shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so! Let him away! He's banish'd, and it shall be so. COMINIUS. Hear me, my masters and my common friends- SICINIUS. He's sentenc'd; no more hearing. COMINIUS. Let me speak. I have been consul, and can show for Rome Her enemies' marks upon me. I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life, My dear wife's estimate, her womb's increase And treasure of my loins. Then if I would Speak that- SICINIUS. We know your drift. Speak what? BRUTUS. There's no more to be said, but he is banish'd, As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so. CORIOLANUS. You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate As reek o' th' rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air- I banish you. And here remain with your uncertainty! Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts; Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair! Have the power still To banish your defenders, till at length Your ignorance- which finds not till it feels, Making but reservation of yourselves Still your own foes- deliver you As most abated captives to some nation That won you without blows! Despising For you the city, thus I turn my back; There is a world elsewhere. Exeunt CORIOLANUS, COMINIUS, MENENIUS, with the other PATRICIANS AEDILE. The people's enemy is gone, is gone! [They all shout and throw up their caps] PLEBEIANS. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone! Hoo-oo! SICINIUS. Go see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath follow'd you, with all despite; Give him deserv'd vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city. PLEBEIANS. Come, come, let's see him out at gates; come! The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 4.scene 1

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 4, scene 1 using the context provided.

Before leaving the city, Coriolanus says a quick goodbye to his wife and mom at Rome's gates. The women are boo-hooing, which totally bugs Coriolanus. He orders them to man up, especially his tough mama. Coriolanus then declares that he's going to live his life like a "lonely dragon." His pal Cominius offers to go with him but Coriolanus shrugs him off and sets out on his own.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. Rome. Before a gate of the city Enter CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS, COMINIUS, with the young NOBILITY of Rome CORIOLANUS. Come, leave your tears; a brief farewell. The beast With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, Where is your ancient courage? You were us'd To say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike Show'd mastership in floating; fortune's blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were us'd to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conn'd them. VIRGILIA. O heavens! O heavens! CORIOLANUS. Nay, I prithee, woman- VOLUMNIA. Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish! CORIOLANUS. What, what, what! I shall be lov'd when I am lack'd. Nay, mother, Resume that spirit when you were wont to say, If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you'd have done, and sav'd Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother. I'll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius, Thy tears are salter than a younger man's And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime General, I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hard'ning spectacles; tell these sad women 'Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes, As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot well My hazards still have been your solace; and Believe't not lightly- though I go alone, Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen Makes fear'd and talk'd of more than seen- your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice. VOLUMNIA. My first son, Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius With thee awhile; determine on some course More than a wild exposture to each chance That starts i' th' way before thee. VIRGILIA. O the gods! COMINIUS. I'll follow thee a month, devise with thee Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us, And we of thee; so, if the time thrust forth A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send O'er the vast world to seek a single man, And lose advantage, which doth ever cool I' th' absence of the needer. CORIOLANUS. Fare ye well; Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full Of the wars' surfeits to go rove with one That's yet unbruis'd; bring me but out at gate. Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch; when I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you come. While I remain above the ground you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly. MENENIUS. That's worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let's not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I'd with thee every foot. CORIOLANUS. Give me thy hand. Come. Exeunt ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. Rome. Before a gate of the city Enter CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS, COMINIUS, with the young NOBILITY of Rome CORIOLANUS. Come, leave your tears; a brief farewell. The beast With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, Where is your ancient courage? You were us'd To say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike Show'd mastership in floating; fortune's blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were us'd to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conn'd them. VIRGILIA. O heavens! O heavens! CORIOLANUS. Nay, I prithee, woman- VOLUMNIA. Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish! CORIOLANUS. What, what, what! I shall be lov'd when I am lack'd. Nay, mother, Resume that spirit when you were wont to say, If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you'd have done, and sav'd Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother. I'll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius, Thy tears are salter than a younger man's And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime General, I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hard'ning spectacles; tell these sad women 'Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes, As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot well My hazards still have been your solace; and Believe't not lightly- though I go alone, Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen Makes fear'd and talk'd of more than seen- your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice. VOLUMNIA. My first son, Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius With thee awhile; determine on some course More than a wild exposture to each chance That starts i' th' way before thee. VIRGILIA. O the gods! COMINIUS. I'll follow thee a month, devise with thee Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us, And we of thee; so, if the time thrust forth A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send O'er the vast world to seek a single man, And lose advantage, which doth ever cool I' th' absence of the needer. CORIOLANUS. Fare ye well; Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full Of the wars' surfeits to go rove with one That's yet unbruis'd; bring me but out at gate. Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch; when I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you come. While I remain above the ground you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly. MENENIUS. That's worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let's not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I'd with thee every foot. CORIOLANUS. Give me thy hand. Come. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 4.scene 2

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 2, utilizing the provided context.

This scene opens on a street in Rome near the city gates. Sicinius and Brutus enter and are dismayed to find that Coriolanus has already left, spoiling their plans of hurling abuses at him. Sicinius remarks that Coriolanus supporters are liable to be angry; Brutus answers that the two of them must appear humble for awhile. The tribunes order the commoners to go home since their great enemy has left and they have regained their ancient strength. Volumnia, Virgilia, and Menenius enter after bidding Coriolanus their tearful farewell. The tribunes do not want to see them, especially Volumnia, since they know of her foul temper. Brutus remarks, however, that they have already been noticed and advises Sicinius to continue walking. Volumnia approaches and curses the tribunes for their actions; Menenius assumes his role as a mediator and attempts to restrain Volumnias wrath, to no avail. Even the silent and soft-spoken Virgilia joins her mother-in-law in criticizing the tribunes. Sicinius attempts to pacify the women by wishing that Coriolanus had only remained a soldier and not unknit himself/ The noble knot he made. Volumnia will not be placated and accuses the tribunes of causing all the trouble. Brutus, quite terrified of her, begs permission to leave. Volumnia bids them to be gone and sarcastically praises them for having done a great deed. After the tribunes have left, Volumnia wishes that the gods had nothing to do but carry out her curses. Menenius attempts to comfort her by saying that she has nobly rebuked the tribunes and invites her to have dinner with him. Volumnia, however, is inconsolable and says that Angers my meat; I sup upon myself,/and so shall starve with feeding.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Rome. A street near the gate Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS with the AEDILE SICINIUS. Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further. The nobility are vex'd, whom we see have sided In his behalf. BRUTUS. Now we have shown our power, Let us seem humbler after it is done Than when it was a-doing. SICINIUS. Bid them home. Say their great enemy is gone, and they Stand in their ancient strength. BRUTUS. Dismiss them home. Exit AEDILE Here comes his mother. Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Let's not meet her. BRUTUS. Why? SICINIUS. They say she's mad. BRUTUS. They have ta'en note of us; keep on your way. VOLUMNIA. O, y'are well met; th' hoarded plague o' th' gods Requite your love! MENENIUS. Peace, peace, be not so loud. VOLUMNIA. If that I could for weeping, you should hear- Nay, and you shall hear some. [To BRUTUS] Will you be gone? VIRGILIA. [To SICINIUS] You shall stay too. I would I had the power To say so to my husband. SICINIUS. Are you mankind? VOLUMNIA. Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this, fool: Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship To banish him that struck more blows for Rome Than thou hast spoken words? SICINIUS. O blessed heavens! VOLUMNIA. More noble blows than ever thou wise words; And for Rome's good. I'll tell thee what- yet go! Nay, but thou shalt stay too. I would my son Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him, His good sword in his hand. SICINIUS. What then? VIRGILIA. What then! He'd make an end of thy posterity. VOLUMNIA. Bastards and all. Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome! MENENIUS. Come, come, peace. SICINIUS. I would he had continued to his country As he began, and not unknit himself The noble knot he made. BRUTUS. I would he had. VOLUMNIA. 'I would he had!' 'Twas you incens'd the rabble- Cats that can judge as fitly of his worth As I can of those mysteries which heaven Will not have earth to know. BRUTUS. Pray, let's go. VOLUMNIA. Now, pray, sir, get you gone; You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this: As far as doth the Capitol exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son- This lady's husband here, this, do you see?- Whom you have banish'd does exceed you all. BRUTUS. Well, well, we'll leave you. SICINIUS. Why stay we to be baited With one that wants her wits? Exeunt TRIBUNES VOLUMNIA. Take my prayers with you. I would the gods had nothing else to do But to confirm my curses. Could I meet 'em But once a day, it would unclog my heart Of what lies heavy to't. MENENIUS. You have told them home, And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with me? VOLUMNIA. Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let's go. Leave this faint puling and lament as I do, In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come. Exeunt VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! Exit ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Rome. A street near the gate Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS with the AEDILE SICINIUS. Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further. The nobility are vex'd, whom we see have sided In his behalf. BRUTUS. Now we have shown our power, Let us seem humbler after it is done Than when it was a-doing. SICINIUS. Bid them home. Say their great enemy is gone, and they Stand in their ancient strength. BRUTUS. Dismiss them home. Exit AEDILE Here comes his mother. Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Let's not meet her. BRUTUS. Why? SICINIUS. They say she's mad. BRUTUS. They have ta'en note of us; keep on your way. VOLUMNIA. O, y'are well met; th' hoarded plague o' th' gods Requite your love! MENENIUS. Peace, peace, be not so loud. VOLUMNIA. If that I could for weeping, you should hear- Nay, and you shall hear some. [To BRUTUS] Will you be gone? VIRGILIA. [To SICINIUS] You shall stay too. I would I had the power To say so to my husband. SICINIUS. Are you mankind? VOLUMNIA. Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this, fool: Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship To banish him that struck more blows for Rome Than thou hast spoken words? SICINIUS. O blessed heavens! VOLUMNIA. More noble blows than ever thou wise words; And for Rome's good. I'll tell thee what- yet go! Nay, but thou shalt stay too. I would my son Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him, His good sword in his hand. SICINIUS. What then? VIRGILIA. What then! He'd make an end of thy posterity. VOLUMNIA. Bastards and all. Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome! MENENIUS. Come, come, peace. SICINIUS. I would he had continued to his country As he began, and not unknit himself The noble knot he made. BRUTUS. I would he had. VOLUMNIA. 'I would he had!' 'Twas you incens'd the rabble- Cats that can judge as fitly of his worth As I can of those mysteries which heaven Will not have earth to know. BRUTUS. Pray, let's go. VOLUMNIA. Now, pray, sir, get you gone; You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this: As far as doth the Capitol exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son- This lady's husband here, this, do you see?- Whom you have banish'd does exceed you all. BRUTUS. Well, well, we'll leave you. SICINIUS. Why stay we to be baited With one that wants her wits? Exeunt TRIBUNES VOLUMNIA. Take my prayers with you. I would the gods had nothing else to do But to confirm my curses. Could I meet 'em But once a day, it would unclog my heart Of what lies heavy to't. MENENIUS. You have told them home, And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with me? VOLUMNIA. Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let's go. Leave this faint puling and lament as I do, In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come. Exeunt VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! Exit

Coriolanus.act 4.scene 3

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 3, utilizing the provided context.

This transitional scene reveals the duplicity of Nicanor, the Roman spy, who betrays his country. The scene opens on a highway between Rome and Antium. A Roman on his way to Antium meets a Volscian spy, Adrian. The Volscian does not recognize him immediately until the Roman reminds him that he too is a spy against Rome. When Adrian inquires about the news from Rome, Nicanor informs him that there have been strange insurrections by the people against the patricians, but that the situation has been quelled. Adrian is surprised that the rebellion, for the Volscians wanted to attack Rome while they were entangled in their internal conflict. Nicanor tells him that although the main blaze of the rebellion has passed away, a small incident would make it arise again. He explains that the patricians are outraged by the banishment of Coriolanus and are in the mood to curtail the liberties of the commoners and to annul the election of the tribunes forever. Nicanor decides that the time is right for Aufidius to attack since Coriolanus is out of the picture. Both Adrian and Nicanor are happy that they have met each other.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium Enter a ROMAN and a VOLSCE, meeting ROMAN. I know you well, sir, and you know me; your name, I think, is Adrian. VOLSCE. It is so, sir. Truly, I have forgot you. ROMAN. I am a Roman; and my services are, as you are, against 'em. Know you me yet? VOLSCE. Nicanor? No! ROMAN. The same, sir. VOLSCE. You had more beard when I last saw you, but your favour is well appear'd by your tongue. What's the news in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state, to find you out there. You have well saved me a day's journey. ROMAN. There hath been in Rome strange insurrections: the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles. VOLSCE. Hath been! Is it ended, then? Our state thinks not so; they are in a most warlike preparation, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division. ROMAN. The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again; for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people, and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out. VOLSCE. Coriolanus banish'd! ROMAN. Banish'd, sir. VOLSCE. You will be welcome with this intelligence, Nicanor. ROMAN. The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said the fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she's fall'n out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of his country. VOLSCE. He cannot choose. I am most fortunate thus accidentally to encounter you; you have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home. ROMAN. I shall between this and supper tell you most strange things from Rome, all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you? VOLSCE. A most royal one: the centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in th' entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour's warning. ROMAN. I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company. VOLSCE. You take my part from me, sir. I have the most cause to be glad of yours. ROMAN. Well, let us go together. ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium Enter a ROMAN and a VOLSCE, meeting ROMAN. I know you well, sir, and you know me; your name, I think, is Adrian. VOLSCE. It is so, sir. Truly, I have forgot you. ROMAN. I am a Roman; and my services are, as you are, against 'em. Know you me yet? VOLSCE. Nicanor? No! ROMAN. The same, sir. VOLSCE. You had more beard when I last saw you, but your favour is well appear'd by your tongue. What's the news in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state, to find you out there. You have well saved me a day's journey. ROMAN. There hath been in Rome strange insurrections: the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles. VOLSCE. Hath been! Is it ended, then? Our state thinks not so; they are in a most warlike preparation, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division. ROMAN. The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again; for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people, and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out. VOLSCE. Coriolanus banish'd! ROMAN. Banish'd, sir. VOLSCE. You will be welcome with this intelligence, Nicanor. ROMAN. The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said the fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she's fall'n out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of his country. VOLSCE. He cannot choose. I am most fortunate thus accidentally to encounter you; you have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home. ROMAN. I shall between this and supper tell you most strange things from Rome, all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you? VOLSCE. A most royal one: the centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in th' entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour's warning. ROMAN. I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company. VOLSCE. You take my part from me, sir. I have the most cause to be glad of yours. ROMAN. Well, let us go together.

Coriolanus.act 4.scene 4

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 4, scene 4 using the context provided.

Meanwhile, Coriolanus shows up in Antium. He's looking for Tullus Aufidius so they can get together and destroy Rome. Coriolanus delivers a soliloquy about how crazy it is that he's about to become BFF's with Tullus Aufidius when not long so ago he wanted to kill the guy. He also reflects about how he used to love Rome, but now he wants to burn it to the ground. Life is just crazy like that, you know.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Antium. Before AUFIDIUS' house Enter CORIOLANUS, in mean apparel, disguis'd and muffled CORIOLANUS. A goodly city is this Antium. City, 'Tis I that made thy widows: many an heir Of these fair edifices fore my wars Have I heard groan and drop. Then know me not. Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones, In puny battle slay me. Enter A CITIZEN Save you, sir. CITIZEN. And you. CORIOLANUS. Direct me, if it be your will, Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium? CITIZEN. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state At his house this night. CORIOLANUS. Which is his house, beseech you? CITIZEN. This here before you. CORIOLANUS. Thank you, sir; farewell. Exit CITIZEN O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as 'twere, in love, Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My birthplace hate I, and my love's upon This enemy town. I'll enter. If he slay me, He does fair justice: if he give me way, I'll do his country service. ----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Antium. Before AUFIDIUS' house Enter CORIOLANUS, in mean apparel, disguis'd and muffled CORIOLANUS. A goodly city is this Antium. City, 'Tis I that made thy widows: many an heir Of these fair edifices fore my wars Have I heard groan and drop. Then know me not. Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones, In puny battle slay me. Enter A CITIZEN Save you, sir. CITIZEN. And you. CORIOLANUS. Direct me, if it be your will, Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium? CITIZEN. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state At his house this night. CORIOLANUS. Which is his house, beseech you? CITIZEN. This here before you. CORIOLANUS. Thank you, sir; farewell. Exit CITIZEN O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as 'twere, in love, Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My birthplace hate I, and my love's upon This enemy town. I'll enter. If he slay me, He does fair justice: if he give me way, I'll do his country service.

Coriolanus.act 4.scene 5

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 4, scene 5 with the given context.

Coriolanus shows up at Aufidius' house, where a big, swanky party is in full swing, except this is ancient Rome so we have to call the party a "feast." Because Coriolanus is dressed like a homeless guy, a bunch of Aufidius' servants tries to kick him to the curb. After a minor scuffle, Aufidius comes over and demands to know who this guy thinks he is. Coriolanus acts coy at first but finally says something like "It's me, Coriolanus, the guy who totally stomped on you and your people! Don't you recognize me? I've come here to make nice so we can destroy Rome together. Isn't that awesome?" Aufidius' response? He gives his former enemy a big, enthusiastic hug and says that he's more excited about seeing Coriolanus than he was about seeing his new bride on his wedding night. Sure. Okay. We can see how the sight of one's mortal enemy could be more thrilling than a honeymoon. Aufidius gushes to Coriolanus that he's been dreaming about their battlefield "encounters" on a nightly basis. Now that Coriolanus is his new bestie, Aufidius takes him into the party to introduce him to a bunch of other Volscian soldiers. The Servants stand around gossiping about Coriolanus. They generally agree on his awesomeness and decide that he's the "rarest man i'the world." Another Servant shows up and announces that yet another war with Rome is in the works, which causes some excitement among the other servants. Then there's some weird talk about the pros and cons of warfare. The Servants declare that war is awesome and that peace is for chumps and wimps.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Antium. AUFIDIUS' house Music plays. Enter A SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I think our fellows are asleep. Exit Enter another SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT.Where's Cotus? My master calls for him. Cotus! Exit Enter CORIOLANUS CORIOLANUS. A goodly house. The feast smells well, but I Appear not like a guest. Re-enter the first SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here's no place for you: pray go to the door. Exit CORIOLANUS. I have deserv'd no better entertainment In being Coriolanus. Re-enter second SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT. Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his head that he gives entrance to such companions? Pray get you out. CORIOLANUS. Away! SECOND SERVANT. Away? Get you away. CORIOLANUS. Now th' art troublesome. SECOND SERVANT. Are you so brave? I'll have you talk'd with anon. Enter a third SERVINGMAN. The first meets him THIRD SERVANT. What fellow's this? FIRST SERVANT. A strange one as ever I look'd on. I cannot get him out o' th' house. Prithee call my master to him. THIRD SERVANT. What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you avoid the house. CORIOLANUS. Let me but stand- I will not hurt your hearth. THIRD SERVANT. What are you? CORIOLANUS. A gentleman. THIRD SERVANT. A marv'llous poor one. CORIOLANUS. True, so I am. THIRD SERVANT. Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station; here's no place for you. Pray you avoid. Come. CORIOLANUS. Follow your function, go and batten on cold bits. [Pushes him away from him] THIRD SERVANT. What, you will not? Prithee tell my master what a strange guest he has here. SECOND SERVANT. And I shall. Exit THIRD SERVANT. Where dwell'st thou? CORIOLANUS. Under the canopy. THIRD SERVANT. Under the canopy? CORIOLANUS. Ay. THIRD SERVANT. Where's that? CORIOLANUS. I' th' city of kites and crows. THIRD SERVANT. I' th' city of kites and crows! What an ass it is! Then thou dwell'st with daws too? CORIOLANUS. No, I serve not thy master. THIRD SERVANT. How, sir! Do you meddle with my master? CORIOLANUS. Ay; 'tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. Thou prat'st and prat'st; serve with thy trencher; hence! [Beats him away] Enter AUFIDIUS with the second SERVINGMAN AUFIDIUS. Where is this fellow? SECOND SERVANT. Here, sir; I'd have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within. AUFIDIUS. Whence com'st thou? What wouldst thou? Thy name? Why speak'st not? Speak, man. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. [Unmuffling] If, Tullus, Not yet thou know'st me, and, seeing me, dost not Think me for the man I am, necessity Commands me name myself. AUFIDIUS. What is thy name? CORIOLANUS. A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine. AUFIDIUS. Say, what's thy name? Thou has a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn, Thou show'st a noble vessel. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. Prepare thy brow to frown- know'st thou me yet? AUFIDIUS. I know thee not. Thy name? CORIOLANUS. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may My surname, Coriolanus. The painful service, The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood Shed for my thankless country, are requited But with that surname- a good memory And witness of the malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me. Only that name remains; The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest, An suffer'd me by th' voice of slaves to be Whoop'd out of Rome. Now this extremity Hath brought me to thy hearth; not out of hope, Mistake me not, to save my life; for if I had fear'd death, of all the men i' th' world I would have 'voided thee; but in mere spite, To be full quit of those my banishers, Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight And make my misery serve thy turn. So use it That my revengeful services may prove As benefits to thee; for I will fight Against my cank'red country with the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more fortunes Th'art tir'd, then, in a word, I also am Longer to live most weary, and present My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice; Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, Since I have ever followed thee with hate, Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast, And cannot live but to thy shame, unless It be to do thee service. AUFIDIUS. O Marcius, Marcius! Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter Should from yond cloud speak divine things, And say ''Tis true,' I'd not believe them more Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr'd the moon with splinters; here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I lov'd the maid I married; never man Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars, I tell thee We have a power on foot, and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, Or lose mine arm for't. Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me- We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat- And wak'd half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all From twelve to seventy, and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o'erbeat. O, come, go in, And take our friendly senators by th' hands, Who now are here, taking their leaves of me Who am prepar'd against your territories, Though not for Rome itself. CORIOLANUS. You bless me, gods! AUFIDIUS. Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own revenges, take Th' one half of my commission, and set down- As best thou art experienc'd, since thou know'st Thy country's strength and weakness- thine own ways, Whether to knock against the gates of Rome, Or rudely visit them in parts remote To fright them ere destroy. But come in; Let me commend thee first to those that shall Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes! And more a friend than e'er an enemy; Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand; most welcome! Exeunt CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS The two SERVINGMEN come forward FIRST SERVANT. Here's a strange alteration! SECOND SERVANT. By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him. FIRST SERVANT. What an arm he has! He turn'd me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top. SECOND SERVANT. Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him; he had, sir, a kind of face, methought- I cannot tell how to term it. FIRST SERVANT. He had so, looking as it were- Would I were hang'd, but I thought there was more in him than I could think. SECOND SERVANT. So did I, I'll be sworn. He is simply the rarest man i' th' world. FIRST SERVANT. I think he is; but a greater soldier than he you wot on. SECOND SERVANT. Who, my master? FIRST SERVANT. Nay, it's no matter for that. SECOND SERVANT. Worth six on him. FIRST SERVANT. Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the greater soldier. SECOND SERVANT. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a town our general is excellent. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and for an assault too. Re-enter the third SERVINGMAN THIRD SERVANT. O slaves, I can tell you news- news, you rascals! BOTH. What, what, what? Let's partake. THIRD SERVANT. I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lief be a condemn'd man. BOTH. Wherefore? wherefore? THIRD SERVANT. Why, here's he that was wont to thwack our general- Caius Marcius. FIRST SERVANT. Why do you say 'thwack our general'? THIRD SERVANT. I do not say 'thwack our general,' but he was always good enough for him. SECOND SERVANT. Come, we are fellows and friends. He was ever too hard for him, I have heard him say so himself. FIRST SERVANT. He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on't; before Corioli he scotch'd him and notch'd him like a carbonado. SECOND SERVANT. An he had been cannibally given, he might have broil'd and eaten him too. FIRST SERVANT. But more of thy news! THIRD SERVANT. Why, he is so made on here within as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o' th' table; no question asked him by any of the senators but they stand bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress of him, sanctifies himself with's hand, and turns up the white o' th' eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i' th' middle and but one half of what he was yesterday, for the other has half by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. He'll go, he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by th' ears; he will mow all down before him, and leave his passage poll'd. SECOND SERVANT. And he's as like to do't as any man I can imagine. THIRD SERVANT. Do't! He will do't; for look you, sir, he has as many friends as enemies; which friends, sir, as it were, durst not- look you, sir- show themselves, as we term it, his friends, whilst he's in directitude. FIRST SERVANT. Directitude? What's that? THIRD SERVANT. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows, like conies after rain, and revel all with him. FIRST SERVANT. But when goes this forward? THIRD SERVANT. To-morrow, to-day, presently. You shall have the drum struck up this afternoon; 'tis as it were parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips. SECOND SERVANT. Why, then we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers. FIRST SERVANT. Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men. SECOND SERVANT. 'Tis so; and as war in some sort may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and it makes men hate one another. THIRD SERVANT. Reason: because they then less need one another. The wars for my money. I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising, they are rising. BOTH. In, in, in, in! Exeunt ----------SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Antium. AUFIDIUS' house Music plays. Enter A SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I think our fellows are asleep. Exit Enter another SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT.Where's Cotus? My master calls for him. Cotus! Exit Enter CORIOLANUS CORIOLANUS. A goodly house. The feast smells well, but I Appear not like a guest. Re-enter the first SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here's no place for you: pray go to the door. Exit CORIOLANUS. I have deserv'd no better entertainment In being Coriolanus. Re-enter second SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT. Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his head that he gives entrance to such companions? Pray get you out. CORIOLANUS. Away! SECOND SERVANT. Away? Get you away. CORIOLANUS. Now th' art troublesome. SECOND SERVANT. Are you so brave? I'll have you talk'd with anon. Enter a third SERVINGMAN. The first meets him THIRD SERVANT. What fellow's this? FIRST SERVANT. A strange one as ever I look'd on. I cannot get him out o' th' house. Prithee call my master to him. THIRD SERVANT. What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you avoid the house. CORIOLANUS. Let me but stand- I will not hurt your hearth. THIRD SERVANT. What are you? CORIOLANUS. A gentleman. THIRD SERVANT. A marv'llous poor one. CORIOLANUS. True, so I am. THIRD SERVANT. Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station; here's no place for you. Pray you avoid. Come. CORIOLANUS. Follow your function, go and batten on cold bits. [Pushes him away from him] THIRD SERVANT. What, you will not? Prithee tell my master what a strange guest he has here. SECOND SERVANT. And I shall. Exit THIRD SERVANT. Where dwell'st thou? CORIOLANUS. Under the canopy. THIRD SERVANT. Under the canopy? CORIOLANUS. Ay. THIRD SERVANT. Where's that? CORIOLANUS. I' th' city of kites and crows. THIRD SERVANT. I' th' city of kites and crows! What an ass it is! Then thou dwell'st with daws too? CORIOLANUS. No, I serve not thy master. THIRD SERVANT. How, sir! Do you meddle with my master? CORIOLANUS. Ay; 'tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. Thou prat'st and prat'st; serve with thy trencher; hence! [Beats him away] Enter AUFIDIUS with the second SERVINGMAN AUFIDIUS. Where is this fellow? SECOND SERVANT. Here, sir; I'd have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within. AUFIDIUS. Whence com'st thou? What wouldst thou? Thy name? Why speak'st not? Speak, man. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. [Unmuffling] If, Tullus, Not yet thou know'st me, and, seeing me, dost not Think me for the man I am, necessity Commands me name myself. AUFIDIUS. What is thy name? CORIOLANUS. A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine. AUFIDIUS. Say, what's thy name? Thou has a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn, Thou show'st a noble vessel. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. Prepare thy brow to frown- know'st thou me yet? AUFIDIUS. I know thee not. Thy name? CORIOLANUS. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may My surname, Coriolanus. The painful service, The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood Shed for my thankless country, are requited But with that surname- a good memory And witness of the malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me. Only that name remains; The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest, An suffer'd me by th' voice of slaves to be Whoop'd out of Rome. Now this extremity Hath brought me to thy hearth; not out of hope, Mistake me not, to save my life; for if I had fear'd death, of all the men i' th' world I would have 'voided thee; but in mere spite, To be full quit of those my banishers, Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight And make my misery serve thy turn. So use it That my revengeful services may prove As benefits to thee; for I will fight Against my cank'red country with the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more fortunes Th'art tir'd, then, in a word, I also am Longer to live most weary, and present My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice; Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, Since I have ever followed thee with hate, Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast, And cannot live but to thy shame, unless It be to do thee service. AUFIDIUS. O Marcius, Marcius! Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter Should from yond cloud speak divine things, And say ''Tis true,' I'd not believe them more Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr'd the moon with splinters; here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I lov'd the maid I married; never man Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars, I tell thee We have a power on foot, and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, Or lose mine arm for't. Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me- We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat- And wak'd half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all From twelve to seventy, and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o'erbeat. O, come, go in, And take our friendly senators by th' hands, Who now are here, taking their leaves of me Who am prepar'd against your territories, Though not for Rome itself. CORIOLANUS. You bless me, gods! AUFIDIUS. Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own revenges, take Th' one half of my commission, and set down- As best thou art experienc'd, since thou know'st Thy country's strength and weakness- thine own ways, Whether to knock against the gates of Rome, Or rudely visit them in parts remote To fright them ere destroy. But come in; Let me commend thee first to those that shall Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes! And more a friend than e'er an enemy; Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand; most welcome! Exeunt CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS The two SERVINGMEN come forward FIRST SERVANT. Here's a strange alteration! SECOND SERVANT. By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him. FIRST SERVANT. What an arm he has! He turn'd me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top. SECOND SERVANT. Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him; he had, sir, a kind of face, methought- I cannot tell how to term it. FIRST SERVANT. He had so, looking as it were- Would I were hang'd, but I thought there was more in him than I could think. SECOND SERVANT. So did I, I'll be sworn. He is simply the rarest man i' th' world. FIRST SERVANT. I think he is; but a greater soldier than he you wot on. SECOND SERVANT. Who, my master? FIRST SERVANT. Nay, it's no matter for that. SECOND SERVANT. Worth six on him. FIRST SERVANT. Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the greater soldier. SECOND SERVANT. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a town our general is excellent. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and for an assault too. Re-enter the third SERVINGMAN THIRD SERVANT. O slaves, I can tell you news- news, you rascals! BOTH. What, what, what? Let's partake. THIRD SERVANT. I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lief be a condemn'd man. BOTH. Wherefore? wherefore? THIRD SERVANT. Why, here's he that was wont to thwack our general- Caius Marcius. FIRST SERVANT. Why do you say 'thwack our general'? THIRD SERVANT. I do not say 'thwack our general,' but he was always good enough for him. SECOND SERVANT. Come, we are fellows and friends. He was ever too hard for him, I have heard him say so himself. FIRST SERVANT. He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on't; before Corioli he scotch'd him and notch'd him like a carbonado. SECOND SERVANT. An he had been cannibally given, he might have broil'd and eaten him too. FIRST SERVANT. But more of thy news! THIRD SERVANT. Why, he is so made on here within as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o' th' table; no question asked him by any of the senators but they stand bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress of him, sanctifies himself with's hand, and turns up the white o' th' eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i' th' middle and but one half of what he was yesterday, for the other has half by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. He'll go, he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by th' ears; he will mow all down before him, and leave his passage poll'd. SECOND SERVANT. And he's as like to do't as any man I can imagine. THIRD SERVANT. Do't! He will do't; for look you, sir, he has as many friends as enemies; which friends, sir, as it were, durst not- look you, sir- show themselves, as we term it, his friends, whilst he's in directitude. FIRST SERVANT. Directitude? What's that? THIRD SERVANT. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows, like conies after rain, and revel all with him. FIRST SERVANT. But when goes this forward? THIRD SERVANT. To-morrow, to-day, presently. You shall have the drum struck up this afternoon; 'tis as it were parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips. SECOND SERVANT. Why, then we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers. FIRST SERVANT. Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men. SECOND SERVANT. 'Tis so; and as war in some sort may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and it makes men hate one another. THIRD SERVANT. Reason: because they then less need one another. The wars for my money. I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising, they are rising. BOTH. In, in, in, in! Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 4.scene 6

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 4, scene 6 using the context provided.

Back in Rome, Sicinius and Brutus give each other high fives for getting Coriolanus thrown out of the city. They talk about how peaceful and "safe" it is in Rome with Coriolanus out of the picture. Now another office Aedile shows up and says he's got some bad news. Word on the streets is that Aufidius is planning an attack on Rome, despite the recent peace treaty. Sicinius and Brutus can't believe it. Then a messenger arrives and is all "Holy smokes! Coriolanus has joined forces with Aufidius and is coming to destroy us!" Sicinius and Brutus still can't believe it. Finally, another messenger shows up and repeats the same thing. Cominius rushes in and blames the tribunes for what's happening. He says that when their daughters and wives are raped and the city is burning, they're the ones who will be responsible. A bunch of plebeians show up. They're terrified. Now the plebeians try to act like they never really wanted to exile Coriolanus to begin with and then they run home to hide. Sicinius and Brutus rush off to the Capitol to find out what's going on.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Rome. A public place Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him. His remedies are tame. The present peace And quietness of the people, which before Were in wild hurry, here do make his friends Blush that the world goes well; who rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by't, behold Dissentious numbers pest'ring streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops, and going About their functions friendly. Enter MENENIUS BRUTUS. We stood to't in good time. Is this Menenius? SICINIUS. 'Tis he, 'tis he. O, he is grown most kind Of late. Hail, sir! MENENIUS. Hail to you both! SICINIUS. Your Coriolanus is not much miss'd But with his friends. The commonwealth doth stand, And so would do, were he more angry at it. MENENIUS. All's well, and might have been much better He could have temporiz'd. SICINIUS. Where is he, hear you? MENENIUS. Nay, I hear nothing; his mother and his wife Hear nothing from him. Enter three or four citizens CITIZENS. The gods preserve you both! SICINIUS. God-den, our neighbours. BRUTUS. God-den to you all, god-den to you all. FIRST CITIZEN. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees Are bound to pray for you both. SICINIUS. Live and thrive! BRUTUS. Farewell, kind neighbours; we wish'd Coriolanus Had lov'd you as we did. CITIZENS. Now the gods keep you! BOTH TRIBUNES. Farewell, farewell. Exeunt citizens SICINIUS. This is a happier and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets Crying confusion. BRUTUS. Caius Marcius was A worthy officer i' the war, but insolent, O'ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking, Self-loving- SICINIUS. And affecting one sole throne, Without assistance. MENENIUS. I think not so. SICINIUS. We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone forth consul, found it so. BRUTUS. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome Sits safe and still without him. Enter an AEDILE AEDILE. Worthy tribunes, There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Reports the Volsces with several powers Are ent'red in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before 'em. MENENIUS. 'Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Marcius' banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshell'd when Marcius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out. SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Marcius? BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer whipp'd. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us. MENENIUS. Cannot be! We have record that very well it can; And three examples of the like hath been Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded. SICINIUS. Tell not me. I know this cannot be. BRUTUS. Not possible. Enter A MESSENGER MESSENGER. The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House; some news is come That turns their countenances. SICINIUS. 'Tis this slave- Go whip him fore the people's eyes- his raising, Nothing but his report. MESSENGER. Yes, worthy sir, The slave's report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is deliver'd. SICINIUS. What more fearful? MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of many mouths- How probable I do not know- that Marcius, Join'd with Aufidius, leads a power 'gainst Rome, And vows revenge as spacious as between The young'st and oldest thing. SICINIUS. This is most likely! BRUTUS. Rais'd only that the weaker sort may wish Good Marcius home again. SICINIUS. The very trick on 't. MENENIUS. This is unlikely. He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violent'st contrariety. Enter a second MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O'erborne their way, consum'd with fire and took What lay before them. Enter COMINIUS COMINIUS. O, you have made good work! MENENIUS. What news? what news? COMINIUS. You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonour'd to your noses- MENENIUS. What's the news? What's the news? COMINIUS. Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confin'd Into an auger's bore. MENENIUS. Pray now, your news? You have made fair work, I fear me. Pray, your news. If Marcius should be join'd wi' th' Volscians- COMINIUS. If! He is their god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, Or butchers killing flies. MENENIUS. You have made good work, You and your apron men; you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic-eaters! COMINIUS. He'll shake Your Rome about your ears. MENENIUS. As Hercules Did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work! BRUTUS. But is this true, sir? COMINIUS. Ay; and you'll look pale Before you find it other. All the regions Do smilingly revolt, and who resists Are mock'd for valiant ignorance, And perish constant fools. Who is't can blame him? Your enemies and his find something in him. MENENIUS. We are all undone unless The noble man have mercy. COMINIUS. Who shall ask it? The tribunes cannot do't for shame; the people Deserve such pity of him as the wolf Does of the shepherds; for his best friends, if they Should say 'Be good to Rome'- they charg'd him even As those should do that had deserv'd his hate, And therein show'd like enemies. MENENIUS. 'Tis true; If he were putting to my house the brand That should consume it, I have not the face To say 'Beseech you, cease.' You have made fair hands, You and your crafts! You have crafted fair! COMINIUS. You have brought A trembling upon Rome, such as was never So incapable of help. BOTH TRIBUNES. Say not we brought it. MENENIUS. How! Was't we? We lov'd him, but, like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him out o' th' city. COMINIUS. But I fear They'll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer. Desperation Is all the policy, strength, and defence, That Rome can make against them. Enter a troop of citizens MENENIUS. Here comes the clusters. And is Aufidius with him? You are they That made the air unwholesome when you cast Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus' exile. Now he's coming, And not a hair upon a soldier's head Which will not prove a whip; as many coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down, And pay you for your voices. 'Tis no matter; If he could burn us all into one coal We have deserv'd it. PLEBEIANS. Faith, we hear fearful news. FIRST CITIZEN. For mine own part, When I said banish him, I said 'twas pity. SECOND CITIZEN. And so did I. THIRD CITIZEN. And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we did, we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will. COMINIUS. Y'are goodly things, you voices! MENENIUS. You have made Good work, you and your cry! Shall's to the Capitol? COMINIUS. O, ay, what else? Exeunt COMINIUS and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Go, masters, get you home; be not dismay'd; These are a side that would be glad to have This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear. FIRST CITIZEN. The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let's home. I ever said we were i' th' wrong when we banish'd him. SECOND CITIZEN. So did we all. But come, let's home. Exeunt citizens BRUTUS. I do not like this news. SICINIUS. Nor I. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a lie! SICINIUS. Pray let's go. Exeunt ----------SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Rome. A public place Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him. His remedies are tame. The present peace And quietness of the people, which before Were in wild hurry, here do make his friends Blush that the world goes well; who rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by't, behold Dissentious numbers pest'ring streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops, and going About their functions friendly. Enter MENENIUS BRUTUS. We stood to't in good time. Is this Menenius? SICINIUS. 'Tis he, 'tis he. O, he is grown most kind Of late. Hail, sir! MENENIUS. Hail to you both! SICINIUS. Your Coriolanus is not much miss'd But with his friends. The commonwealth doth stand, And so would do, were he more angry at it. MENENIUS. All's well, and might have been much better He could have temporiz'd. SICINIUS. Where is he, hear you? MENENIUS. Nay, I hear nothing; his mother and his wife Hear nothing from him. Enter three or four citizens CITIZENS. The gods preserve you both! SICINIUS. God-den, our neighbours. BRUTUS. God-den to you all, god-den to you all. FIRST CITIZEN. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees Are bound to pray for you both. SICINIUS. Live and thrive! BRUTUS. Farewell, kind neighbours; we wish'd Coriolanus Had lov'd you as we did. CITIZENS. Now the gods keep you! BOTH TRIBUNES. Farewell, farewell. Exeunt citizens SICINIUS. This is a happier and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets Crying confusion. BRUTUS. Caius Marcius was A worthy officer i' the war, but insolent, O'ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking, Self-loving- SICINIUS. And affecting one sole throne, Without assistance. MENENIUS. I think not so. SICINIUS. We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone forth consul, found it so. BRUTUS. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome Sits safe and still without him. Enter an AEDILE AEDILE. Worthy tribunes, There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Reports the Volsces with several powers Are ent'red in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before 'em. MENENIUS. 'Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Marcius' banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshell'd when Marcius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out. SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Marcius? BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer whipp'd. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us. MENENIUS. Cannot be! We have record that very well it can; And three examples of the like hath been Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded. SICINIUS. Tell not me. I know this cannot be. BRUTUS. Not possible. Enter A MESSENGER MESSENGER. The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House; some news is come That turns their countenances. SICINIUS. 'Tis this slave- Go whip him fore the people's eyes- his raising, Nothing but his report. MESSENGER. Yes, worthy sir, The slave's report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is deliver'd. SICINIUS. What more fearful? MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of many mouths- How probable I do not know- that Marcius, Join'd with Aufidius, leads a power 'gainst Rome, And vows revenge as spacious as between The young'st and oldest thing. SICINIUS. This is most likely! BRUTUS. Rais'd only that the weaker sort may wish Good Marcius home again. SICINIUS. The very trick on 't. MENENIUS. This is unlikely. He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violent'st contrariety. Enter a second MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O'erborne their way, consum'd with fire and took What lay before them. Enter COMINIUS COMINIUS. O, you have made good work! MENENIUS. What news? what news? COMINIUS. You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonour'd to your noses- MENENIUS. What's the news? What's the news? COMINIUS. Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confin'd Into an auger's bore. MENENIUS. Pray now, your news? You have made fair work, I fear me. Pray, your news. If Marcius should be join'd wi' th' Volscians- COMINIUS. If! He is their god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, Or butchers killing flies. MENENIUS. You have made good work, You and your apron men; you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic-eaters! COMINIUS. He'll shake Your Rome about your ears. MENENIUS. As Hercules Did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work! BRUTUS. But is this true, sir? COMINIUS. Ay; and you'll look pale Before you find it other. All the regions Do smilingly revolt, and who resists Are mock'd for valiant ignorance, And perish constant fools. Who is't can blame him? Your enemies and his find something in him. MENENIUS. We are all undone unless The noble man have mercy. COMINIUS. Who shall ask it? The tribunes cannot do't for shame; the people Deserve such pity of him as the wolf Does of the shepherds; for his best friends, if they Should say 'Be good to Rome'- they charg'd him even As those should do that had deserv'd his hate, And therein show'd like enemies. MENENIUS. 'Tis true; If he were putting to my house the brand That should consume it, I have not the face To say 'Beseech you, cease.' You have made fair hands, You and your crafts! You have crafted fair! COMINIUS. You have brought A trembling upon Rome, such as was never So incapable of help. BOTH TRIBUNES. Say not we brought it. MENENIUS. How! Was't we? We lov'd him, but, like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him out o' th' city. COMINIUS. But I fear They'll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer. Desperation Is all the policy, strength, and defence, That Rome can make against them. Enter a troop of citizens MENENIUS. Here comes the clusters. And is Aufidius with him? You are they That made the air unwholesome when you cast Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus' exile. Now he's coming, And not a hair upon a soldier's head Which will not prove a whip; as many coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down, And pay you for your voices. 'Tis no matter; If he could burn us all into one coal We have deserv'd it. PLEBEIANS. Faith, we hear fearful news. FIRST CITIZEN. For mine own part, When I said banish him, I said 'twas pity. SECOND CITIZEN. And so did I. THIRD CITIZEN. And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we did, we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will. COMINIUS. Y'are goodly things, you voices! MENENIUS. You have made Good work, you and your cry! Shall's to the Capitol? COMINIUS. O, ay, what else? Exeunt COMINIUS and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Go, masters, get you home; be not dismay'd; These are a side that would be glad to have This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear. FIRST CITIZEN. The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let's home. I ever said we were i' th' wrong when we banish'd him. SECOND CITIZEN. So did we all. But come, let's home. Exeunt citizens BRUTUS. I do not like this news. SICINIUS. Nor I. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a lie! SICINIUS. Pray let's go. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 4.scene 7

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 7 using the context provided.

Aufidius is becoming displeased by Coriolanus incredible pride and his growing popularity among the Volscians. He confides his envy to his Lieutenant in a camp at a small distance from Rome. The Lieutenant answers that Coriolanus seems almost to have bewitched their soldiers and wishes that Aufidius had never joined forces with the banished Roman warrior. Aufidius remarks that the time will come when he will settle his old scores with Coriolanus. In the meantime Coriolanus fights like a dragon for the Volscians. The Lieutenant asks Aufidius whether Coriolanus will conquer Rome, and Aufidius is certain of it. Aufidius reflects that Coriolanus was first a patriotic soldier for Rome but due to his pride, defective judgment, and inflexibility as a politician he became hated by the commoners and finally banished. He says that Coriolanus spoils his merit by his anger and inflexibility. Aufidius closes by saying that ultimately he himself will triumph. Once Coriolanus conquers Rome, Aufidius will defeat him.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome Enter AUFIDIUS with his LIEUTENANT AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to th' Roman? LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are dark'ned in this action, sir, Even by your own. AUFIDIUS. I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him; yet his nature In that's no changeling, and I must excuse What cannot be amended. LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir- I mean, for your particular- you had not Join'd in commission with him, but either Had borne the action of yourself, or else To him had left it solely. AUFIDIUS. I understand thee well; and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him. Although it seems, And so he thinks, and is no less apparent To th' vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine Whene'er we come to our account. LIEUTENANT. Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry Rome? AUFIDIUS. All places yield to him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The senators and patricians love him too. The tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he'll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. First he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even. Whether 'twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From th' casque to th' cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controll'd the war; but one of these- As he hath spices of them all- not all, For I dare so far free him- made him fear'd, So hated, and so banish'd. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt'rance. So our virtues Lie in th' interpretation of the time; And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a cheer T' extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, Thou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine. Exeunt ----------SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome Enter AUFIDIUS with his LIEUTENANT AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to th' Roman? LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are dark'ned in this action, sir, Even by your own. AUFIDIUS. I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him; yet his nature In that's no changeling, and I must excuse What cannot be amended. LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir- I mean, for your particular- you had not Join'd in commission with him, but either Had borne the action of yourself, or else To him had left it solely. AUFIDIUS. I understand thee well; and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him. Although it seems, And so he thinks, and is no less apparent To th' vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine Whene'er we come to our account. LIEUTENANT. Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry Rome? AUFIDIUS. All places yield to him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The senators and patricians love him too. The tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he'll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. First he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even. Whether 'twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From th' casque to th' cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controll'd the war; but one of these- As he hath spices of them all- not all, For I dare so far free him- made him fear'd, So hated, and so banish'd. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt'rance. So our virtues Lie in th' interpretation of the time; And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a cheer T' extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, Thou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 5.scene 1

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

This scene opens with the entrance of Menenius, Cominius, Sicinius, and Brutus, who are all perturbed by the imminent Volscian attack on Rome led by Coriolanus. Menenius refuses to go to Coriolanus and beg for mercy; instead, he suggests that those principally responsible for banishing him should go, meaning the tribunes. Cominius tells them of his futile efforts to get Coriolanus to renounce his plans to invade Rome; the warrior would not even acknowledge that he knows him. Apparently he has sworn off any connection to his former life. When the tribunes plead with Menenius again to try and save Rome, the man finally agrees to go to Coriolanus. He leaves, filled with confidence of succeeding in his endeavor. Cominius, however, remarks to the tribunes that Coriolanus will not listen to Menenius. He suggests instead that Coriolanus wife and mother may be able to solicit his mercy. At this suggestion, the nobles leave for Coriolanus house to entreat Volumnia and Virgilia to intercede on behalf of Rome.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, COMINIUS, SICINIUS and BRUTUS, the two Tribunes, with others MENENIUS. No, I'll not go. You hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general, who lov'd him In a most dear particular. He call'd me father; But what o' that? Go, you that banish'd him: A mile before his tent fall down, and knee The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coy'd To hear Cominius speak, I'll keep at home. COMINIUS. He would not seem to know me. MENENIUS. Do you hear? COMINIUS. Yet one time he did call me by my name. I urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. 'Coriolanus' He would not answer to; forbid all names; He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forg'd himself a name i' th' fire Of burning Rome. MENENIUS. Why, so! You have made good work. A pair of tribunes that have wrack'd for Rome To make coals cheap- a noble memory! COMINIUS. I minded him how royal 'twas to pardon When it was less expected; he replied, It was a bare petition of a state To one whom they had punish'd. MENENIUS. Very well. Could he say less? COMINIUS. I offer'd to awaken his regard For's private friends; his answer to me was, He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome musty chaff. He said 'twas folly, For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt And still to nose th' offence. MENENIUS. For one poor grain or two! I am one of those. His mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too- we are the grains: You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt Above the moon. We must be burnt for you. SICINIUS. Nay, pray be patient; if you refuse your aid In this so never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid's with our distress. But sure, if you Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make, Might stop our countryman. MENENIUS. No; I'll not meddle. SICINIUS. Pray you go to him. MENENIUS. What should I do? BRUTUS. Only make trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Marcius. MENENIUS. Well, and say that Marcius Return me, as Cominius is return'd, Unheard- what then? But as a discontented friend, grief-shot With his unkindness? Say't be so? SICINIUS. Yet your good will Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure As you intended well. MENENIUS. I'll undertake't; I think he'll hear me. Yet to bite his lip And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me. He was not taken well: he had not din'd; The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priest-like fasts. Therefore I'll watch him Till he be dieted to my request, And then I'll set upon him. BRUTUS. You know the very road into his kindness And cannot lose your way. MENENIUS. Good faith, I'll prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success. Exit COMINIUS. He'll never hear him. SICINIUS. Not? COMINIUS. I tell you he does sit in gold, his eye Red as 'twould burn Rome, and his injury The gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him; 'Twas very faintly he said 'Rise'; dismiss'd me Thus with his speechless hand. What he would do, He sent in writing after me; what he would not, Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions; So that all hope is vain, Unless his noble mother and his wife, Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore let's hence, And with our fair entreaties haste them on. Exeunt ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, COMINIUS, SICINIUS and BRUTUS, the two Tribunes, with others MENENIUS. No, I'll not go. You hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general, who lov'd him In a most dear particular. He call'd me father; But what o' that? Go, you that banish'd him: A mile before his tent fall down, and knee The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coy'd To hear Cominius speak, I'll keep at home. COMINIUS. He would not seem to know me. MENENIUS. Do you hear? COMINIUS. Yet one time he did call me by my name. I urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. 'Coriolanus' He would not answer to; forbid all names; He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forg'd himself a name i' th' fire Of burning Rome. MENENIUS. Why, so! You have made good work. A pair of tribunes that have wrack'd for Rome To make coals cheap- a noble memory! COMINIUS. I minded him how royal 'twas to pardon When it was less expected; he replied, It was a bare petition of a state To one whom they had punish'd. MENENIUS. Very well. Could he say less? COMINIUS. I offer'd to awaken his regard For's private friends; his answer to me was, He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome musty chaff. He said 'twas folly, For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt And still to nose th' offence. MENENIUS. For one poor grain or two! I am one of those. His mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too- we are the grains: You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt Above the moon. We must be burnt for you. SICINIUS. Nay, pray be patient; if you refuse your aid In this so never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid's with our distress. But sure, if you Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make, Might stop our countryman. MENENIUS. No; I'll not meddle. SICINIUS. Pray you go to him. MENENIUS. What should I do? BRUTUS. Only make trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Marcius. MENENIUS. Well, and say that Marcius Return me, as Cominius is return'd, Unheard- what then? But as a discontented friend, grief-shot With his unkindness? Say't be so? SICINIUS. Yet your good will Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure As you intended well. MENENIUS. I'll undertake't; I think he'll hear me. Yet to bite his lip And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me. He was not taken well: he had not din'd; The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priest-like fasts. Therefore I'll watch him Till he be dieted to my request, And then I'll set upon him. BRUTUS. You know the very road into his kindness And cannot lose your way. MENENIUS. Good faith, I'll prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success. Exit COMINIUS. He'll never hear him. SICINIUS. Not? COMINIUS. I tell you he does sit in gold, his eye Red as 'twould burn Rome, and his injury The gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him; 'Twas very faintly he said 'Rise'; dismiss'd me Thus with his speechless hand. What he would do, He sent in writing after me; what he would not, Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions; So that all hope is vain, Unless his noble mother and his wife, Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore let's hence, And with our fair entreaties haste them on. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 5.scene 2

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 5, scene 2, utilizing the provided context.

At the Volscian army's camp just outside of Rome, Coriolanus prepares for battle. Menenius shows up to do some good old-fashioned begging but first he has to get past a bunch of Watchmen. The Watchmen don't believe that Menenius is a friend of Coriolanus so they give him a hard time. When Coriolanus shows up, Menenius tries to appeal to him as the guy who always treated him like a "son." Coriolanus is not having any of this. He says he'll have his revenge against Rome. Then he disowns his entire family: "Wife, mother, child I know not," he says. When Coriolanus storms off, Menenius is totally crushed. The Watchmen take the opportunity to rub it in. About two seconds go by and Menenius gets mad. He curses Coriolanus and the whole Volscian army.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The Volscian camp before Rome Enter MENENIUS to the WATCH on guard FIRST WATCH. Stay. Whence are you? SECOND WATCH. Stand, and go back. MENENIUS. You guard like men, 'tis well; but, by your leave, I am an officer of state and come To speak with Coriolanus. FIRST WATCH. From whence? MENENIUS. From Rome. FIRST WATCH. You may not pass; you must return. Our general Will no more hear from thence. SECOND WATCH. You'll see your Rome embrac'd with fire before You'll speak with Coriolanus. MENENIUS. Good my friends, If you have heard your general talk of Rome And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks My name hath touch'd your ears: it is Menenius. FIRST WATCH. Be it so; go back. The virtue of your name Is not here passable. MENENIUS. I tell thee, fellow, Thy general is my lover. I have been The book of his good acts whence men have read His fame unparallel'd haply amplified; For I have ever verified my friends- Of whom he's chief- with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes, Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise Have almost stamp'd the leasing; therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass. FIRST WATCH. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general. SECOND WATCH. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Has he din'd, canst thou tell? For I would not speak with him till after dinner. FIRST WATCH. You are a Roman, are you? MENENIUS. I am as thy general is. FIRST WATCH. Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you, when you have push'd out your gates the very defender of them, and in a violent popular ignorance given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decay'd dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceiv'd; therefore back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are condemn'd; our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon. MENENIUS. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation. FIRST WATCH. Come, my captain knows you not. MENENIUS. I mean thy general. FIRST WATCH. My general cares not for you. Back, I say; go, lest I let forth your half pint of blood. Back- that's the utmost of your having. Back. MENENIUS. Nay, but fellow, fellow- Enter CORIOLANUS with AUFIDIUS CORIOLANUS. What's the matter? MENENIUS. Now, you companion, I'll say an errand for you; you shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but by my entertainment with him if thou stand'st not i' th' state of hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what's to come upon thee. The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son! my son! thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here's water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here; this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee. CORIOLANUS. Away! MENENIUS. How! away! CORIOLANUS. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs Are servanted to others. Though I owe My revenge properly, my remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather Than pity note how much. Therefore be gone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I lov'd thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake [Gives a letter] And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius, Was my belov'd in Rome; yet thou behold'st. AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and Aufidius FIRST WATCH. Now, sir, is your name Menenius? SECOND WATCH. 'Tis a spell, you see, of much power! You know the way home again. FIRST WATCH. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your greatness back? SECOND WATCH. What cause, do you think, I have to swoon? MENENIUS. I neither care for th' world nor your general; for such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, y'are so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to: Away! Exit FIRST WATCH. A noble fellow, I warrant him. SECOND WATCH. The worthy fellow is our general; he's the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. Exeunt ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The Volscian camp before Rome Enter MENENIUS to the WATCH on guard FIRST WATCH. Stay. Whence are you? SECOND WATCH. Stand, and go back. MENENIUS. You guard like men, 'tis well; but, by your leave, I am an officer of state and come To speak with Coriolanus. FIRST WATCH. From whence? MENENIUS. From Rome. FIRST WATCH. You may not pass; you must return. Our general Will no more hear from thence. SECOND WATCH. You'll see your Rome embrac'd with fire before You'll speak with Coriolanus. MENENIUS. Good my friends, If you have heard your general talk of Rome And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks My name hath touch'd your ears: it is Menenius. FIRST WATCH. Be it so; go back. The virtue of your name Is not here passable. MENENIUS. I tell thee, fellow, Thy general is my lover. I have been The book of his good acts whence men have read His fame unparallel'd haply amplified; For I have ever verified my friends- Of whom he's chief- with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes, Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise Have almost stamp'd the leasing; therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass. FIRST WATCH. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general. SECOND WATCH. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Has he din'd, canst thou tell? For I would not speak with him till after dinner. FIRST WATCH. You are a Roman, are you? MENENIUS. I am as thy general is. FIRST WATCH. Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you, when you have push'd out your gates the very defender of them, and in a violent popular ignorance given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decay'd dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceiv'd; therefore back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are condemn'd; our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon. MENENIUS. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation. FIRST WATCH. Come, my captain knows you not. MENENIUS. I mean thy general. FIRST WATCH. My general cares not for you. Back, I say; go, lest I let forth your half pint of blood. Back- that's the utmost of your having. Back. MENENIUS. Nay, but fellow, fellow- Enter CORIOLANUS with AUFIDIUS CORIOLANUS. What's the matter? MENENIUS. Now, you companion, I'll say an errand for you; you shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but by my entertainment with him if thou stand'st not i' th' state of hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what's to come upon thee. The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son! my son! thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here's water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here; this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee. CORIOLANUS. Away! MENENIUS. How! away! CORIOLANUS. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs Are servanted to others. Though I owe My revenge properly, my remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather Than pity note how much. Therefore be gone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I lov'd thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake [Gives a letter] And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius, Was my belov'd in Rome; yet thou behold'st. AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and Aufidius FIRST WATCH. Now, sir, is your name Menenius? SECOND WATCH. 'Tis a spell, you see, of much power! You know the way home again. FIRST WATCH. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your greatness back? SECOND WATCH. What cause, do you think, I have to swoon? MENENIUS. I neither care for th' world nor your general; for such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, y'are so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to: Away! Exit FIRST WATCH. A noble fellow, I warrant him. SECOND WATCH. The worthy fellow is our general; he's the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 5.scene 3

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 5, scene 3 based on the provided context.

Coriolanus and Aufidius head over to Coriolanus' private tent for a little chat. Coriolanus tells us that he feels kind of bad about the way he treated Menenius. After all, the dude loved him like a "father" loves a "son." That said, Coriolanus wants nothing more to do with Rome, even if they send more people to beg for mercy. Just then, Coriolanus' entire family shows up--his wife Virgilia, his little son Martius, and his mom Volumnia. Plus, his wife's sidekick, Valeria, is there, too. Coriolanus tries to be hard but then his mom kneels before him and his wife cries out "My lord and husband." He tells them not to bother begging for mercy but we can tell he's turning into a giant marshmallow. Volumnia goes to work on her son by appealing to his love of family. Then she refers to Rome as Coriolanus' "dear nurse" and says that if he destroys Rome, it will be like stomping all over his "mother's womb." Now his wife, Virgilia, adds that it would be like stomping on her womb, too. Now little Martius chimes in that he'll never let his dad stomp all over him. He'll "run away until bigger" and then he'll come back and "fight." #daddyissues This is too much for Coriolanus. He gets up and tries to leave. That's when his mom goes off on him, delivering a lengthy speech about how Coriolanus will lose all his "honor" and "nobility" if he destroys Rome. Plus, it's the worst thing a guy could ever do to his family. Meanwhile, his wife and son have been looking at him with big, sad eyes. Coriolanus finally gives in and agrees to make peace between Rome and the Volscian people. Meanwhile, Tullus Aufidius has been watching all this family drama unfold. He thinks it's awesome that Coriolanus has gone soft because now he's got the perfect chance to destroy him.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The tent of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others CORIOLANUS. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to th' Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this business. AUFIDIUS. Only their ends You have respected; stopp'd your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper- no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you. CORIOLANUS. This last old man, Whom with crack'd heart I have sent to Rome, Lov'd me above the measure of a father; Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him; for whose old love I have- Though I show'd sourly to him- once more offer'd The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept. To grace him only, That thought he could do more, a very little I have yielded to; fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to. [Shout within] Ha! what shout is this? Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time 'tis made? I will not. Enter, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, VALERIA, YOUNG MARCIUS, with attendants My wife comes foremost, then the honour'd mould Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curtsy worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession which Great nature cries 'Deny not.' Let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. VIRGILIA. My lord and husband! CORIOLANUS. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. VIRGILIA. The sorrow that delivers us thus chang'd Makes you think so. CORIOLANUS. Like a dull actor now I have forgot my part and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say, For that, 'Forgive our Romans.' O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgin'd it e'er since. You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i' th' earth; [Kneels] Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons. VOLUMNIA. O, stand up blest! Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee, and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent. [Kneels] CORIOLANUS. What's this? Your knees to me, to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun, Murd'ring impossibility, to make What cannot be slight work. VOLUMNIA. Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady? CORIOLANUS. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curdied by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple- dear Valeria! VOLUMNIA. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th' interpretation of full time May show like all yourself. CORIOLANUS. The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' th' wars Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee! VOLUMNIA. Your knee, sirrah. CORIOLANUS. That's my brave boy. VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, Are suitors to you. CORIOLANUS. I beseech you, peace! Or, if you'd ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate Again with Rome's mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not T'allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons. VOLUMNIA. O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us any thing- For we have nothing else to ask but that Which you deny already; yet we will ask, That, if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness; therefore hear us. CORIOLANUS. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we'll Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request? VOLUMNIA. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child, to see The son, the husband, and the father, tearing His country's bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity's most capital: thou bar'st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we, Alas, how can we for our country pray, Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win; for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin, And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children's blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine; if I can not persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread- Trust to't, thou shalt not- on thy mother's womb That brought thee to this world. VIRGILIA. Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep your name Living to time. BOY. 'A shall not tread on me! I'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight. CORIOLANUS. Not of a woman's tenderness to be Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. I have sat too long. [Rising] VOLUMNIA. Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile them: while the Volsces May say 'This mercy we have show'd,' the Romans 'This we receiv'd,' and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry 'Be blest For making up this peace!' Thou know'st, great son, The end of war's uncertain; but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wip'd it out, Destroy'd his country, and his name remains To th' ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' th' air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy; Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons. There's no man in the world More bound to's mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i' th' stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy, When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home Loaden with honour. Say my request's unjust, And spurn me back; but if it be not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee, That thou restrain'st from me the duty which To a mother's part belongs. He turns away. Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down. An end; This is the last. So we will home to Rome, And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold's! This boy, that cannot tell what he would have But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny't. Come, let us go. This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; His wife is in Corioli, and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch. I am hush'd until our city be afire, And then I'll speak a little. [He holds her by the hand, silent] CORIOLANUS. O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But for your son- believe it, O, believe it!- Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd, If not most mortal to him. But let it come. Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius? AUFIDIUS. I was mov'd withal. CORIOLANUS. I dare be sworn you were! And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you'll make, advise me. For my part, I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you; and pray you Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife! AUFIDIUS. [Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee. Out of that I'll work Myself a former fortune. CORIOLANUS. [To the ladies] Ay, by and by; But we will drink together; and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have counter-seal'd. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace. Exeunt ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The tent of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others CORIOLANUS. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to th' Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this business. AUFIDIUS. Only their ends You have respected; stopp'd your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper- no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you. CORIOLANUS. This last old man, Whom with crack'd heart I have sent to Rome, Lov'd me above the measure of a father; Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him; for whose old love I have- Though I show'd sourly to him- once more offer'd The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept. To grace him only, That thought he could do more, a very little I have yielded to; fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to. [Shout within] Ha! what shout is this? Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time 'tis made? I will not. Enter, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, VALERIA, YOUNG MARCIUS, with attendants My wife comes foremost, then the honour'd mould Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curtsy worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession which Great nature cries 'Deny not.' Let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. VIRGILIA. My lord and husband! CORIOLANUS. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. VIRGILIA. The sorrow that delivers us thus chang'd Makes you think so. CORIOLANUS. Like a dull actor now I have forgot my part and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say, For that, 'Forgive our Romans.' O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgin'd it e'er since. You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i' th' earth; [Kneels] Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons. VOLUMNIA. O, stand up blest! Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee, and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent. [Kneels] CORIOLANUS. What's this? Your knees to me, to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun, Murd'ring impossibility, to make What cannot be slight work. VOLUMNIA. Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady? CORIOLANUS. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curdied by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple- dear Valeria! VOLUMNIA. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th' interpretation of full time May show like all yourself. CORIOLANUS. The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' th' wars Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee! VOLUMNIA. Your knee, sirrah. CORIOLANUS. That's my brave boy. VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, Are suitors to you. CORIOLANUS. I beseech you, peace! Or, if you'd ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate Again with Rome's mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not T'allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons. VOLUMNIA. O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us any thing- For we have nothing else to ask but that Which you deny already; yet we will ask, That, if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness; therefore hear us. CORIOLANUS. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we'll Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request? VOLUMNIA. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child, to see The son, the husband, and the father, tearing His country's bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity's most capital: thou bar'st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we, Alas, how can we for our country pray, Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win; for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin, And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children's blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine; if I can not persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread- Trust to't, thou shalt not- on thy mother's womb That brought thee to this world. VIRGILIA. Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep your name Living to time. BOY. 'A shall not tread on me! I'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight. CORIOLANUS. Not of a woman's tenderness to be Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. I have sat too long. [Rising] VOLUMNIA. Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile them: while the Volsces May say 'This mercy we have show'd,' the Romans 'This we receiv'd,' and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry 'Be blest For making up this peace!' Thou know'st, great son, The end of war's uncertain; but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wip'd it out, Destroy'd his country, and his name remains To th' ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' th' air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy; Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons. There's no man in the world More bound to's mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i' th' stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy, When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home Loaden with honour. Say my request's unjust, And spurn me back; but if it be not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee, That thou restrain'st from me the duty which To a mother's part belongs. He turns away. Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down. An end; This is the last. So we will home to Rome, And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold's! This boy, that cannot tell what he would have But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny't. Come, let us go. This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; His wife is in Corioli, and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch. I am hush'd until our city be afire, And then I'll speak a little. [He holds her by the hand, silent] CORIOLANUS. O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But for your son- believe it, O, believe it!- Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd, If not most mortal to him. But let it come. Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius? AUFIDIUS. I was mov'd withal. CORIOLANUS. I dare be sworn you were! And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you'll make, advise me. For my part, I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you; and pray you Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife! AUFIDIUS. [Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee. Out of that I'll work Myself a former fortune. CORIOLANUS. [To the ladies] Ay, by and by; But we will drink together; and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have counter-seal'd. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 5.scene 4

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 4 using the context provided.

The scene opens in a public place in Rome where Menenius and Sicinius are fearfully awaiting the outcome of Volumnias intercession with her son. Menenius is certain that there is no hope of success and feels sure that Coriolanus will attack Rome. He still blames the tribunes for causing the whole mess with Coriolanus. Sicinius wonders whether a man can alter so much in such a short period of time. Menenius replies that Marcius has been transformed from a man into a dragon, just like a caterpillar changes into a butterfly. A messenger enters advising Sicinius to seek refuge in his house if he cares for the safety of his life. He states that the commoners have seized his fellow tribune, Brutus, and have threatened to put him to death if the women fail to dissuade Coriolanus from attacking Rome. Soon a second messenger arrives with the good news that the women have been successful in their mission and that the Volscians have retreated. Coriolanus has gone to Corioli. Sicinius is amazed at this wonderful and unexpected turn of events. The citizens rejoice as trumpets and drums are sounded. Menenius declares that he will go and meet the ladies and exclaims that Volumnia is worth a whole city of consuls, Senators, patricians, and tribunes. Sicinius thanks the messenger for bringing the good news and also goes to greet the women.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS and SICINIUS MENENIUS. See you yond coign o' th' Capitol, yond cornerstone? SICINIUS. Why, what of that? MENENIUS. If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in't; our throats are sentenc'd, and stay upon execution. SICINIUS. Is't possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man? MENENIUS. There is differency between a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown from man to dragon; he has wings, he's more than a creeping thing. SICINIUS. He lov'd his mother dearly. MENENIUS. So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes; when he walks, he moves like an engine and the ground shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye, talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finish'd with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity, and a heaven to throne in. SICINIUS. Yes- mercy, if you report him truly. MENENIUS. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him. There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find. And all this is 'long of you. SICINIUS. The gods be good unto us! MENENIUS. No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banish'd him we respected not them; and, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Sir, if you'd save your life, fly to your house. The plebeians have got your fellow tribune And hale him up and down; all swearing if The Roman ladies bring not comfort home They'll give him death by inches. Enter another MESSENGER SICINIUS. What's the news? SECOND MESSENGER. Good news, good news! The ladies have prevail'd, The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Marcius gone. A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, No, not th' expulsion of the Tarquins. SICINIUS. Friend, Art thou certain this is true? Is't most certain? SECOND MESSENGER. As certain as I know the sun is fire. Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it? Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide As the recomforted through th' gates. Why, hark you! [Trumpets, hautboys, drums beat, all together] The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans, Make the sun dance. Hark you! [A shout within] MENENIUS. This is good news. I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians, A city full; of tribunes such as you, A sea and land full. You have pray'd well to-day: This morning for ten thousand of your throats I'd not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy! [Sound still with the shouts] SICINIUS. First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next, Accept my thankfulness. SECOND MESSENGER. Sir, we have all Great cause to give great thanks. SICINIUS. They are near the city? MESSENGER. Almost at point to enter. SICINIUS. We'll meet them, And help the joy. Exeunt ----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS and SICINIUS MENENIUS. See you yond coign o' th' Capitol, yond cornerstone? SICINIUS. Why, what of that? MENENIUS. If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in't; our throats are sentenc'd, and stay upon execution. SICINIUS. Is't possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man? MENENIUS. There is differency between a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown from man to dragon; he has wings, he's more than a creeping thing. SICINIUS. He lov'd his mother dearly. MENENIUS. So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes; when he walks, he moves like an engine and the ground shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye, talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finish'd with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity, and a heaven to throne in. SICINIUS. Yes- mercy, if you report him truly. MENENIUS. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him. There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find. And all this is 'long of you. SICINIUS. The gods be good unto us! MENENIUS. No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banish'd him we respected not them; and, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Sir, if you'd save your life, fly to your house. The plebeians have got your fellow tribune And hale him up and down; all swearing if The Roman ladies bring not comfort home They'll give him death by inches. Enter another MESSENGER SICINIUS. What's the news? SECOND MESSENGER. Good news, good news! The ladies have prevail'd, The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Marcius gone. A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, No, not th' expulsion of the Tarquins. SICINIUS. Friend, Art thou certain this is true? Is't most certain? SECOND MESSENGER. As certain as I know the sun is fire. Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it? Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide As the recomforted through th' gates. Why, hark you! [Trumpets, hautboys, drums beat, all together] The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans, Make the sun dance. Hark you! [A shout within] MENENIUS. This is good news. I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians, A city full; of tribunes such as you, A sea and land full. You have pray'd well to-day: This morning for ten thousand of your throats I'd not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy! [Sound still with the shouts] SICINIUS. First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next, Accept my thankfulness. SECOND MESSENGER. Sir, we have all Great cause to give great thanks. SICINIUS. They are near the city? MESSENGER. Almost at point to enter. SICINIUS. We'll meet them, And help the joy. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act 5.scene 5

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 5, scene 5 with the given context.

Before we know it, Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria are parading through the streets like rock stars for saving Rome from big, bad, Coriolanus. Crowds of Romans gather to cheer them on for saving the day.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Rome. A street near the gate Enter two SENATORS With VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, VALERIA, passing over the stage, 'With other LORDS FIRST SENATOR. Behold our patroness, the life of Rome! Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before them. Unshout the noise that banish'd Marcius, Repeal him with the welcome of his mother; ALL. Welcome, ladies, welcome! [A flourish with drums and trumpets. Exeunt] ----------SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Rome. A street near the gate Enter two SENATORS With VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, VALERIA, passing over the stage, 'With other LORDS FIRST SENATOR. Behold our patroness, the life of Rome! Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before them. Unshout the noise that banish'd Marcius, Repeal him with the welcome of his mother; ALL. Welcome, ladies, welcome! [A flourish with drums and trumpets. Exeunt]

Coriolanus.act 5.scene 6

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 6 with the given context.

This concluding scene of the play shows the final downfall of the protagonist in Corioli -- the town where he first won fame. Aufidius enters with his attendants and dominates the entire scene. He first instructs the attendants to assemble everyone in the marketplace, where he will tell about the actions of Coriolanus, before the man actually arrives. Aufidius, speaking to some fellow conspirators against Coriolanus, remarks that he has been grossly wronged by his own generosity. He accuses Coriolanus of seducing his friends with flattery and mock humility. Aufidius also charges Coriolanus with selling the blood and labor of the Volscians for a few worthless drops of womens tears. The conspirators indicate that they are prepared to kill the enemy, but Aufidius says that they must proceed according to public opinion. The conspirators state that Coriolanus peace agreement with Rome has angered the soldiers, who had been looking forward to the spoils of war. The sound of drums and trumpets and the shout of people are heard in the distance as Coriolanus enters the city. The conspirators comment that Coriolanus does not warrant such a greeting, especially in consideration of his attack on the city of Corioli, when many Volscians died. As the Volscian lords enter to greet Aufidius, he bids his co- conspirators to remain silent. They have read his letter about Coriolanus and find it inexcusable that he entered into a treaty with Rome when it was ready to surrender, thus depriving the Volscians of a victory. Aufidius is glad that the lords agree with him, and says they will soon have the chance to question Coriolanus, who has just come into the city. Coriolanus enters and greets Aufidius. He asserts that he has led the Volscians successfully in many wars until they reached the gates of Rome. He has brought the spoils of war to the Volscians, which constitute a third part of the expenses of the army. He then declares he has a peace treaty in hand. Aufidius restrains the lords from reading the treaty and charges Coriolanus of treachery and abuse of power. Coriolanus, greatly provoked by being called a traitor and a boy of tears, says Aufidius is a liar and makes an insulting reference to his triumph at Corioli. His words only strengthen Aufidius argument as he reminds the Volscians of the shame inflicted on them when they lost Corioli. Incited by Aufidius conspirators and recalling kinsmen who had died at Roman hands, the citizens demand Coriolanus death. The lords attempt to establish order and declare that Coriolanus should have a judicious trial. Coriolanus, however, becomes enraged and insulting, angering the Volscians even more. Aufidius and the conspirators rush at Coriolanus with their swords and kill him. As Coriolanus falls down, Aufidius stands over his body. The lords reproach Aufidius for doing a deed where at valor will weep. Aufidius insists that he has been right in removing such a danger to the Volscian state and says that when the lords know the whole truth they will not accuse him. He begs to be called to the Senate, where after making a report he will submit to their censure as a loyal servant. The lords order that Coriolanus be accorded a funeral befitting a heroic warrior. His rage now spent, Aufidius helps to carry Coriolanus body away and declares that he shall have a noble memory in Corioli.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Corioli. A public place Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with attendents AUFIDIUS. Go tell the lords o' th' city I am here; Deliver them this paper; having read it, Bid them repair to th' market-place, where I, Even in theirs and in the commons' ears, Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse The city ports by this hath enter'd and Intends t' appear before the people, hoping To purge himself with words. Dispatch. Exeunt attendants Enter three or four CONSPIRATORS of AUFIDIUS' faction Most welcome! FIRST CONSPIRATOR. How is it with our general? AUFIDIUS. Even so As with a man by his own alms empoison'd, And with his charity slain. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. Most noble sir, If you do hold the same intent wherein You wish'd us parties, we'll deliver you Of your great danger. AUFIDIUS. Sir, I cannot tell; We must proceed as we do find the people. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. The people will remain uncertain whilst 'Twixt you there's difference; but the fall of either Makes the survivor heir of all. AUFIDIUS. I know it; And my pretext to strike at him admits A good construction. I rais'd him, and I pawn'd Mine honour for his truth; who being so heighten'd, He watered his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and to this end He bow'd his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable, and free. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Sir, his stoutness When he did stand for consul, which he lost By lack of stooping- AUFIDIUS. That I would have spoken of. Being banish'd for't, he came unto my hearth, Presented to my knife his throat. I took him; Made him joint-servant with me; gave him way In all his own desires; nay, let him choose Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, My best and freshest men; serv'd his designments In mine own person; holp to reap the fame Which he did end all his, and took some pride To do myself this wrong. Till, at the last, I seem'd his follower, not partner; and He wag'd me with his countenance as if I had been mercenary. FIRST CONSPIRATOR. So he did, my lord. The army marvell'd at it; and, in the last, When he had carried Rome and that we look'd For no less spoil than glory- AUFIDIUS. There was it; For which my sinews shall be stretch'd upon him. At a few drops of women's rheum, which are As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour Of our great action; therefore shall he die, And I'll renew me in his fall. But, hark! [Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the people] FIRST CONSPIRATOR. Your native town you enter'd like a post, And had no welcomes home; but he returns Splitting the air with noise. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him glory. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Therefore, at your vantage, Ere he express himself or move the people With what he would say, let him feel your sword, Which we will second. When he lies along, After your way his tale pronounc'd shall bury His reasons with his body. AUFIDIUS. Say no more: Here come the lords. Enter the LORDS of the city LORDS. You are most welcome home. AUFIDIUS. I have not deserv'd it. But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you? LORDS. We have. FIRST LORD. And grieve to hear't. What faults he made before the last, I think Might have found easy fines; but there to end Where he was to begin, and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge, making a treaty where There was a yielding- this admits no excuse. AUFIDIUS. He approaches; you shall hear him. Enter CORIOLANUS, marching with drum and colours; the commoners being with him CORIOLANUS. Hail, lords! I am return'd your soldier; No more infected with my country's love Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know That prosperously I have attempted, and With bloody passage led your wars even to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home Doth more than counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to th' Romans; and we here deliver, Subscrib'd by th' consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o' th' Senate, what We have compounded on. AUFIDIUS. Read it not, noble lords; But tell the traitor in the highest degree He hath abus'd your powers. CORIOLANUS. Traitor! How now? AUFIDIUS. Ay, traitor, Marcius. CORIOLANUS. Marcius! AUFIDIUS. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius! Dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus, in Corioli? You lords and heads o' th' state, perfidiously He has betray'd your business and given up, For certain drops of salt, your city Rome- I say your city- to his wife and mother; Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk; never admitting Counsel o' th' war; but at his nurse's tears He whin'd and roar'd away your victory, That pages blush'd at him, and men of heart Look'd wond'ring each at others. CORIOLANUS. Hear'st thou, Mars? AUFIDIUS. Name not the god, thou boy of tears- CORIOLANUS. Ha! AUFIDIUS. -no more. CORIOLANUS. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. 'Boy'! O slave! Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time that ever I was forc'd to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie; and his own notion- Who wears my stripes impress'd upon him, that Must bear my beating to his grave- shall join To thrust the lie unto him. FIRST LORD. Peace, both, and hear me speak. CORIOLANUS. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. 'Boy'! False hound! If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Flutter'd your Volscians in Corioli. Alone I did it. 'Boy'! AUFIDIUS. Why, noble lords, Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune, Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, Fore your own eyes and ears? CONSPIRATORS. Let him die for't. ALL THE PEOPLE. Tear him to pieces. Do it presently. He kill'd my son. My daughter. He kill'd my cousin Marcus. He kill'd my father. SECOND LORD. Peace, ho! No outrage- peace! The man is noble, and his fame folds in This orb o' th' earth. His last offences to us Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not the peace. CORIOLANUS. O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more- his tribe, To use my lawful sword! AUFIDIUS. Insolent villain! CONSPIRATORS. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him! [The CONSPIRATORS draw and kill CORIOLANUS,who falls. AUFIDIUS stands on him] LORDS. Hold, hold, hold, hold! AUFIDIUS. My noble masters, hear me speak. FIRST LORD. O Tullus! SECOND LORD. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep. THIRD LORD. Tread not upon him. Masters all, be quiet; Put up your swords. AUFIDIUS. My lords, when you shall know- as in this rage, Provok'd by him, you cannot- the great danger Which this man's life did owe you, you'll rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours To call me to your Senate, I'll deliver Myself your loyal servant, or endure Your heaviest censure. FIRST LORD. Bear from hence his body, And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did follow to his um. SECOND LORD. His own impatience Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. Let's make the best of it. AUFIDIUS. My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers; I'll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully; Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist. Exeunt, bearing the body of CORIOLANUS [A dead march sounded] THE END ----------SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Corioli. A public place Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with attendents AUFIDIUS. Go tell the lords o' th' city I am here; Deliver them this paper; having read it, Bid them repair to th' market-place, where I, Even in theirs and in the commons' ears, Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse The city ports by this hath enter'd and Intends t' appear before the people, hoping To purge himself with words. Dispatch. Exeunt attendants Enter three or four CONSPIRATORS of AUFIDIUS' faction Most welcome! FIRST CONSPIRATOR. How is it with our general? AUFIDIUS. Even so As with a man by his own alms empoison'd, And with his charity slain. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. Most noble sir, If you do hold the same intent wherein You wish'd us parties, we'll deliver you Of your great danger. AUFIDIUS. Sir, I cannot tell; We must proceed as we do find the people. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. The people will remain uncertain whilst 'Twixt you there's difference; but the fall of either Makes the survivor heir of all. AUFIDIUS. I know it; And my pretext to strike at him admits A good construction. I rais'd him, and I pawn'd Mine honour for his truth; who being so heighten'd, He watered his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and to this end He bow'd his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable, and free. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Sir, his stoutness When he did stand for consul, which he lost By lack of stooping- AUFIDIUS. That I would have spoken of. Being banish'd for't, he came unto my hearth, Presented to my knife his throat. I took him; Made him joint-servant with me; gave him way In all his own desires; nay, let him choose Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, My best and freshest men; serv'd his designments In mine own person; holp to reap the fame Which he did end all his, and took some pride To do myself this wrong. Till, at the last, I seem'd his follower, not partner; and He wag'd me with his countenance as if I had been mercenary. FIRST CONSPIRATOR. So he did, my lord. The army marvell'd at it; and, in the last, When he had carried Rome and that we look'd For no less spoil than glory- AUFIDIUS. There was it; For which my sinews shall be stretch'd upon him. At a few drops of women's rheum, which are As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour Of our great action; therefore shall he die, And I'll renew me in his fall. But, hark! [Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the people] FIRST CONSPIRATOR. Your native town you enter'd like a post, And had no welcomes home; but he returns Splitting the air with noise. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him glory. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Therefore, at your vantage, Ere he express himself or move the people With what he would say, let him feel your sword, Which we will second. When he lies along, After your way his tale pronounc'd shall bury His reasons with his body. AUFIDIUS. Say no more: Here come the lords. Enter the LORDS of the city LORDS. You are most welcome home. AUFIDIUS. I have not deserv'd it. But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you? LORDS. We have. FIRST LORD. And grieve to hear't. What faults he made before the last, I think Might have found easy fines; but there to end Where he was to begin, and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge, making a treaty where There was a yielding- this admits no excuse. AUFIDIUS. He approaches; you shall hear him. Enter CORIOLANUS, marching with drum and colours; the commoners being with him CORIOLANUS. Hail, lords! I am return'd your soldier; No more infected with my country's love Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know That prosperously I have attempted, and With bloody passage led your wars even to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home Doth more than counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to th' Romans; and we here deliver, Subscrib'd by th' consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o' th' Senate, what We have compounded on. AUFIDIUS. Read it not, noble lords; But tell the traitor in the highest degree He hath abus'd your powers. CORIOLANUS. Traitor! How now? AUFIDIUS. Ay, traitor, Marcius. CORIOLANUS. Marcius! AUFIDIUS. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius! Dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus, in Corioli? You lords and heads o' th' state, perfidiously He has betray'd your business and given up, For certain drops of salt, your city Rome- I say your city- to his wife and mother; Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk; never admitting Counsel o' th' war; but at his nurse's tears He whin'd and roar'd away your victory, That pages blush'd at him, and men of heart Look'd wond'ring each at others. CORIOLANUS. Hear'st thou, Mars? AUFIDIUS. Name not the god, thou boy of tears- CORIOLANUS. Ha! AUFIDIUS. -no more. CORIOLANUS. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. 'Boy'! O slave! Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time that ever I was forc'd to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie; and his own notion- Who wears my stripes impress'd upon him, that Must bear my beating to his grave- shall join To thrust the lie unto him. FIRST LORD. Peace, both, and hear me speak. CORIOLANUS. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. 'Boy'! False hound! If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Flutter'd your Volscians in Corioli. Alone I did it. 'Boy'! AUFIDIUS. Why, noble lords, Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune, Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, Fore your own eyes and ears? CONSPIRATORS. Let him die for't. ALL THE PEOPLE. Tear him to pieces. Do it presently. He kill'd my son. My daughter. He kill'd my cousin Marcus. He kill'd my father. SECOND LORD. Peace, ho! No outrage- peace! The man is noble, and his fame folds in This orb o' th' earth. His last offences to us Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not the peace. CORIOLANUS. O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more- his tribe, To use my lawful sword! AUFIDIUS. Insolent villain! CONSPIRATORS. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him! [The CONSPIRATORS draw and kill CORIOLANUS,who falls. AUFIDIUS stands on him] LORDS. Hold, hold, hold, hold! AUFIDIUS. My noble masters, hear me speak. FIRST LORD. O Tullus! SECOND LORD. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep. THIRD LORD. Tread not upon him. Masters all, be quiet; Put up your swords. AUFIDIUS. My lords, when you shall know- as in this rage, Provok'd by him, you cannot- the great danger Which this man's life did owe you, you'll rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours To call me to your Senate, I'll deliver Myself your loyal servant, or endure Your heaviest censure. FIRST LORD. Bear from hence his body, And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did follow to his um. SECOND LORD. His own impatience Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. Let's make the best of it. AUFIDIUS. My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers; I'll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully; Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist. Exeunt, bearing the body of CORIOLANUS [A dead march sounded] THE END

Coriolanus.act i.scene i

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act i, scene i based on the provided context.

The play begins in the city of Rome, where the common people, or plebeians, are rioting against their rulers, the patrician class, whom they accuse of hoarding grain while the common people starve. The plebeians demand the right to set the price of grain, rather than accept a price imposed by the Senate , and they single out Caius Martius, a patrician general and war hero, as the "chief enemy to the people". As they make their way to the Capitol, they are intercepted by Menenius, a patrician and a friend of Martius, who tells the mob that the patricians have their best interests at heart. He compares the role of the Senate in Rome to the role of the stomach in the human body: The stomach serves as a storehouse and collecting-place for all the nutrients and then dispenses them throughout the rest of the body; similarly, the patricians collect and dispense grain to the entire city. As Menenius and the rioters argue, Caius Martius himself comes in, and delivers a general curse to the mob, calling them dogs and cowards. He then tells Menenius that the Senate has agreed to allow the plebeians to elect five "tribunes," or representatives, to advocate for their interests in the Roman state. At that moment, a messenger dashes in, bringing word that the Volsces, one of Rome's enemies among the Italian tribes, are arming for war. Martius declares that the war will be good for their city and notes that the Volsces are led by a great general, Tullus Aufidius, whom he respects as a worthy adversary. A group of Senators has come in, and they now order Cominius and Titus Lartius to command the impending war--Martius will act as a lieutenant under Cominius. The crowd disperses, and the Senators return to the Capitol to prepare for the campaign. Meanwhile, the plebeians have already elected their tribunes. Two of these, Sicinius and Brutus, have been watching Martius's behavior, and now they both comment on how proud and domineering he is. Sicinius wonders how he will bear being under the command of Cominius, but Brutus points out that by being second-in-command, Martius will escape blame if things go badly, yet he will receive all the credit if things go well.

----------ACT I, SCENE I--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter a company of mutinous citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons FIRST CITIZEN. Before we proceed any further, hear me speak. ALL. Speak, speak. FIRST CITIZEN. You are all resolv'd rather to die than to famish? ALL. Resolv'd, resolv'd. FIRST CITIZEN. First, you know Caius Marcius is chief enemy to the people. ALL. We know't, we know't. FIRST CITIZEN. Let us kill him, and we'll have corn at our own price. Is't a verdict? ALL. No more talking on't; let it be done. Away, away! SECOND CITIZEN. One word, good citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us; if they would yield us but the superfluity while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely; but they think we are too dear. The leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes ere we become rakes; for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge. SECOND CITIZEN. Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius? FIRST CITIZEN. Against him first; he's a very dog to the commonalty. SECOND CITIZEN. Consider you what services he has done for his country? FIRST CITIZEN. Very well, and could be content to give him good report for't but that he pays himself with being proud. SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, but speak not maliciously. FIRST CITIZEN. I say unto you, what he hath done famously he did it to that end; though soft-conscienc'd men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud, which he is, even to the altitude of his virtue. SECOND CITIZEN. What he cannot help in his nature you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous. FIRST CITIZEN. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations; he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [Shouts within] What shouts are these? The other side o' th' city is risen. Why stay we prating here? To th' Capitol! ALL. Come, come. FIRST CITIZEN. Soft! who comes here? Enter MENENIUS AGRIPPA SECOND CITIZEN. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always lov'd the people. FIRST CITIZEN. He's one honest enough; would all the rest were so! MENENIUS. What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you. FIRST CITIZEN. Our business is not unknown to th' Senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we'll show 'em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths; they shall know we have strong arms too. MENENIUS. Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours, Will you undo yourselves? FIRST CITIZEN. We cannot, sir; we are undone already. MENENIUS. I tell you, friends, most charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them Against the Roman state; whose course will on The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity Thither where more attends you; and you slander The helms o' th' state, who care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies. FIRST CITIZEN. Care for us! True, indeed! They ne'er car'd for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses cramm'd with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there's all the love they bear us. MENENIUS. Either you must Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, Or be accus'd of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it; But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale't a little more. FIRST CITIZEN. Well, I'll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale. But, an't please you, deliver. MENENIUS. There was a time when all the body's members Rebell'd against the belly; thus accus'd it: That only like a gulf it did remain I' th' midst o' th' body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the rest; where th' other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. The belly answer'd- FIRST CITIZEN. Well, sir, what answer made the belly? MENENIUS. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile, Which ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus- For look you, I may make the belly smile As well as speak- it tauntingly replied To th' discontented members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt; even so most fitly As you malign our senators for that They are not such as you. FIRST CITIZEN. Your belly's answer- What? The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, With other muniments and petty helps Is this our fabric, if that they- MENENIUS. What then? Fore me, this fellow speaks! What then? What then? FIRST CITIZEN. Should by the cormorant belly be restrain'd, Who is the sink o' th' body- MENENIUS. Well, what then? FIRST CITIZEN. The former agents, if they did complain, What could the belly answer? MENENIUS. I will tell you; If you'll bestow a small- of what you have little- Patience awhile, you'st hear the belly's answer. FIRST CITIZEN. Y'are long about it. MENENIUS. Note me this, good friend: Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered. 'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he 'That I receive the general food at first Which you do live upon; and fit it is, Because I am the storehouse and the shop Of the whole body. But, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to the court, the heart, to th' seat o' th' brain; And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. And though that all at once You, my good friends'- this says the belly; mark me. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, sir; well, well. MENENIUS. 'Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.' What say you to' t? FIRST CITIZEN. It was an answer. How apply you this? MENENIUS. The senators of Rome are this good belly, And you the mutinous members; for, examine Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly Touching the weal o' th' common, you shall find No public benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you, And no way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly? FIRST CITIZEN. I the great toe? Why the great toe? MENENIUS. For that, being one o' th' lowest, basest, poorest, Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest foremost. Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead'st first to win some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs. Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; The one side must have bale. Enter CAIUS MARCIUS Hail, noble Marcius! MARCIUS. Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs? FIRST CITIZEN. We have ever your good word. MARCIUS. He that will give good words to thee will flatter Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you, The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geese; you are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland. What's the matter That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble Senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another? What's their seeking? MENENIUS. For corn at their own rates, whereof they say The city is well stor'd. MARCIUS. Hang 'em! They say! They'll sit by th' fire and presume to know What's done i' th' Capitol, who's like to rise, Who thrives and who declines; side factions, and give out Conjectural marriages, making parties strong, And feebling such as stand not in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there's grain enough! Would the nobility lay aside their ruth And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high As I could pick my lance. MENENIUS. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you, What says the other troop? MARCIUS. They are dissolv'd. Hang 'em! They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs- That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds They vented their complainings; which being answer'd, And a petition granted them- a strange one, To break the heart of generosity And make bold power look pale- they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation. MENENIUS. What is granted them? MARCIUS. Five tribunes, to defend their vulgar wisdoms, Of their own choice. One's Junius Brutus- Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. 'Sdeath! The rabble should have first unroof'd the city Ere so prevail'd with me; it will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection's arguing. MENENIUS. This is strange. MARCIUS. Go get you home, you fragments. Enter a MESSENGER, hastily MESSENGER. Where's Caius Marcius? MARCIUS. Here. What's the matter? MESSENGER. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. I am glad on't; then we shall ha' means to vent Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. Enter COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with other SENATORS; JUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS VELUTUS FIRST SENATOR. Marcius, 'tis true that you have lately told us: The Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to't. I sin in envying his nobility; And were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he. COMINIUS. You have fought together? MARCIUS. Were half to half the world by th' ears, and he Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make Only my wars with him. He is a lion That I am proud to hunt. FIRST SENATOR. Then, worthy Marcius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. COMINIUS. It is your former promise. MARCIUS. Sir, it is; And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus' face. What, art thou stiff? Stand'st out? LARTIUS. No, Caius Marcius; I'll lean upon one crutch and fight with t'other Ere stay behind this business. MENENIUS. O, true bred! FIRST SENATOR. Your company to th' Capitol; where, I know, Our greatest friends attend us. LARTIUS. [To COMINIUS] Lead you on. [To MARCIUS] Follow Cominius; we must follow you; Right worthy your priority. COMINIUS. Noble Marcius! FIRST SENATOR. [To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; be gone. MARCIUS. Nay, let them follow. The Volsces have much corn: take these rats thither To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutineers, Your valour puts well forth; pray follow. Ciitzens steal away. Exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius? BRUTUS. He has no equal. SICINIUS. When we were chosen tribunes for the people- BRUTUS. Mark'd you his lip and eyes? SICINIUS. Nay, but his taunts! BRUTUS. Being mov'd, he will not spare to gird the gods. SICINIUS. Bemock the modest moon. BRUTUS. The present wars devour him! He is grown Too proud to be so valiant. SICINIUS. Such a nature, Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder His insolence can brook to be commanded Under Cominius. BRUTUS. Fame, at the which he aims- In whom already he is well grac'd- cannot Better be held nor more attain'd than by A place below the first; for what miscarries Shall be the general's fault, though he perform To th' utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then cry out of Marcius 'O, if he Had borne the business!' SICINIUS. Besides, if things go well, Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall Of his demerits rob Cominius. BRUTUS. Come. Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius, Though Marcius earn'd them not; and all his faults To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed In aught he merit not. SICINIUS. Let's hence and hear How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than his singularity, he goes Upon this present action. BRUTUS. Let's along. Exeunt ----------ACT I SCENE I--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter a company of mutinous citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons FIRST CITIZEN. Before we proceed any further, hear me speak. ALL. Speak, speak. FIRST CITIZEN. You are all resolv'd rather to die than to famish? ALL. Resolv'd, resolv'd. FIRST CITIZEN. First, you know Caius Marcius is chief enemy to the people. ALL. We know't, we know't. FIRST CITIZEN. Let us kill him, and we'll have corn at our own price. Is't a verdict? ALL. No more talking on't; let it be done. Away, away! SECOND CITIZEN. One word, good citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us; if they would yield us but the superfluity while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely; but they think we are too dear. The leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes ere we become rakes; for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge. SECOND CITIZEN. Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius? FIRST CITIZEN. Against him first; he's a very dog to the commonalty. SECOND CITIZEN. Consider you what services he has done for his country? FIRST CITIZEN. Very well, and could be content to give him good report for't but that he pays himself with being proud. SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, but speak not maliciously. FIRST CITIZEN. I say unto you, what he hath done famously he did it to that end; though soft-conscienc'd men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud, which he is, even to the altitude of his virtue. SECOND CITIZEN. What he cannot help in his nature you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous. FIRST CITIZEN. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations; he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [Shouts within] What shouts are these? The other side o' th' city is risen. Why stay we prating here? To th' Capitol! ALL. Come, come. FIRST CITIZEN. Soft! who comes here? Enter MENENIUS AGRIPPA SECOND CITIZEN. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always lov'd the people. FIRST CITIZEN. He's one honest enough; would all the rest were so! MENENIUS. What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you. FIRST CITIZEN. Our business is not unknown to th' Senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we'll show 'em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths; they shall know we have strong arms too. MENENIUS. Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours, Will you undo yourselves? FIRST CITIZEN. We cannot, sir; we are undone already. MENENIUS. I tell you, friends, most charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them Against the Roman state; whose course will on The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity Thither where more attends you; and you slander The helms o' th' state, who care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies. FIRST CITIZEN. Care for us! True, indeed! They ne'er car'd for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses cramm'd with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there's all the love they bear us. MENENIUS. Either you must Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, Or be accus'd of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it; But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale't a little more. FIRST CITIZEN. Well, I'll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale. But, an't please you, deliver. MENENIUS. There was a time when all the body's members Rebell'd against the belly; thus accus'd it: That only like a gulf it did remain I' th' midst o' th' body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the rest; where th' other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. The belly answer'd- FIRST CITIZEN. Well, sir, what answer made the belly? MENENIUS. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile, Which ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus- For look you, I may make the belly smile As well as speak- it tauntingly replied To th' discontented members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt; even so most fitly As you malign our senators for that They are not such as you. FIRST CITIZEN. Your belly's answer- What? The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, With other muniments and petty helps Is this our fabric, if that they- MENENIUS. What then? Fore me, this fellow speaks! What then? What then? FIRST CITIZEN. Should by the cormorant belly be restrain'd, Who is the sink o' th' body- MENENIUS. Well, what then? FIRST CITIZEN. The former agents, if they did complain, What could the belly answer? MENENIUS. I will tell you; If you'll bestow a small- of what you have little- Patience awhile, you'st hear the belly's answer. FIRST CITIZEN. Y'are long about it. MENENIUS. Note me this, good friend: Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered. 'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he 'That I receive the general food at first Which you do live upon; and fit it is, Because I am the storehouse and the shop Of the whole body. But, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to the court, the heart, to th' seat o' th' brain; And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. And though that all at once You, my good friends'- this says the belly; mark me. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, sir; well, well. MENENIUS. 'Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.' What say you to' t? FIRST CITIZEN. It was an answer. How apply you this? MENENIUS. The senators of Rome are this good belly, And you the mutinous members; for, examine Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly Touching the weal o' th' common, you shall find No public benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you, And no way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly? FIRST CITIZEN. I the great toe? Why the great toe? MENENIUS. For that, being one o' th' lowest, basest, poorest, Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest foremost. Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead'st first to win some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs. Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; The one side must have bale. Enter CAIUS MARCIUS Hail, noble Marcius! MARCIUS. Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs? FIRST CITIZEN. We have ever your good word. MARCIUS. He that will give good words to thee will flatter Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you, The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geese; you are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland. What's the matter That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble Senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another? What's their seeking? MENENIUS. For corn at their own rates, whereof they say The city is well stor'd. MARCIUS. Hang 'em! They say! They'll sit by th' fire and presume to know What's done i' th' Capitol, who's like to rise, Who thrives and who declines; side factions, and give out Conjectural marriages, making parties strong, And feebling such as stand not in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there's grain enough! Would the nobility lay aside their ruth And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high As I could pick my lance. MENENIUS. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you, What says the other troop? MARCIUS. They are dissolv'd. Hang 'em! They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs- That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds They vented their complainings; which being answer'd, And a petition granted them- a strange one, To break the heart of generosity And make bold power look pale- they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation. MENENIUS. What is granted them? MARCIUS. Five tribunes, to defend their vulgar wisdoms, Of their own choice. One's Junius Brutus- Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. 'Sdeath! The rabble should have first unroof'd the city Ere so prevail'd with me; it will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection's arguing. MENENIUS. This is strange. MARCIUS. Go get you home, you fragments. Enter a MESSENGER, hastily MESSENGER. Where's Caius Marcius? MARCIUS. Here. What's the matter? MESSENGER. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. I am glad on't; then we shall ha' means to vent Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. Enter COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with other SENATORS; JUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS VELUTUS FIRST SENATOR. Marcius, 'tis true that you have lately told us: The Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to't. I sin in envying his nobility; And were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he. COMINIUS. You have fought together? MARCIUS. Were half to half the world by th' ears, and he Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make Only my wars with him. He is a lion That I am proud to hunt. FIRST SENATOR. Then, worthy Marcius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. COMINIUS. It is your former promise. MARCIUS. Sir, it is; And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus' face. What, art thou stiff? Stand'st out? LARTIUS. No, Caius Marcius; I'll lean upon one crutch and fight with t'other Ere stay behind this business. MENENIUS. O, true bred! FIRST SENATOR. Your company to th' Capitol; where, I know, Our greatest friends attend us. LARTIUS. [To COMINIUS] Lead you on. [To MARCIUS] Follow Cominius; we must follow you; Right worthy your priority. COMINIUS. Noble Marcius! FIRST SENATOR. [To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; be gone. MARCIUS. Nay, let them follow. The Volsces have much corn: take these rats thither To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutineers, Your valour puts well forth; pray follow. Ciitzens steal away. Exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius? BRUTUS. He has no equal. SICINIUS. When we were chosen tribunes for the people- BRUTUS. Mark'd you his lip and eyes? SICINIUS. Nay, but his taunts! BRUTUS. Being mov'd, he will not spare to gird the gods. SICINIUS. Bemock the modest moon. BRUTUS. The present wars devour him! He is grown Too proud to be so valiant. SICINIUS. Such a nature, Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder His insolence can brook to be commanded Under Cominius. BRUTUS. Fame, at the which he aims- In whom already he is well grac'd- cannot Better be held nor more attain'd than by A place below the first; for what miscarries Shall be the general's fault, though he perform To th' utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then cry out of Marcius 'O, if he Had borne the business!' SICINIUS. Besides, if things go well, Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall Of his demerits rob Cominius. BRUTUS. Come. Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius, Though Marcius earn'd them not; and all his faults To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed In aught he merit not. SICINIUS. Let's hence and hear How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than his singularity, he goes Upon this present action. BRUTUS. Let's along. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act i.scene ii

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act i scene ii using the context provided.

The action moves to the Senate House at the Volscian city of Corioli, where the Volscian commander Aufidius is preparing to leave with his forces to attack Rome. Aufidius tells the Senators that he believes the Romans are expecting the attack, but a Senator disagrees. The Second Senator tells Aufidius to take his army to Rome as planned and only to return to Corioli if the Romans besiege the town. Aufidius tells the Senators that he and Caius Martius have sworn an oath to fight to the death if they should meet

----------ACT I SCENE II--------- SCENE II. Corioli. The Senate House. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with SENATORS of Corioli FIRST SENATOR. So, your opinion is, Aufidius, That they of Rome are ent'red in our counsels And know how we proceed. AUFIDIUS. Is it not yours? What ever have been thought on in this state That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome Had circumvention? 'Tis not four days gone Since I heard thence; these are the words- I think I have the letter here; yes, here it is: [Reads] 'They have press'd a power, but it is not known Whether for east or west. The dearth is great; The people mutinous; and it is rumour'd, Cominius, Marcius your old enemy, Who is of Rome worse hated than of you, And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, These three lead on this preparation Whither 'tis bent. Most likely 'tis for you; Consider of it.' FIRST SENATOR. Our army's in the field; We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready To answer us. AUFIDIUS. Nor did you think it folly To keep your great pretences veil'd till when They needs must show themselves; which in the hatching, It seem'd, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery We shall be short'ned in our aim, which was To take in many towns ere almost Rome Should know we were afoot. SECOND SENATOR. Noble Aufidius, Take your commission; hie you to your bands; Let us alone to guard Corioli. If they set down before's, for the remove Bring up your army; but I think you'll find Th' have not prepar'd for us. AUFIDIUS. O, doubt not that! I speak from certainties. Nay more, Some parcels of their power are forth already, And only hitherward. I leave your honours. If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet, 'Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike Till one can do no more. ALL. The gods assist you! AUFIDIUS. And keep your honours safe! FIRST SENATOR. Farewell. SECOND SENATOR. Farewell. ALL. Farewell. Exeunt ----------ACT I SCENE III--------- SCENE III. Rome. MARCIUS' house Enter VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA, mother and wife to MARCIUS; they set them down on two low stools and sew VOLUMNIA. I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when youth with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way; when, for a day of kings' entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding; I, considering how honour would become such a person- that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th' wall, if renown made it not stir- was pleas'd to let him seek danger where he was to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he return'd his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man. VIRGILIA. But had he died in the business, madam, how then? VOLUMNIA. Then his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. Enter a GENTLEWOMAN GENTLEWOMAN. Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you. VIRGILIA. Beseech you give me leave to retire myself. VOLUMNIA. Indeed you shall not. Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum; See him pluck Aufidius down by th' hair; As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him. Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus: 'Come on, you cowards! You were got in fear, Though you were born in Rome.' His bloody brow With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes, Like to a harvest-man that's task'd to mow Or all or lose his hire. VIRGILIA. His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood! VOLUMNIA. Away, you fool! It more becomes a man Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood At Grecian sword, contemning. Tell Valeria We are fit to bid her welcome. Exit GENTLEWOMAN VIRGILIA. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius! VOLUMNIA. He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee And tread upon his neck. Re-enter GENTLEWOMAN, With VALERIA and an usher VALERIA. My ladies both, good day to you. VOLUMNIA. Sweet madam! VIRGILIA. I am glad to see your ladyship. VALERIA. How do you both? You are manifest housekeepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son? VIRGILIA. I thank your ladyship; well, good madam. VOLUMNIA. He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than look upon his schoolmaster. VALERIA. O' my word, the father's son! I'll swear 'tis a very pretty boy. O' my troth, I look'd upon him a Wednesday half an hour together; has such a confirm'd countenance! I saw him run after a gilded butterfly; and when he caught it he let it go again, and after it again, and over and over he comes, and up again, catch'd it again; or whether his fall enrag'd him, or how 'twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant, how he mammock'd it! VOLUMNIA. One on's father's moods. VALERIA. Indeed, la, 'tis a noble child. VIRGILIA. A crack, madam. VALERIA. Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must have you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon. VIRGILIA. No, good madam; I will not out of doors. VALERIA. Not out of doors! VOLUMNIA. She shall, she shall. VIRGILIA. Indeed, no, by your patience; I'll not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars. VALERIA. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably; come, you must go visit the good lady that lies in. VIRGILIA. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my prayers; but I cannot go thither. VOLUMNIA. Why, I pray you? VIRGILIA. 'Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love. VALERIA. You would be another Penelope; yet they say all the yarn she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come, I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us. VIRGILIA. No, good madam, pardon me; indeed I will not forth. VALERIA. In truth, la, go with me; and I'll tell you excellent news of your husband. VIRGILIA. O, good madam, there can be none yet. VALERIA. Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news from him last night. VIRGILIA. Indeed, madam? VALERIA. In earnest, it's true; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army forth; against whom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of our Roman power. Your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli; they nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us. VIRGILIA. Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in everything hereafter. VOLUMNIA. Let her alone, lady; as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth. VALERIA. In troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then. Come, good sweet lady. Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o' door and go along with us. VIRGILIA. No, at a word, madam; indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth. VALERIA. Well then, farewell. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act i.scene vi

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Produce a brief summary for act i scene vii based on the provided context.

Titus Lartius leaves some men to hold Corioli and goes to join Cominius and Caius Martius at the battlefield

----------ACT I SCENE VI--------- SCENE VI. Near the camp of COMINIUS Enter COMINIUS, as it were in retire, with soldiers COMINIUS. Breathe you, my friends. Well fought; we are come off Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands Nor cowardly in retire. Believe me, sirs, We shall be charg'd again. Whiles we have struck, By interims and conveying gusts we have heard The charges of our friends. The Roman gods, Lead their successes as we wish our own, That both our powers, with smiling fronts encount'ring, May give you thankful sacrifice! Enter A MESSENGER Thy news? MESSENGER. The citizens of Corioli have issued And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle; I saw our party to their trenches driven, And then I came away. COMINIUS. Though thou speak'st truth, Methinks thou speak'st not well. How long is't since? MESSENGER. Above an hour, my lord. COMINIUS. 'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums. How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour, And bring thy news so late? MESSENGER. Spies of the Volsces Held me in chase, that I was forc'd to wheel Three or four miles about; else had I, sir, Half an hour since brought my report. Enter MARCIUS COMINIUS. Who's yonder That does appear as he were flay'd? O gods! He has the stamp of Marcius, and I have Before-time seen him thus. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue From every meaner man. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, But mantled in your own. MARCIUS. O! let me clip ye In arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done, And tapers burn'd to bedward. COMINIUS. Flower of warriors, How is't with Titus Lartius? MARCIUS. As with a man busied about decrees: Condemning some to death and some to exile; Ransoming him or pitying, threat'ning th' other; Holding Corioli in the name of Rome Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, To let him slip at will. COMINIUS. Where is that slave Which told me they had beat you to your trenches? Where is he? Call him hither. MARCIUS. Let him alone; He did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen, The common file- a plague! tribunes for them! The mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat as they did budge From rascals worse than they. COMINIUS. But how prevail'd you? MARCIUS. Will the time serve to tell? I do not think. Where is the enemy? Are you lords o' th' field? If not, why cease you till you are so? COMINIUS. Marcius, We have at disadvantage fought, and did Retire to win our purpose. MARCIUS. How lies their battle? Know you on which side They have plac'd their men of trust? COMINIUS. As I guess, Marcius, Their bands i' th' vaward are the Antiates, Of their best trust; o'er them Aufidius, Their very heart of hope. MARCIUS. I do beseech you, By all the battles wherein we have fought, By th' blood we have shed together, by th' vows We have made to endure friends, that you directly Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates; And that you not delay the present, but, Filling the air with swords advanc'd and darts, We prove this very hour. COMINIUS. Though I could wish You were conducted to a gentle bath And balms applied to you, yet dare I never Deny your asking: take your choice of those That best can aid your action. MARCIUS. Those are they That most are willing. If any such be here- As it were sin to doubt- that love this painting Wherein you see me smear'd; if any fear Lesser his person than an ill report; If any think brave death outweighs bad life And that his country's dearer than himself; Let him alone, or so many so minded, Wave thus to express his disposition, And follow Marcius. [They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in their arms and cast up their caps] O, me alone! Make you a sword of me? If these shows be not outward, which of you But is four Volsces? None of you but is Able to bear against the great Aufidius A shield as hard as his. A certain number, Though thanks to all, must I select from all; the rest Shall bear the business in some other fight, As cause will be obey'd. Please you to march; And four shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best inclin'd. COMINIUS. March on, my fellows; Make good this ostentation, and you shall Divide in all with us. Exeunt ----------ACT I SCENE VII--------- SCENE VII. The gates of Corioli TITUS LARTIUS, having set a guard upon Corioli, going with drum and trumpet toward COMINIUS and CAIUS MARCIUS, enters with a LIEUTENANT, other soldiers, and a scout LARTIUS. So, let the ports be guarded; keep your duties As I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve For a short holding. If we lose the field We cannot keep the town. LIEUTENANT. Fear not our care, sir. LARTIUS. Hence, and shut your gates upon's. Our guider, come; to th' Roman camp conduct us. Exeunt ----------ACT I SCENE VIII--------- SCENE VIII. A field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps Alarum, as in battle. Enter MARCIUS and AUFIDIUS at several doors MARCIUS. I'll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee Worse than a promise-breaker. AUFIDIUS. We hate alike: Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot. MARCIUS. Let the first budger die the other's slave, And the gods doom him after! AUFIDIUS. If I fly, Marcius, Halloa me like a hare. MARCIUS. Within these three hours, Tullus, Alone I fought in your Corioli walls, And made what work I pleas'd. 'Tis not my blood Wherein thou seest me mask'd. For thy revenge Wrench up thy power to th' highest. AUFIDIUS. Wert thou the Hector That was the whip of your bragg'd progeny, Thou shouldst not scape me here. Here they fight, and certain Volsces come in the aid of AUFIDIUS. MARCIUS fights till they be driven in breathless Officious, and not valiant, you have sham'd me In your condemned seconds. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act ii.scene i

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act ii scene i with the given context.

act ii scene i|act ii scene ii

In Rome, Menenius discusses Caius Martius with the two tribunes, Brutus and Sicinius. The tribunes criticize Coriolanus for his pride. Menenius rebukes them, saying that they themselves are guilty of pride. Brutus replies that Menenius is better known as a witty conversationalist at the dinner table than a valued member of the Senate. Menenius insults the tribunes, calling them "the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria enter. Volumnia tells Menenius that Coriolanus has been victorious and is coming home, for which Menenius gives thanks to the Roman god Jupiter. Volumnia is proud because Coriolanus has been wounded and been honored with an oak garland by a thankful Rome. She points out that he can show these wounds to the people, to persuade them to proclaim him consul. Coriolanus arrives in triumph, crowned with an oak garland. The people cheer him, but he tries to silence them, embarrassed by their praises. He greets Volumnia, Virgilia, and Menenius. Brutus and Sicinius discuss Coriolanus privately. They fear that if he is made consul, his power will threaten theirs. They say that he has sworn never to put on the threadbare toga that symbolizes humility, nor show his wounds to the people. They are certain that his pride will destroy his chances of being consul, and agree that this is in their interest. A Messenger arrives and invites Brutus and Sicinius to the Capitol, the building where the state rulers gather. The people are hailing Coriolanus as consul, and it seems certain that he will be elected

----------ACT II SCENE I--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, with the two Tribunes of the people, SICINIUS and BRUTUS MENENIUS. The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight. BRUTUS. Good or bad? MENENIUS. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius. SICINIUS. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. MENENIUS. Pray you, who does the wolf love? SICINIUS. The lamb. MENENIUS. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius. BRUTUS. He's a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear. MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, sir. MENENIUS. In what enormity is Marcius poor in that you two have not in abundance? BRUTUS. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all. SICINIUS. Especially in pride. BRUTUS. And topping all others in boasting. MENENIUS. This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured here in the city- I mean of us o' th' right-hand file? Do you? BOTH TRIBUNES. Why, how are we censur'd? MENENIUS. Because you talk of pride now- will you not be angry? BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, well, sir, well. MENENIUS. Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures- at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud? BRUTUS. We do it not alone, sir. MENENIUS. I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride. O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could! BOTH TRIBUNES. What then, sir? MENENIUS. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates-alias fools- as any in Rome. SICINIUS. Menenius, you are known well enough too. MENENIUS. I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in't; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are- I cannot call you Lycurguses- if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have deliver'd the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables; and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too? BRUTUS. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. MENENIUS. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs; you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing. All the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones. BRUTUS. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol. MENENIUS. Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's cushion or to be entomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion; though peradventure some of the best of 'em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships. More of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you. [BRUTUS and SICINIUS go aside] Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA How now, my as fair as noble ladies- and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler- whither do you follow your eyes so fast? VOLUMNIA. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's go. MENENIUS. Ha! Marcius coming home? VOLUMNIA. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation. MENENIUS. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo! Marcius coming home! VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA. Nay, 'tis true. VOLUMNIA. Look, here's a letter from him; the state hath another, his wife another; and I think there's one at home for you. MENENIUS. I will make my very house reel to-night. A letter for me? VIRGILIA. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw't. MENENIUS. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician. The most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded. VIRGILIA. O, no, no, no. VOLUMNIA. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't. MENENIUS. So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings a victory in his pocket? The wounds become him. VOLUMNIA. On's brows, Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland. MENENIUS. Has he disciplin'd Aufidius soundly? VOLUMNIA. Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off. MENENIUS. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that; an he had stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidius'd for all the chests in Corioli and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate possess'd of this? VOLUMNIA. Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes: the Senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war; he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly. VALERIA. In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him. MENENIUS. Wondrous! Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing. VIRGILIA. The gods grant them true! VOLUMNIA. True! pow, waw. MENENIUS. True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [To the TRIBUNES] God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded? VOLUMNIA. I' th' shoulder and i' th' left arm; there will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' th' body. MENENIUS. One i' th' neck and two i' th' thigh- there's nine that I know. VOLUMNIA. He had before this last expedition twenty-five wounds upon him. MENENIUS. Now it's twenty-seven; every gash was an enemy's grave. [A shout and flourish] Hark! the trumpets. VOLUMNIA. These are the ushers of Marcius. Before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears; Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie, Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die. A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the GENERAL, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crown'd with an oaken garland; with CAPTAINS and soldiers and a HERALD HERALD. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! [Flourish] ALL. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. No more of this, it does offend my heart. Pray now, no more. COMINIUS. Look, sir, your mother! CORIOLANUS. O, You have, I know, petition'd all the gods For my prosperity! [Kneels] VOLUMNIA. Nay, my good soldier, up; My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd- What is it? Coriolanus must I call thee? But, O, thy wife! CORIOLANUS. My gracious silence, hail! Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home, That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, And mothers that lack sons. MENENIUS. Now the gods crown thee! CORIOLANUS. And live you yet? [To VALERIA] O my sweet lady, pardon. VOLUMNIA. I know not where to turn. O, welcome home! And welcome, General. And y'are welcome all. MENENIUS. A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. Welcome! A curse begin at very root on's heart That is not glad to see thee! You are three That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men, We have some old crab trees here at home that will not Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors. We call a nettle but a nettle, and The faults of fools but folly. COMINIUS. Ever right. CORIOLANUS. Menenius ever, ever. HERALD. Give way there, and go on. CORIOLANUS. [To his wife and mother] Your hand, and yours. Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited; From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings, But with them change of honours. VOLUMNIA. I have lived To see inherited my very wishes, And the buildings of my fancy; only There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will cast upon thee. CORIOLANUS. Know, good mother, I had rather be their servant in my way Than sway with them in theirs. COMINIUS. On, to the Capitol. [Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before] BRUTUS and SICINIUS come forward BRUTUS. All tongues speak of him and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she chats him; the kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck, Clamb'ring the walls to eye him; stalls, bulks, windows, Are smother'd up, leads fill'd and ridges hors'd With variable complexions, all agreeing In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs and puff To win a vulgar station; our veil'd dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely gawded cheeks to th' wanton spoil Of Phoebus' burning kisses. Such a pother, As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slily crept into his human powers, And gave him graceful posture. SICINIUS. On the sudden I warrant him consul. BRUTUS. Then our office may During his power go sleep. SICINIUS. He cannot temp'rately transport his honours From where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won. BRUTUS. In that there's comfort. SICINIUS. Doubt not The commoners, for whom we stand, but they Upon their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours; which That he will give them make our as little question As he is proud to do't. BRUTUS. I heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear i' th' market-place, nor on him put The napless vesture of humility; Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds To th' people, beg their stinking breaths. SICINIUS. 'Tis right. BRUTUS. It was his word. O, he would miss it rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him And the desire of the nobles. SICINIUS. I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it In execution. BRUTUS. 'Tis most like he will. SICINIUS. It shall be to him then as our good wills: A sure destruction. BRUTUS. So it must fall out To him or our authorities. For an end, We must suggest the people in what hatred He still hath held them; that to's power he would Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them In human action and capacity Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than camels in their war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them. SICINIUS. This, as you say, suggested At some time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people- which time shall not want, If he be put upon't, and that's as easy As to set dogs on sheep- will be his fire To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze Shall darken him for ever. Enter A MESSENGER BRUTUS. What's the matter? MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought That Marcius shall be consul. I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and The blind to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves, Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers, Upon him as he pass'd; the nobles bended As to Jove's statue, and the commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts. I never saw the like. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol, And carry with us ears and eyes for th' time, But hearts for the event. SICINIUS. Have with you. Exeunt ----------ACT II SCENE II--------- SCENE II. Rome. The Capitol Enter two OFFICERS, to lay cushions, as it were in the Capitol FIRST OFFICER. Come, come, they are almost here. How many stand for consulships? SECOND OFFICER. Three, they say; but 'tis thought of every one Coriolanus will carry it. FIRST OFFICER. That's a brave fellow; but he's vengeance proud and loves not the common people. SECOND OFFICER. Faith, there have been many great men that have flatter'd the people, who ne'er loved them; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore; so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition, and out of his noble carelessness lets them plainly see't. FIRST OFFICER. If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently 'twixt doing them neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him, and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes- to flatter them for their love. SECOND OFFICER. He hath deserved worthily of his country; and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any further deed to have them at all, into their estimation and report; but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes and his actions in their hearts that for their tongues to be silent and not confess so much were a kind of ingrateful injury; to report otherwise were a malice that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it. FIRST OFFICER. No more of him; he's a worthy man. Make way, they are coming. A sennet. Enter the PATRICIANS and the TRIBUNES OF THE PEOPLE, LICTORS before them; CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, COMINIUS the Consul. SICINIUS and BRUTUS take their places by themselves. CORIOLANUS stands MENENIUS. Having determin'd of the Volsces, and To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, As the main point of this our after-meeting, To gratify his noble service that Hath thus stood for his country. Therefore please you, Most reverend and grave elders, to desire The present consul and last general In our well-found successes to report A little of that worthy work perform'd By Caius Marcius Coriolanus; whom We met here both to thank and to remember With honours like himself. [CORIOLANUS sits] FIRST SENATOR. Speak, good Cominius. Leave nothing out for length, and make us think Rather our state's defective for requital Than we to stretch it out. Masters o' th' people, We do request your kindest ears; and, after, Your loving motion toward the common body, To yield what passes here. SICINIUS. We are convented Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts Inclinable to honour and advance The theme of our assembly. BRUTUS. Which the rather We shall be bless'd to do, if he remember A kinder value of the people than He hath hereto priz'd them at. MENENIUS. That's off, that's off; I would you rather had been silent. Please you To hear Cominius speak? BRUTUS. Most willingly. But yet my caution was more pertinent Than the rebuke you give it. MENENIUS. He loves your people; But tie him not to be their bedfellow. Worthy Cominius, speak. [CORIOLANUS rises, and offers to go away] Nay, keep your place. FIRST SENATOR. Sit, Coriolanus, never shame to hear What you have nobly done. CORIOLANUS. Your Honours' pardon. I had rather have my wounds to heal again Than hear say how I got them. BRUTUS. Sir, I hope My words disbench'd you not. CORIOLANUS. No, sir; yet oft, When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. You sooth'd not, therefore hurt not. But your people, I love them as they weigh- MENENIUS. Pray now, sit down. CORIOLANUS. I had rather have one scratch my head i' th' sun When the alarum were struck than idly sit To hear my nothings monster'd. Exit MENENIUS. Masters of the people, Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter- That's thousand to one good one- when you now see He had rather venture all his limbs for honour Than one on's ears to hear it? Proceed, Cominius. COMINIUS. I shall lack voice; the deeds of Coriolanus Should not be utter'd feebly. It is held That valour is the chiefest virtue and Most dignifies the haver. If it be, The man I speak of cannot in the world Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years, When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought Beyond the mark of others; our then Dictator, Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight When with his Amazonian chin he drove The bristled lips before him; he bestrid An o'erpress'd Roman and i' th' consul's view Slew three opposers; Tarquin's self he met, And struck him on his knee. In that day's feats, When he might act the woman in the scene, He prov'd best man i' th' field, and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-ent'red thus, he waxed like a sea, And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurch'd all swords of the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say I cannot speak him home. He stopp'd the fliers, And by his rare example made the coward Turn terror into sport; as weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obey'd And fell below his stem. His sword, death's stamp, Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was tim'd with dying cries. Alone he ent'red The mortal gate of th' city, which he painted With shunless destiny; aidless came off, And with a sudden re-enforcement struck Corioli like a planet. Now all's his. When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce His ready sense, then straight his doubled spirit Re-quick'ned what in flesh was fatigate, And to the battle came he; where he did Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if 'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we call'd Both field and city ours he never stood To ease his breast with panting. MENENIUS. Worthy man! FIRST SENATOR. He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we devise him. COMINIUS. Our spoils he kick'd at, And look'd upon things precious as they were The common muck of the world. He covets less Than misery itself would give, rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend the time to end it. MENENIUS. He's right noble; Let him be call'd for. FIRST SENATOR. Call Coriolanus. OFFICER. He doth appear. Re-enter CORIOLANUS MENENIUS. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas'd To make thee consul. CORIOLANUS. I do owe them still My life and services. MENENIUS. It then remains That you do speak to the people. CORIOLANUS. I do beseech you Let me o'erleap that custom; for I cannot Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them For my wounds' sake to give their suffrage. Please you That I may pass this doing. SICINIUS. Sir, the people Must have their voices; neither will they bate One jot of ceremony. MENENIUS. Put them not to't. Pray you go fit you to the custom, and Take to you, as your predecessors have, Your honour with your form. CORIOLANUS. It is a part That I shall blush in acting, and might well Be taken from the people. BRUTUS. Mark you that? CORIOLANUS. To brag unto them 'Thus I did, and thus!' Show them th' unaching scars which I should hide, As if I had receiv'd them for the hire Of their breath only! MENENIUS. Do not stand upon't. We recommend to you, Tribunes of the People, Our purpose to them; and to our noble consul Wish we all joy and honour. SENATORS. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour! [Flourish. Cornets. Then exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS] BRUTUS. You see how he intends to use the people. SICINIUS. May they perceive's intent! He will require them As if he did contemn what he requested Should be in them to give. BRUTUS. Come, we'll inform them Of our proceedings here. On th' market-place I know they do attend us. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act iii.scene

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act iii scene iii using the context provided.

Sicinius and Brutus plot Coriolanus's downfall. They have arranged a voting system that will favor the views of the poor majority rather than the usual system, which favors the patricians. They brief an Aedile to work on the people to echo whatever sentence they decide. Brutus tells Sicinius to make Coriolanus angry, as he will not be able to control his speech and will say something that will bring about his ruin. Coriolanus, accompanied by Senators, enters. He agrees to abide by the people's verdict. Menenius speaks in defense of Coriolanus, pointing out that he has done valuable service to Rome but that he is a soldier, rough in speech. Sicinius charges Coriolanus of plotting to seize tyrannical power and of treason to the people. Coriolanus rises to the bait and furiously accuses him of being a liar. With Sicinius's encouragement, the plebeians cry out for Coriolanus to be thrown off the Tarpeian rock. The Senators remind him to be polite, but Coriolanus insists he will not speak one polite word to them, even if it means his death. Sicinius and Brutus pronounce sentence on Coriolanus: he shall be banished from Rome forever. The plebeians echo the sentence. Coriolanus replies contemptuously that it is he who banishes them. He leaves with the patricians.

----------ACT III SCENE II--------- SCENE II. Rome. The house of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS with NOBLES CORIOLANUS. Let them pull all about mine ears, present me Death on the wheel or at wild horses' heels; Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight; yet will I still Be thus to them. FIRST PATRICIAN. You do the nobler. CORIOLANUS. I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call them woollen vassals, things created To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder, When one but of my ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war. Enter VOLUMNIA I talk of you: Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me False to my nature? Rather say I play The man I am. VOLUMNIA. O, sir, sir, sir, I would have had you put your power well on Before you had worn it out. CORIOLANUS. Let go. VOLUMNIA. You might have been enough the man you are With striving less to be so; lesser had been The thwartings of your dispositions, if You had not show'd them how ye were dispos'd, Ere they lack'd power to cross you. CORIOLANUS. Let them hang. VOLUMNIA. Ay, and burn too. Enter MENENIUS with the SENATORS MENENIUS. Come, come, you have been too rough, something too rough; You must return and mend it. FIRST SENATOR. There's no remedy, Unless, by not so doing, our good city Cleave in the midst and perish. VOLUMNIA. Pray be counsell'd; I have a heart as little apt as yours, But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better vantage. MENENIUS. Well said, noble woman! Before he should thus stoop to th' herd, but that The violent fit o' th' time craves it as physic For the whole state, I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear. CORIOLANUS. What must I do? MENENIUS. Return to th' tribunes. CORIOLANUS. Well, what then, what then? MENENIUS. Repent what you have spoke. CORIOLANUS. For them! I cannot do it to the gods; Must I then do't to them? VOLUMNIA. You are too absolute; Though therein you can never be too noble But when extremities speak. I have heard you say Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends, I' th' war do grow together; grant that, and tell me In peace what each of them by th' other lose That they combine not there. CORIOLANUS. Tush, tush! MENENIUS. A good demand. VOLUMNIA. If it be honour in your wars to seem The same you are not, which for your best ends You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour as in war; since that to both It stands in like request? CORIOLANUS. Why force you this? VOLUMNIA. Because that now it lies you on to speak To th' people, not by your own instruction, Nor by th' matter which your heart prompts you, But with such words that are but roted in Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance to your bosom's truth. Now, this no more dishonours you at all Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune and The hazard of much blood. I would dissemble with my nature where My fortunes and my friends at stake requir'd I should do so in honour. I am in this Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles; And you will rather show our general louts How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon 'em For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard Of what that want might ruin. MENENIUS. Noble lady! Come, go with us, speak fair; you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the loss Of what is past. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, my son, Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand; And thus far having stretch'd it- here be with them- Thy knee bussing the stones- for in such busines Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th' ignorant More learned than the ears- waving thy head, Which often thus correcting thy stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling. Or say to them Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils, Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person. MENENIUS. This but done Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free As words to little purpose. VOLUMNIA. Prithee now, Go, and be rul'd; although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. Enter COMINIUS Here is Cominius. COMINIUS. I have been i' th' market-place; and, sir, 'tis fit You make strong party, or defend yourself By calmness or by absence; all's in anger. MENENIUS. Only fair speech. COMINIUS. I think 'twill serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit. VOLUMNIA. He must and will. Prithee now, say you will, and go about it. CORIOLANUS. Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce? Must I With my base tongue give to my noble heart A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do't; Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it, And throw't against the wind. To th' market-place! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge to th' life. COMINIUS. Come, come, we'll prompt you. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so, To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before. CORIOLANUS. Well, I must do't. Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot's spirit! My throat of war be turn'd, Which quier'd with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys' tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongue Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees, Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath receiv'd an alms! I will not do't, Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth, And by my body's action teach my mind A most inherent baseness. VOLUMNIA. At thy choice, then. To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear Thy dangerous stoutness; for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me; But owe thy pride thyself. CORIOLANUS. Pray be content. Mother, I am going to the market-place; Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov'd Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going. Commend me to my wife. I'll return consul, Or never trust to what my tongue can do I' th' way of flattery further. VOLUMNIA. Do your will. Exit COMINIUS. Away! The tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself To answer mildly; for they are prepar'd With accusations, as I hear, more strong Than are upon you yet. CORIOLANUS. The word is 'mildly.' Pray you let us go. Let them accuse me by invention; I Will answer in mine honour. MENENIUS. Ay, but mildly. CORIOLANUS. Well, mildly be it then- mildly. Exeunt ----------ACT III SCENE III--------- SCENE III. Rome. The Forum Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS BRUTUS. In this point charge him home, that he affects Tyrannical power. If he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to the people, And that the spoil got on the Antiates Was ne'er distributed. Enter an AEDILE What, will he come? AEDILE. He's coming. BRUTUS. How accompanied? AEDILE. With old Menenius, and those senators That always favour'd him. SICINIUS. Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have procur'd, Set down by th' poll? AEDILE. I have; 'tis ready. SICINIUS. Have you collected them by tribes? AEDILE. I have. SICINIUS. Assemble presently the people hither; And when they hear me say 'It shall be so I' th' right and strength o' th' commons' be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them, If I say fine, cry 'Fine!'- if death, cry 'Death!' Insisting on the old prerogative And power i' th' truth o' th' cause. AEDILE. I shall inform them. BRUTUS. And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease, but with a din confus'd Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to sentence. AEDILE. Very well. SICINIUS. Make them be strong, and ready for this hint, When we shall hap to give't them. BRUTUS. Go about it. Exit AEDILE Put him to choler straight. He hath been us'd Ever to conquer, and to have his worth Of contradiction; being once chaf'd, he cannot Be rein'd again to temperance; then he speaks What's in his heart, and that is there which looks With us to break his neck. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS and COMINIUS, with others SICINIUS. Well, here he comes. MENENIUS. Calmly, I do beseech you. CORIOLANUS. Ay, as an ostler, that for th' poorest piece Will bear the knave by th' volume. Th' honour'd gods Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice Supplied with worthy men! plant love among's! Throng our large temples with the shows of peace, And not our streets with war! FIRST SENATOR. Amen, amen! MENENIUS. A noble wish. Re-enter the AEDILE,with the plebeians SICINIUS. Draw near, ye people. AEDILE. List to your tribunes. Audience! peace, I say! CORIOLANUS. First, hear me speak. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, say. Peace, ho! CORIOLANUS. Shall I be charg'd no further than this present? Must all determine here? SICINIUS. I do demand, If you submit you to the people's voices, Allow their officers, and are content To suffer lawful censure for such faults As shall be prov'd upon you. CORIOLANUS. I am content. MENENIUS. Lo, citizens, he says he is content. The warlike service he has done, consider; think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i' th' holy churchyard. CORIOLANUS. Scratches with briers, Scars to move laughter only. MENENIUS. Consider further, That when he speaks not like a citizen, You find him like a soldier; do not take His rougher accents for malicious sounds, But, as I say, such as become a soldier Rather than envy you. COMINIUS. Well, well! No more. CORIOLANUS. What is the matter, That being pass'd for consul with full voice, I am so dishonour'd that the very hour You take it off again? SICINIUS. Answer to us. CORIOLANUS. Say then; 'tis true, I ought so. SICINIUS. We charge you that you have contriv'd to take From Rome all season'd office, and to wind Yourself into a power tyrannical; For which you are a traitor to the people. CORIOLANUS. How- traitor? MENENIUS. Nay, temperately! Your promise. CORIOLANUS. The fires i' th' lowest hell fold in the people! Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune! Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say 'Thou liest' unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray the gods. SICINIUS. Mark you this, people? PLEBEIANS. To th' rock, to th' rock, with him! SICINIUS. Peace! We need not put new matter to his charge. What you have seen him do and heard him speak, Beating your officers, cursing yourselves, Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying Those whose great power must try him- even this, So criminal and in such capital kind, Deserves th' extremest death. BRUTUS. But since he hath Serv'd well for Rome- CORIOLANUS. What do you prate of service? BRUTUS. I talk of that that know it. CORIOLANUS. You! MENENIUS. Is this the promise that you made your mother? COMINIUS. Know, I pray you- CORIOLANUS. I'll know no further. Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair word, Nor check my courage for what they can give, To have't with saying 'Good morrow.' SICINIUS. For that he has- As much as in him lies- from time to time Envied against the people, seeking means To pluck away their power; as now at last Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers That do distribute it- in the name o' th' people, And in the power of us the tribunes, we, Ev'n from this instant, banish him our city, In peril of precipitation From off the rock Tarpeian, never more To enter our Rome gates. I' th' people's name, I say it shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so! Let him away! He's banish'd, and it shall be so. COMINIUS. Hear me, my masters and my common friends- SICINIUS. He's sentenc'd; no more hearing. COMINIUS. Let me speak. I have been consul, and can show for Rome Her enemies' marks upon me. I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life, My dear wife's estimate, her womb's increase And treasure of my loins. Then if I would Speak that- SICINIUS. We know your drift. Speak what? BRUTUS. There's no more to be said, but he is banish'd, As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so. CORIOLANUS. You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate As reek o' th' rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air- I banish you. And here remain with your uncertainty! Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts; Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair! Have the power still To banish your defenders, till at length Your ignorance- which finds not till it feels, Making but reservation of yourselves Still your own foes- deliver you As most abated captives to some nation That won you without blows! Despising For you the city, thus I turn my back; There is a world elsewhere. Exeunt CORIOLANUS, COMINIUS, MENENIUS, with the other PATRICIANS AEDILE. The people's enemy is gone, is gone! [They all shout and throw up their caps] PLEBEIANS. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone! Hoo-oo! SICINIUS. Go see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath follow'd you, with all despite; Give him deserv'd vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city. PLEBEIANS. Come, come, let's see him out at gates; come! The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act iv.scene i

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act iv scene iii with the given context.

Adrian, a Volscian, meets Nicanor, a Roman spying for the Volscians, on the road. Nicanor reports that the Roman people have revolted against the patricians, and the patricians are so shocked by the banishment of Coriolanus that they are eager to seize the people's powers. The two men agree that Coriolanus's absence from Rome will give Aufidius a good chance of gaining revenge for his former defeat by the Romans. Adrian says that the Volscian army is ready to attack Rome

----------ACT IV SCENE I--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. Rome. Before a gate of the city Enter CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS, COMINIUS, with the young NOBILITY of Rome CORIOLANUS. Come, leave your tears; a brief farewell. The beast With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, Where is your ancient courage? You were us'd To say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike Show'd mastership in floating; fortune's blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were us'd to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conn'd them. VIRGILIA. O heavens! O heavens! CORIOLANUS. Nay, I prithee, woman- VOLUMNIA. Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish! CORIOLANUS. What, what, what! I shall be lov'd when I am lack'd. Nay, mother, Resume that spirit when you were wont to say, If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you'd have done, and sav'd Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother. I'll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius, Thy tears are salter than a younger man's And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime General, I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hard'ning spectacles; tell these sad women 'Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes, As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot well My hazards still have been your solace; and Believe't not lightly- though I go alone, Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen Makes fear'd and talk'd of more than seen- your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice. VOLUMNIA. My first son, Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius With thee awhile; determine on some course More than a wild exposture to each chance That starts i' th' way before thee. VIRGILIA. O the gods! COMINIUS. I'll follow thee a month, devise with thee Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us, And we of thee; so, if the time thrust forth A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send O'er the vast world to seek a single man, And lose advantage, which doth ever cool I' th' absence of the needer. CORIOLANUS. Fare ye well; Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full Of the wars' surfeits to go rove with one That's yet unbruis'd; bring me but out at gate. Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch; when I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you come. While I remain above the ground you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly. MENENIUS. That's worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let's not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I'd with thee every foot. CORIOLANUS. Give me thy hand. Come. Exeunt ----------ACT IV SCENE II--------- SCENE II. Rome. A street near the gate Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS with the AEDILE SICINIUS. Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further. The nobility are vex'd, whom we see have sided In his behalf. BRUTUS. Now we have shown our power, Let us seem humbler after it is done Than when it was a-doing. SICINIUS. Bid them home. Say their great enemy is gone, and they Stand in their ancient strength. BRUTUS. Dismiss them home. Exit AEDILE Here comes his mother. Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Let's not meet her. BRUTUS. Why? SICINIUS. They say she's mad. BRUTUS. They have ta'en note of us; keep on your way. VOLUMNIA. O, y'are well met; th' hoarded plague o' th' gods Requite your love! MENENIUS. Peace, peace, be not so loud. VOLUMNIA. If that I could for weeping, you should hear- Nay, and you shall hear some. [To BRUTUS] Will you be gone? VIRGILIA. [To SICINIUS] You shall stay too. I would I had the power To say so to my husband. SICINIUS. Are you mankind? VOLUMNIA. Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this, fool: Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship To banish him that struck more blows for Rome Than thou hast spoken words? SICINIUS. O blessed heavens! VOLUMNIA. More noble blows than ever thou wise words; And for Rome's good. I'll tell thee what- yet go! Nay, but thou shalt stay too. I would my son Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him, His good sword in his hand. SICINIUS. What then? VIRGILIA. What then! He'd make an end of thy posterity. VOLUMNIA. Bastards and all. Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome! MENENIUS. Come, come, peace. SICINIUS. I would he had continued to his country As he began, and not unknit himself The noble knot he made. BRUTUS. I would he had. VOLUMNIA. 'I would he had!' 'Twas you incens'd the rabble- Cats that can judge as fitly of his worth As I can of those mysteries which heaven Will not have earth to know. BRUTUS. Pray, let's go. VOLUMNIA. Now, pray, sir, get you gone; You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this: As far as doth the Capitol exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son- This lady's husband here, this, do you see?- Whom you have banish'd does exceed you all. BRUTUS. Well, well, we'll leave you. SICINIUS. Why stay we to be baited With one that wants her wits? Exeunt TRIBUNES VOLUMNIA. Take my prayers with you. I would the gods had nothing else to do But to confirm my curses. Could I meet 'em But once a day, it would unclog my heart Of what lies heavy to't. MENENIUS. You have told them home, And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with me? VOLUMNIA. Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let's go. Leave this faint puling and lament as I do, In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come. Exeunt VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! Exit ----------ACT IV SCENE III--------- SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium Enter a ROMAN and a VOLSCE, meeting ROMAN. I know you well, sir, and you know me; your name, I think, is Adrian. VOLSCE. It is so, sir. Truly, I have forgot you. ROMAN. I am a Roman; and my services are, as you are, against 'em. Know you me yet? VOLSCE. Nicanor? No! ROMAN. The same, sir. VOLSCE. You had more beard when I last saw you, but your favour is well appear'd by your tongue. What's the news in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state, to find you out there. You have well saved me a day's journey. ROMAN. There hath been in Rome strange insurrections: the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles. VOLSCE. Hath been! Is it ended, then? Our state thinks not so; they are in a most warlike preparation, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division. ROMAN. The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again; for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people, and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out. VOLSCE. Coriolanus banish'd! ROMAN. Banish'd, sir. VOLSCE. You will be welcome with this intelligence, Nicanor. ROMAN. The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said the fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she's fall'n out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of his country. VOLSCE. He cannot choose. I am most fortunate thus accidentally to encounter you; you have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home. ROMAN. I shall between this and supper tell you most strange things from Rome, all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you? VOLSCE. A most royal one: the centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in th' entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour's warning. ROMAN. I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company. VOLSCE. You take my part from me, sir. I have the most cause to be glad of yours. ROMAN. Well, let us go together. ----------ACT IV SCENE IV--------- SCENE IV. Antium. Before AUFIDIUS' house Enter CORIOLANUS, in mean apparel, disguis'd and muffled CORIOLANUS. A goodly city is this Antium. City, 'Tis I that made thy widows: many an heir Of these fair edifices fore my wars Have I heard groan and drop. Then know me not. Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones, In puny battle slay me. Enter A CITIZEN Save you, sir. CITIZEN. And you. CORIOLANUS. Direct me, if it be your will, Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium? CITIZEN. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state At his house this night. CORIOLANUS. Which is his house, beseech you? CITIZEN. This here before you. CORIOLANUS. Thank you, sir; farewell. Exit CITIZEN O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as 'twere, in love, Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My birthplace hate I, and my love's upon This enemy town. I'll enter. If he slay me, He does fair justice: if he give me way, I'll do his country service.

Coriolanus.act iv.scene v

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Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act iv scene vi, utilizing the provided context.

In Rome, Sicinius and Brutus are congratulating themselves on the peacefulness of life since Coriolanus was banished. Menenius arrives, and tells them that neither he, nor Coriolanus's wife or mother have heard from him. An Aedile enters with the news that the Volscians have invaded Roman territories and are destroying all that lies before them. Menenius points out that Aufidius is only able to do this because Coriolanus has been banished from Rome. Brutus orders the Aedile to be whipped, as he cannot believe that the Volscians would break the peace treaty they recently signed with Rome. A second messenger enters and reports that not only is the Aedile's news true, but that Coriolanus has joined with Aufidius and is leading an army against Rome. A third messenger arrives and says that the invaders have already burned and destroyed some of the Roman territories. Cominius and Menenius reproach the tribunes for having brought this disaster upon them. Menenius says that there is no hope unless Coriolanus decides to show mercy, but he and Cominius agree that the people of Rome, who drove him out, do not deserve it. A crowd of plebeians enters, fearful at the news. Menenius blames them for the coming attack. The citizens now claim they only consented to Coriolanus's banishment against their will. The tribunes leave for the Capitol

----------ACT IV SCENE V--------- SCENE V. Antium. AUFIDIUS' house Music plays. Enter A SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I think our fellows are asleep. Exit Enter another SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT.Where's Cotus? My master calls for him. Cotus! Exit Enter CORIOLANUS CORIOLANUS. A goodly house. The feast smells well, but I Appear not like a guest. Re-enter the first SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here's no place for you: pray go to the door. Exit CORIOLANUS. I have deserv'd no better entertainment In being Coriolanus. Re-enter second SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT. Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his head that he gives entrance to such companions? Pray get you out. CORIOLANUS. Away! SECOND SERVANT. Away? Get you away. CORIOLANUS. Now th' art troublesome. SECOND SERVANT. Are you so brave? I'll have you talk'd with anon. Enter a third SERVINGMAN. The first meets him THIRD SERVANT. What fellow's this? FIRST SERVANT. A strange one as ever I look'd on. I cannot get him out o' th' house. Prithee call my master to him. THIRD SERVANT. What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you avoid the house. CORIOLANUS. Let me but stand- I will not hurt your hearth. THIRD SERVANT. What are you? CORIOLANUS. A gentleman. THIRD SERVANT. A marv'llous poor one. CORIOLANUS. True, so I am. THIRD SERVANT. Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station; here's no place for you. Pray you avoid. Come. CORIOLANUS. Follow your function, go and batten on cold bits. [Pushes him away from him] THIRD SERVANT. What, you will not? Prithee tell my master what a strange guest he has here. SECOND SERVANT. And I shall. Exit THIRD SERVANT. Where dwell'st thou? CORIOLANUS. Under the canopy. THIRD SERVANT. Under the canopy? CORIOLANUS. Ay. THIRD SERVANT. Where's that? CORIOLANUS. I' th' city of kites and crows. THIRD SERVANT. I' th' city of kites and crows! What an ass it is! Then thou dwell'st with daws too? CORIOLANUS. No, I serve not thy master. THIRD SERVANT. How, sir! Do you meddle with my master? CORIOLANUS. Ay; 'tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. Thou prat'st and prat'st; serve with thy trencher; hence! [Beats him away] Enter AUFIDIUS with the second SERVINGMAN AUFIDIUS. Where is this fellow? SECOND SERVANT. Here, sir; I'd have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within. AUFIDIUS. Whence com'st thou? What wouldst thou? Thy name? Why speak'st not? Speak, man. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. [Unmuffling] If, Tullus, Not yet thou know'st me, and, seeing me, dost not Think me for the man I am, necessity Commands me name myself. AUFIDIUS. What is thy name? CORIOLANUS. A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine. AUFIDIUS. Say, what's thy name? Thou has a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn, Thou show'st a noble vessel. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. Prepare thy brow to frown- know'st thou me yet? AUFIDIUS. I know thee not. Thy name? CORIOLANUS. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may My surname, Coriolanus. The painful service, The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood Shed for my thankless country, are requited But with that surname- a good memory And witness of the malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me. Only that name remains; The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest, An suffer'd me by th' voice of slaves to be Whoop'd out of Rome. Now this extremity Hath brought me to thy hearth; not out of hope, Mistake me not, to save my life; for if I had fear'd death, of all the men i' th' world I would have 'voided thee; but in mere spite, To be full quit of those my banishers, Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight And make my misery serve thy turn. So use it That my revengeful services may prove As benefits to thee; for I will fight Against my cank'red country with the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more fortunes Th'art tir'd, then, in a word, I also am Longer to live most weary, and present My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice; Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, Since I have ever followed thee with hate, Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast, And cannot live but to thy shame, unless It be to do thee service. AUFIDIUS. O Marcius, Marcius! Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter Should from yond cloud speak divine things, And say ''Tis true,' I'd not believe them more Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr'd the moon with splinters; here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I lov'd the maid I married; never man Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars, I tell thee We have a power on foot, and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, Or lose mine arm for't. Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me- We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat- And wak'd half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all From twelve to seventy, and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o'erbeat. O, come, go in, And take our friendly senators by th' hands, Who now are here, taking their leaves of me Who am prepar'd against your territories, Though not for Rome itself. CORIOLANUS. You bless me, gods! AUFIDIUS. Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own revenges, take Th' one half of my commission, and set down- As best thou art experienc'd, since thou know'st Thy country's strength and weakness- thine own ways, Whether to knock against the gates of Rome, Or rudely visit them in parts remote To fright them ere destroy. But come in; Let me commend thee first to those that shall Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes! And more a friend than e'er an enemy; Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand; most welcome! Exeunt CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS The two SERVINGMEN come forward FIRST SERVANT. Here's a strange alteration! SECOND SERVANT. By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him. FIRST SERVANT. What an arm he has! He turn'd me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top. SECOND SERVANT. Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him; he had, sir, a kind of face, methought- I cannot tell how to term it. FIRST SERVANT. He had so, looking as it were- Would I were hang'd, but I thought there was more in him than I could think. SECOND SERVANT. So did I, I'll be sworn. He is simply the rarest man i' th' world. FIRST SERVANT. I think he is; but a greater soldier than he you wot on. SECOND SERVANT. Who, my master? FIRST SERVANT. Nay, it's no matter for that. SECOND SERVANT. Worth six on him. FIRST SERVANT. Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the greater soldier. SECOND SERVANT. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a town our general is excellent. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and for an assault too. Re-enter the third SERVINGMAN THIRD SERVANT. O slaves, I can tell you news- news, you rascals! BOTH. What, what, what? Let's partake. THIRD SERVANT. I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lief be a condemn'd man. BOTH. Wherefore? wherefore? THIRD SERVANT. Why, here's he that was wont to thwack our general- Caius Marcius. FIRST SERVANT. Why do you say 'thwack our general'? THIRD SERVANT. I do not say 'thwack our general,' but he was always good enough for him. SECOND SERVANT. Come, we are fellows and friends. He was ever too hard for him, I have heard him say so himself. FIRST SERVANT. He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on't; before Corioli he scotch'd him and notch'd him like a carbonado. SECOND SERVANT. An he had been cannibally given, he might have broil'd and eaten him too. FIRST SERVANT. But more of thy news! THIRD SERVANT. Why, he is so made on here within as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o' th' table; no question asked him by any of the senators but they stand bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress of him, sanctifies himself with's hand, and turns up the white o' th' eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i' th' middle and but one half of what he was yesterday, for the other has half by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. He'll go, he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by th' ears; he will mow all down before him, and leave his passage poll'd. SECOND SERVANT. And he's as like to do't as any man I can imagine. THIRD SERVANT. Do't! He will do't; for look you, sir, he has as many friends as enemies; which friends, sir, as it were, durst not- look you, sir- show themselves, as we term it, his friends, whilst he's in directitude. FIRST SERVANT. Directitude? What's that? THIRD SERVANT. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows, like conies after rain, and revel all with him. FIRST SERVANT. But when goes this forward? THIRD SERVANT. To-morrow, to-day, presently. You shall have the drum struck up this afternoon; 'tis as it were parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips. SECOND SERVANT. Why, then we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers. FIRST SERVANT. Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men. SECOND SERVANT. 'Tis so; and as war in some sort may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and it makes men hate one another. THIRD SERVANT. Reason: because they then less need one another. The wars for my money. I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising, they are rising. BOTH. In, in, in, in! Exeunt ----------ACT IV SCENE VI--------- SCENE VI. Rome. A public place Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him. His remedies are tame. The present peace And quietness of the people, which before Were in wild hurry, here do make his friends Blush that the world goes well; who rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by't, behold Dissentious numbers pest'ring streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops, and going About their functions friendly. Enter MENENIUS BRUTUS. We stood to't in good time. Is this Menenius? SICINIUS. 'Tis he, 'tis he. O, he is grown most kind Of late. Hail, sir! MENENIUS. Hail to you both! SICINIUS. Your Coriolanus is not much miss'd But with his friends. The commonwealth doth stand, And so would do, were he more angry at it. MENENIUS. All's well, and might have been much better He could have temporiz'd. SICINIUS. Where is he, hear you? MENENIUS. Nay, I hear nothing; his mother and his wife Hear nothing from him. Enter three or four citizens CITIZENS. The gods preserve you both! SICINIUS. God-den, our neighbours. BRUTUS. God-den to you all, god-den to you all. FIRST CITIZEN. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees Are bound to pray for you both. SICINIUS. Live and thrive! BRUTUS. Farewell, kind neighbours; we wish'd Coriolanus Had lov'd you as we did. CITIZENS. Now the gods keep you! BOTH TRIBUNES. Farewell, farewell. Exeunt citizens SICINIUS. This is a happier and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets Crying confusion. BRUTUS. Caius Marcius was A worthy officer i' the war, but insolent, O'ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking, Self-loving- SICINIUS. And affecting one sole throne, Without assistance. MENENIUS. I think not so. SICINIUS. We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone forth consul, found it so. BRUTUS. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome Sits safe and still without him. Enter an AEDILE AEDILE. Worthy tribunes, There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Reports the Volsces with several powers Are ent'red in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before 'em. MENENIUS. 'Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Marcius' banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshell'd when Marcius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out. SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Marcius? BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer whipp'd. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us. MENENIUS. Cannot be! We have record that very well it can; And three examples of the like hath been Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded. SICINIUS. Tell not me. I know this cannot be. BRUTUS. Not possible. Enter A MESSENGER MESSENGER. The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House; some news is come That turns their countenances. SICINIUS. 'Tis this slave- Go whip him fore the people's eyes- his raising, Nothing but his report. MESSENGER. Yes, worthy sir, The slave's report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is deliver'd. SICINIUS. What more fearful? MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of many mouths- How probable I do not know- that Marcius, Join'd with Aufidius, leads a power 'gainst Rome, And vows revenge as spacious as between The young'st and oldest thing. SICINIUS. This is most likely! BRUTUS. Rais'd only that the weaker sort may wish Good Marcius home again. SICINIUS. The very trick on 't. MENENIUS. This is unlikely. He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violent'st contrariety. Enter a second MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O'erborne their way, consum'd with fire and took What lay before them. Enter COMINIUS COMINIUS. O, you have made good work! MENENIUS. What news? what news? COMINIUS. You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonour'd to your noses- MENENIUS. What's the news? What's the news? COMINIUS. Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confin'd Into an auger's bore. MENENIUS. Pray now, your news? You have made fair work, I fear me. Pray, your news. If Marcius should be join'd wi' th' Volscians- COMINIUS. If! He is their god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, Or butchers killing flies. MENENIUS. You have made good work, You and your apron men; you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic-eaters! COMINIUS. He'll shake Your Rome about your ears. MENENIUS. As Hercules Did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work! BRUTUS. But is this true, sir? COMINIUS. Ay; and you'll look pale Before you find it other. All the regions Do smilingly revolt, and who resists Are mock'd for valiant ignorance, And perish constant fools. Who is't can blame him? Your enemies and his find something in him. MENENIUS. We are all undone unless The noble man have mercy. COMINIUS. Who shall ask it? The tribunes cannot do't for shame; the people Deserve such pity of him as the wolf Does of the shepherds; for his best friends, if they Should say 'Be good to Rome'- they charg'd him even As those should do that had deserv'd his hate, And therein show'd like enemies. MENENIUS. 'Tis true; If he were putting to my house the brand That should consume it, I have not the face To say 'Beseech you, cease.' You have made fair hands, You and your crafts! You have crafted fair! COMINIUS. You have brought A trembling upon Rome, such as was never So incapable of help. BOTH TRIBUNES. Say not we brought it. MENENIUS. How! Was't we? We lov'd him, but, like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him out o' th' city. COMINIUS. But I fear They'll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer. Desperation Is all the policy, strength, and defence, That Rome can make against them. Enter a troop of citizens MENENIUS. Here comes the clusters. And is Aufidius with him? You are they That made the air unwholesome when you cast Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus' exile. Now he's coming, And not a hair upon a soldier's head Which will not prove a whip; as many coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down, And pay you for your voices. 'Tis no matter; If he could burn us all into one coal We have deserv'd it. PLEBEIANS. Faith, we hear fearful news. FIRST CITIZEN. For mine own part, When I said banish him, I said 'twas pity. SECOND CITIZEN. And so did I. THIRD CITIZEN. And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we did, we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will. COMINIUS. Y'are goodly things, you voices! MENENIUS. You have made Good work, you and your cry! Shall's to the Capitol? COMINIUS. O, ay, what else? Exeunt COMINIUS and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Go, masters, get you home; be not dismay'd; These are a side that would be glad to have This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear. FIRST CITIZEN. The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let's home. I ever said we were i' th' wrong when we banish'd him. SECOND CITIZEN. So did we all. But come, let's home. Exeunt citizens BRUTUS. I do not like this news. SICINIUS. Nor I. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a lie! SICINIUS. Pray let's go. Exeunt ----------ACT IV SCENE VII--------- SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome Enter AUFIDIUS with his LIEUTENANT AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to th' Roman? LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are dark'ned in this action, sir, Even by your own. AUFIDIUS. I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him; yet his nature In that's no changeling, and I must excuse What cannot be amended. LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir- I mean, for your particular- you had not Join'd in commission with him, but either Had borne the action of yourself, or else To him had left it solely. AUFIDIUS. I understand thee well; and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him. Although it seems, And so he thinks, and is no less apparent To th' vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine Whene'er we come to our account. LIEUTENANT. Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry Rome? AUFIDIUS. All places yield to him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The senators and patricians love him too. The tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he'll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. First he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even. Whether 'twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From th' casque to th' cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controll'd the war; but one of these- As he hath spices of them all- not all, For I dare so far free him- made him fear'd, So hated, and so banish'd. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt'rance. So our virtues Lie in th' interpretation of the time; And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a cheer T' extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, Thou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine. Exeunt

Coriolanus.act v.scene ii

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act v scene iii based on the provided context.

Coriolanus tells Aufidius that the next day, they will besiege Rome. He asks Aufidius to report to the Volscian lords after the battle that Coriolanus served them loyally. Aufidius agrees that Coriolanus has been so faithful to the Volscian cause that he has refused all the pleas of his old friends from Rome. Coriolanus reveals that out of compassion for Menenius's fatherly love for him, he has given him a letter to take to Rome offering the Volscians. terms. But Rome has already refused these terms once, so Coriolanus knows that it cannot now accept them. Volumnia enters with Virgilia, Coriolanus's son Martius, and Valeria. As they bow to him, Coriolanus feels his resolve melt. Reversing the Roman tradition of filial duty whereby the child would kneel before the parent, Volumnia kneels before Coriolanus. When Volumnia presents Martius to Coriolanus, Coriolanus prays that he always remains invulnerable to disgrace. He begs Volumnia not to ask him to abandon his attack on Rome, since he cannot grant her request. Undaunted, Volumnia tells him that because of him, she and the rest of his family cannot pray to the gods, as if they pray for their birth land, they pray that Coriolanus loses the war. If he does lose, then he will be led through the streets of Rome in disgrace as a deserter; if he wins, then it will be by shedding his mother's, wife's, and child's blood. She begs him to make a peace that will benefit both Volscians and Romans, so that he will be thanked by both sides. She says that if he destroys Rome, his name will be forever cursed. When Coriolanus turns away from her, unwilling to be persuaded, Volumnia orders all of her party to kneel to him. She says that they will return to Rome and wait to be killed. Coriolanus, momentarily speechless, takes her by the hand. He says that the gods are laughing at this "unnatural scene. in which a mother kneels to beg favors from her son, when it should be the other way around. He tells his mother that she has persuaded him: she has won a victory for Rome, but she has done him a grave injury, since by obeying her, he breaks his word to the Volscians. He tells Aufidius that he will make peace with Rome, and asks him to stand by him. Aufidius tells the audience that he is pleased that Coriolanus has given him an excuse to take revenge on him and regain his own former reputation

----------ACT V SCENE II--------- SCENE II. The Volscian camp before Rome Enter MENENIUS to the WATCH on guard FIRST WATCH. Stay. Whence are you? SECOND WATCH. Stand, and go back. MENENIUS. You guard like men, 'tis well; but, by your leave, I am an officer of state and come To speak with Coriolanus. FIRST WATCH. From whence? MENENIUS. From Rome. FIRST WATCH. You may not pass; you must return. Our general Will no more hear from thence. SECOND WATCH. You'll see your Rome embrac'd with fire before You'll speak with Coriolanus. MENENIUS. Good my friends, If you have heard your general talk of Rome And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks My name hath touch'd your ears: it is Menenius. FIRST WATCH. Be it so; go back. The virtue of your name Is not here passable. MENENIUS. I tell thee, fellow, Thy general is my lover. I have been The book of his good acts whence men have read His fame unparallel'd haply amplified; For I have ever verified my friends- Of whom he's chief- with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes, Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise Have almost stamp'd the leasing; therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass. FIRST WATCH. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general. SECOND WATCH. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Has he din'd, canst thou tell? For I would not speak with him till after dinner. FIRST WATCH. You are a Roman, are you? MENENIUS. I am as thy general is. FIRST WATCH. Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you, when you have push'd out your gates the very defender of them, and in a violent popular ignorance given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decay'd dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceiv'd; therefore back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are condemn'd; our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon. MENENIUS. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation. FIRST WATCH. Come, my captain knows you not. MENENIUS. I mean thy general. FIRST WATCH. My general cares not for you. Back, I say; go, lest I let forth your half pint of blood. Back- that's the utmost of your having. Back. MENENIUS. Nay, but fellow, fellow- Enter CORIOLANUS with AUFIDIUS CORIOLANUS. What's the matter? MENENIUS. Now, you companion, I'll say an errand for you; you shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but by my entertainment with him if thou stand'st not i' th' state of hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what's to come upon thee. The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son! my son! thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here's water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here; this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee. CORIOLANUS. Away! MENENIUS. How! away! CORIOLANUS. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs Are servanted to others. Though I owe My revenge properly, my remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather Than pity note how much. Therefore be gone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I lov'd thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake [Gives a letter] And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius, Was my belov'd in Rome; yet thou behold'st. AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and Aufidius FIRST WATCH. Now, sir, is your name Menenius? SECOND WATCH. 'Tis a spell, you see, of much power! You know the way home again. FIRST WATCH. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your greatness back? SECOND WATCH. What cause, do you think, I have to swoon? MENENIUS. I neither care for th' world nor your general; for such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, y'are so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to: Away! Exit FIRST WATCH. A noble fellow, I warrant him. SECOND WATCH. The worthy fellow is our general; he's the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. Exeunt ----------ACT V SCENE III--------- SCENE III. The tent of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others CORIOLANUS. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to th' Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this business. AUFIDIUS. Only their ends You have respected; stopp'd your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper- no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you. CORIOLANUS. This last old man, Whom with crack'd heart I have sent to Rome, Lov'd me above the measure of a father; Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him; for whose old love I have- Though I show'd sourly to him- once more offer'd The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept. To grace him only, That thought he could do more, a very little I have yielded to; fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to. [Shout within] Ha! what shout is this? Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time 'tis made? I will not. Enter, in mourning habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, VALERIA, YOUNG MARCIUS, with attendants My wife comes foremost, then the honour'd mould Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curtsy worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession which Great nature cries 'Deny not.' Let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. VIRGILIA. My lord and husband! CORIOLANUS. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. VIRGILIA. The sorrow that delivers us thus chang'd Makes you think so. CORIOLANUS. Like a dull actor now I have forgot my part and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say, For that, 'Forgive our Romans.' O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgin'd it e'er since. You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i' th' earth; [Kneels] Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons. VOLUMNIA. O, stand up blest! Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee, and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent. [Kneels] CORIOLANUS. What's this? Your knees to me, to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun, Murd'ring impossibility, to make What cannot be slight work. VOLUMNIA. Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady? CORIOLANUS. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curdied by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple- dear Valeria! VOLUMNIA. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th' interpretation of full time May show like all yourself. CORIOLANUS. The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' th' wars Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee! VOLUMNIA. Your knee, sirrah. CORIOLANUS. That's my brave boy. VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, Are suitors to you. CORIOLANUS. I beseech you, peace! Or, if you'd ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate Again with Rome's mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not T'allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons. VOLUMNIA. O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us any thing- For we have nothing else to ask but that Which you deny already; yet we will ask, That, if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness; therefore hear us. CORIOLANUS. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we'll Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request? VOLUMNIA. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child, to see The son, the husband, and the father, tearing His country's bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity's most capital: thou bar'st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we, Alas, how can we for our country pray, Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win; for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin, And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children's blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine; if I can not persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread- Trust to't, thou shalt not- on thy mother's womb That brought thee to this world. VIRGILIA. Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep your name Living to time. BOY. 'A shall not tread on me! I'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight. CORIOLANUS. Not of a woman's tenderness to be Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. I have sat too long. [Rising] VOLUMNIA. Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile them: while the Volsces May say 'This mercy we have show'd,' the Romans 'This we receiv'd,' and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry 'Be blest For making up this peace!' Thou know'st, great son, The end of war's uncertain; but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses; Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wip'd it out, Destroy'd his country, and his name remains To th' ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' th' air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy; Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons. There's no man in the world More bound to's mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i' th' stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy, When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home Loaden with honour. Say my request's unjust, And spurn me back; but if it be not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee, That thou restrain'st from me the duty which To a mother's part belongs. He turns away. Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down. An end; This is the last. So we will home to Rome, And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold's! This boy, that cannot tell what he would have But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny't. Come, let us go. This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; His wife is in Corioli, and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch. I am hush'd until our city be afire, And then I'll speak a little. [He holds her by the hand, silent] CORIOLANUS. O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But for your son- believe it, O, believe it!- Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd, If not most mortal to him. But let it come. Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius? AUFIDIUS. I was mov'd withal. CORIOLANUS. I dare be sworn you were! And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you'll make, advise me. For my part, I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you; and pray you Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife! AUFIDIUS. [Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee. Out of that I'll work Myself a former fortune. CORIOLANUS. [To the ladies] Ay, by and by; But we will drink together; and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have counter-seal'd. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 1

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 1 scene 1 using the context provided.

Two gentlemen are talking in the palace of Cymbeline, King of Britain. The First Gentleman says that all the courtiers are frowning, reflecting the sorrowful mood of the King. He explains the reason: the King's daughter, Imogen, has married Posthumus Leonatus, a poor but worthy man, against the wishes of her father and his current wife, the Queen. The King has banished Posthumus and imprisoned Imogen. The King and Queen had wanted Imogen to marry Cloten, the Queen's son by a previous husband. . The First Gentleman says that despite their sad appearance, the courtiers are secretly glad about the marriage, as Cloten is "too bad for bad report" . In contrast, he says Imogen's chosen husband is both outwardly handsome and inwardly good. He is the son of Sicilius, who won military glory fighting for King Cymbeline's father, Tenantius, against the Romans. Sicilius earned the surname Leonatus for his bravery. Besides Posthumus, Sicilius also had two other sons, who died in battle, "with their swords in hand" , whereupon Sicilius died of grief. Sicilius' wife was pregnant and died giving birth to Posthumus. . Since Posthumus was now an orphan, the King took him under his care and brought him up. Posthumus grew to be loved and respected in the court. The First Gentleman says that his virtue is demonstrated by the fact that Imogen, the King's daughter and heir, has chosen him. Imogen is the King's only child. He once had two sons, but twenty years ago, both were stolen from the nursery when the eldest was three and the youngest a baby. The Second Gentleman is surprised that the King's children were so poorly guarded, and the search so slow that it could not trace them. . The gentlemen end their talk as the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen enter. .

----------SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Britain. The garden of CYMBELINE'S palace FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King's. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what's the matter? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom He purpos'd to his wife's sole son- a widow That late he married- hath referr'd herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She's wedded; Her husband banish'd; she imprison'd. All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch'd at very heart. SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen, That most desir'd the match. But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King's looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss'd the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her- I mean that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish'd- is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What's his name and birth? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve him to the root; his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv'd with glory and admir'd success, So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus; And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o' th' time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd As he was born. The King he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as 'twas minist'red, And in's spring became a harvest, liv'd in court- Which rare it is to do- most prais'd, most lov'd, A sample to the youngest; to th' more mature A glass that feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress, For whom he now is banish'd- her own price Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she sole child to th' King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons- if this be worth your hearing, Mark it- the eldest of them at three years old, I' th' swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is this ago? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king's children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow That could not trace them! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do well believe you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman, The Queen, and Princess. Exeunt Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN QUEEN. No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey'd unto you. You're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win th' offended King, I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you. POSTHUMUS. Please your Highness, I will from hence to-day. QUEEN. You know the peril. I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections, though the King Hath charg'd you should not speak together. Exit IMOGEN. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing- Always reserv'd my holy duty- what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. POSTHUMUS. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Re-enter QUEEN QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I'll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences. Exit POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! IMOGEN. Nay, stay a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead. POSTHUMUS. How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here [Puts on the ring] While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I'll place it Upon this fairest prisoner. [Puts a bracelet on her arm] IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall we see again? Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King! CYMBELINE. Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood. POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone. Exit IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st A year's age on me! IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience? IMOGEN. Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace. CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen! IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. CYMBELINE. Thou took'st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness. IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it. CYMBELINE. O thou vile one! IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus. You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost the sum he pays. CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad? IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd's son! Re-enter QUEEN CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [To the QUEEN] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up. QUEEN. Beseech your patience.- Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace!- Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice. CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day and, being aged, Die of this folly. Exit, with LORDS Enter PISANIO QUEEN. Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news? PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master. QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is done? PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand. QUEEN. I am very glad on't. IMOGEN. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master? PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When't pleas'd you to employ me. QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour He will remain so. PISANIO. I humbly thank your Highness. QUEEN. Pray walk awhile. IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray you speak with me. You shall at least Go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me. Exeunt ----------ACT 1 SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Britain. The garden of CYMBELINE'S palace FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King's. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what's the matter? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom He purpos'd to his wife's sole son- a widow That late he married- hath referr'd herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She's wedded; Her husband banish'd; she imprison'd. All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch'd at very heart. SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen, That most desir'd the match. But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King's looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss'd the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her- I mean that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish'd- is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What's his name and birth? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve him to the root; his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv'd with glory and admir'd success, So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus; And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o' th' time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd As he was born. The King he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as 'twas minist'red, And in's spring became a harvest, liv'd in court- Which rare it is to do- most prais'd, most lov'd, A sample to the youngest; to th' more mature A glass that feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress, For whom he now is banish'd- her own price Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she sole child to th' King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons- if this be worth your hearing, Mark it- the eldest of them at three years old, I' th' swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is this ago? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king's children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow That could not trace them! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do well believe you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman, The Queen, and Princess. Exeunt Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN QUEEN. No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey'd unto you. You're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win th' offended King, I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you. POSTHUMUS. Please your Highness, I will from hence to-day. QUEEN. You know the peril. I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections, though the King Hath charg'd you should not speak together. Exit IMOGEN. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing- Always reserv'd my holy duty- what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. POSTHUMUS. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Re-enter QUEEN QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I'll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences. Exit POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! IMOGEN. Nay, stay a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead. POSTHUMUS. How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here [Puts on the ring] While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I'll place it Upon this fairest prisoner. [Puts a bracelet on her arm] IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall we see again? Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King! CYMBELINE. Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood. POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone. Exit IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st A year's age on me! IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience? IMOGEN. Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace. CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen! IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. CYMBELINE. Thou took'st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness. IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it. CYMBELINE. O thou vile one! IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus. You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost the sum he pays. CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad? IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd's son! Re-enter QUEEN CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [To the QUEEN] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up. QUEEN. Beseech your patience.- Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace!- Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice. CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day and, being aged, Die of this folly. Exit, with LORDS Enter PISANIO QUEEN. Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news? PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master. QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is done? PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand. QUEEN. I am very glad on't. IMOGEN. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master? PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When't pleas'd you to employ me. QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour He will remain so. PISANIO. I humbly thank your Highness. QUEEN. Pray walk awhile. IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray you speak with me. You shall at least Go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 2

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 1 scene 2, utilizing the provided context.

The Queen tells Imogen that she is no wicked stepmother in that she supports her in her decision. She will have Imogen set free and speak in favor of Posthumus to the King. But she advises Posthumus to comply with the King's sentence of banishment. Posthumus agrees to leave today. The Queen leaves the newly-wed couple alone "in pity" of their state, in spite of the King's orders that they should not speak together. Imogen tells Posthumus that the Queen is only pretending to be on their side. She has braced herself to stay and face her father's anger, and sorrowfully urges Posthumus to leave. Posthumus, moved by Imogen's grief, pledges his loyalty to her. He will go to Rome and stay with his father's friend Philario. The Queen re-enters and advises the couple to be brief as she is at risk of angering the King. In a sinister aside to the audience, she reveals that she is sure of winning the King over to her way of thinking, since he always submits to the wrongs she does him in order to keep her friendship. Left alone with Posthumus, Imogen gives him a diamond ring, which belonged to her mother. She asks him to keep it until he woos another wife, after she herself is dead. He protests that he only wants one wife - Imogen - and that he would die sooner than take another. He puts the ring on her finger and also gives her a bracelet to wear for his sake. As Imogen wonders when they will meet again, Cymbeline comes in, furious to see Posthumus still there. Posthumus leaves with a blessing on "the good remainders of the court" . The King then charges Imogen with disloyalty, but Imogen advises him not to harm himself with his wrath; she is senseless of it, since parting from her husband is a greater pain. He accuses her of bringing "baseness" on his throne by taking a "beggar" for her husband; she insists that she has added "lustre" to it . She points out that it is Cymbeline's fault that she loves Posthumus, as Cymbeline brought them up together, and adds that Posthumus is "a man worth any woman" . As the Queen enters, Cymbeline scolds her for disobeying his command and allowing the couple to meet. The Queen asks the King to leave her with them, which he does. Pisanio, Posthumus's servant, comes in and tells the Queen that her son Cloten has drawn his sword on Posthumus. Posthumus was not incited to anger and did not try to hurt Cloten; others parted them. Imogen wishes they had been in some lonely place and that the fight had been concluded, presumably with the destruction of Cloten. Posthumus has sent Pisanio back to serve Imogen. Imogen asks him to come and see her in half an hour's time.

----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Britain. A public place Enter CLOTEN and two LORDS FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him? SECOND LORD. [Aside] No, faith; not so much as his patience. FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body's a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt. SECOND LORD. [Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o' th' back side the town. CLOTEN. The villain would not stand me. SECOND LORD. [Aside] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face. FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground. SECOND LORD. [Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies! CLOTEN. I would they had not come between us. SECOND LORD. [Aside] So would I, till you had measur'd how long a fool you were upon the ground. CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me! SECOND LORD. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn'd. FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she's a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit. SECOND LORD. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her. CLOTEN. Come, I'll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done! SECOND LORD. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. CLOTEN. You'll go with us? FIRST LORD. I'll attend your lordship. CLOTEN. Nay, come, let's go together. SECOND LORD. Well, my lord. Exeunt ----------ACT 1 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Britain. A public place Enter CLOTEN and two LORDS FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him? SECOND LORD. [Aside] No, faith; not so much as his patience. FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body's a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt. SECOND LORD. [Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o' th' back side the town. CLOTEN. The villain would not stand me. SECOND LORD. [Aside] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face. FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground. SECOND LORD. [Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies! CLOTEN. I would they had not come between us. SECOND LORD. [Aside] So would I, till you had measur'd how long a fool you were upon the ground. CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me! SECOND LORD. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn'd. FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she's a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit. SECOND LORD. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her. CLOTEN. Come, I'll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done! SECOND LORD. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt. CLOTEN. You'll go with us? FIRST LORD. I'll attend your lordship. CLOTEN. Nay, come, let's go together. SECOND LORD. Well, my lord. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 3

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for scene 3 based on the provided context.

Imogen is burdened with the grief due to her separation from Posthumus. She enters with Pisanio, the servant of Posthumus, and declares that if she were in Pisanio's place, she would wait at the shore hoping that each ship that arrived would bring news of her husband. She questions him over and over again regarding Posthumus's departure. Pisanio replies that his master had spoken of her even at the moment of departure, that he had waved his handkerchief and kissed it in farewell. Pisanio further says that his master had waited on deck, waving his glove or hat or handkerchief in an effort to show how slow and terrible the journey was to his soul, at the separation from his lady. Imogen is moved to tears as she elaborates on what she would have done if she were there. She has had no letter from Posthumus, but Pisanio assures her that it will come soon. Imogen is unhappy that she could not take leave of him properly, for even before she could give Posthumus a parting kiss, her father had rushed in like an intruder and separated them. She begs Pisanio to send a message to her lord, to think of her at prayers at certain fixed hours of the day, for she would then be able to meet him in her prayers. Pisanio leaves on this errand while Imogen is summoned to a meeting with the Queen.

----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter IMOGEN and PISANIO IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And questioned'st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee? PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen! IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief? PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam. IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all? PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or care Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him. PISANIO. Madam, so I did. IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack'd them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him? PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam, With his next vantage. IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T' encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Enter a LADY LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness' company. IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd. I will attend the Queen. PISANIO. Madam, I shall. Exeunt ----------ACT 1 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter IMOGEN and PISANIO IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And questioned'st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee? PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen! IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief? PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam. IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all? PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or care Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him. PISANIO. Madam, so I did. IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack'd them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him? PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam, With his next vantage. IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T' encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Enter a LADY LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness' company. IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch'd. I will attend the Queen. PISANIO. Madam, I shall. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 4

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 4, utilizing the provided context.

The setting is Rome where a group of men are gathered in Philario's house: Philario, Iachimo, and a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard. They are talking about Posthumus, who is to arrive there as the guest of Philario because he has been banished from his homeland. Iachimo maintains that he has seen Posthumus once in Britain before his marriage to Imogen. Philario requests the company to look after Posthumus, whose father had been his friend, and treat him as a gentleman. Posthumus arrives, and after being introduced to the other gentlemen, it transpires that he is acquainted with the Frenchman from Orleans. Their conversation, about a quarrel that almost came to be decided with swords, intrigues Posthumus and he insists on knowing the full details. It turns out to be a wager about the chastity, beauty and virtue of their "country mistresses." Posthumus then declares that his British lady is more fair, virtuous, wise and chaste than any woman in France. Iachimo now takes charge, and manipulates Posthumus into renewing the wager with him. So confident is he about his sexual prowess, Iachimo promises to prove to Posthumus that his lady is no paragon of virtue, and further states that if he comes back with proof of Imogen's infidelity, Posthumus will have to forego the diamond ring that Imogen had given him. However, if Imogen remains chaste and pure, Iachimo would lose ten thousand ducats and would have to fight a duel with Posthumus. Against the protests of Philario, the two men agree to the wager, and record a covenant before Iachimo leaves for Britain.

----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter PHILARIO, IACHIMO, a FRENCHMAN, a DUTCHMAN, and a SPANIARD IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look'd on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items. PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish'd than now he is with that which makes him both without and within. FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment. IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance? PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Enter POSTHUMUS Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing. FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still. FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o'errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences; but upon my mended judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not altogether slight. FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall'n both. IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference? FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. 'Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France. IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman's opinion, by this, worn out. POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy. POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok'd as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. IACHIMO. As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison- had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. POSTHUMUS. I prais'd her as I rated her. So do I my stone. IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at? POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys. IACHIMO. Either your unparagon'd mistress is dead, or she's outpriz'd by a trifle. POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you? POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep. IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol'n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish'd courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish'd a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring. PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen. POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first. IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. POSTHUMUS. No, no. IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o'ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus'd in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y'are worthy of by your attempt. IACHIMO. What's that? POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more- a punishment too. PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted. IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour's on th' approbation of what I have spoke! POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail? IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv'd. POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope. IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what's spoken, I swear. POSTHUMUS. Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between's. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here's my ring. PHILARIO. I will have it no lay. IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours- provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail'd, I am no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc'd, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th' assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword. IACHIMO. Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. POSTHUMUS. Agreed. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and IACHIMO FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you? PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow 'em. Exeunt ----------ACT 1 SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter PHILARIO, IACHIMO, a FRENCHMAN, a DUTCHMAN, and a SPANIARD IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look'd on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items. PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish'd than now he is with that which makes him both without and within. FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment. IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance? PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Enter POSTHUMUS Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing. FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans. POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still. FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o'errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others' experiences; but upon my mended judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not altogether slight. FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall'n both. IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference? FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. 'Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France. IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman's opinion, by this, worn out. POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy. POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok'd as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. IACHIMO. As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison- had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. POSTHUMUS. I prais'd her as I rated her. So do I my stone. IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at? POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys. IACHIMO. Either your unparagon'd mistress is dead, or she's outpriz'd by a trifle. POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you? POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep. IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol'n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish'd courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish'd a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring. PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen. POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first. IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. POSTHUMUS. No, no. IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o'ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world. POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus'd in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y'are worthy of by your attempt. IACHIMO. What's that? POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more- a punishment too. PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted. IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour's on th' approbation of what I have spoke! POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail? IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv'd. POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope. IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what's spoken, I swear. POSTHUMUS. Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between's. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here's my ring. PHILARIO. I will have it no lay. IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours- provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail'd, I am no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc'd, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th' assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword. IACHIMO. Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. POSTHUMUS. Agreed. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and IACHIMO FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you? PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow 'em. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 5

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 1 scene 5 using the context provided.

The scene is set in Rome at the house of Philario, where Posthumus intends to stay. Iachimo, a friend of Philario's, is speaking cynically about Posthumus, whom he has seen on a trip to Britain. He hints that he may not be as worthy as he is popularly believed to be. Philario replies that Posthumus has since grown in worth "both without and within" . Iachimo suggests that his marriage to the King's daughter gives him a reputation he does not deserve, and that people would rather exaggerate Posthumus's goodness than question Imogen's judgment for "taking a beggar" . He asks Philario why Posthumus is staying with him. Philario explains that he and Posthumus's father Sicilius were soldiers together, and that Sicilius saved his life. Posthumus arrives and Philario introduces him to the others present-Iachimo, a Frenchman and a Dutchman. The Frenchman reminds Posthumus that he has met him before, at Orleans, where he made peace between Posthumus and another Frenchman when they were about to fight over a trivial matter. Posthumus protests that the matter was not trivial. Iachimo inquires what it was, and the Frenchman explains that Posthumus had maintained that his lover, Imogen, was more beautiful, chaste and virtuous than any woman in France. Iachimo sneers that either the lady or Posthumus's opinion must not still exist. Posthumus protests that both her virtue and his opinion hold. Iachimo extends the quarrel, saying Posthumus cannot set her above Italian women. Posthumus will not give ground. Iachimo introduces a comparison between Posthumus's wife and his diamond. It may be, he says, that the diamond outshines many others that he has seen, but he has not seen the most precious diamond in existence, and neither has Posthumus seen the best woman in existence. When Posthumus says he values his diamond as more precious than any other, Iachimo wrongly implies that he prizes his diamond above Imogen. But Posthumus sets him right, pointing out that Imogen cannot be bought or sold, and is "only the gift of the gods" . Iachimo suggests that of Posthumus's two priceless things, the diamond ring and Imogen, the one could be stolen and the second is "frail" ; both are vulnerable to thieves. Posthumus replies that Italy contains no courtier accomplished enough to convince Imogen to betray him, and neither does he fear the loss of his ring. Iachimo issues a challenge to Posthumus: he says he could get the better of Imogen's-or any woman's-virtue "even to the yielding," an expression that implies sexual as well as military surrender. He wagers half his estate against Posthumus's ring that he will prevail. Posthumus refuses, saying that Iachimo deserves punishment. Philario intervenes, asking them to forget their disagreement. Iachimo now wishes he had extended his wager to include his neighbor's estate. He suggests a bet of ten thousand ducats against Posthumus's ring that, given an introduction to the court where Imogen lives, he will defeat her honor and bring back proof. Posthumus agrees to the wager with the addition that if Iachimo prevails, he will not treat him as an enemy, since Imogen will not be worth the debate. But if Imogen refuses to be seduced, then for the insult Iachimo has offered to her chastity, Posthumus will fight him. Iachimo agrees and says they will have a legal agreement drawn up.

----------SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter QUEEN, LADIES, and CORNELIUS QUEEN. Whiles yet the dew's on ground, gather those flowers; Make haste; who has the note of them? LADY. I, madam. QUEEN. Dispatch. Exeunt LADIES Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs? CORNELIUS. Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam. [Presenting a box] But I beseech your Grace, without offence- My conscience bids me ask- wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds Which are the movers of a languishing death, But, though slow, deadly? QUEEN. I wonder, Doctor, Thou ask'st me such a question. Have I not been Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn'd me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? Having thus far proceeded- Unless thou think'st me devilish- is't not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions? I will try the forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the hanging- but none human- To try the vigour of them, and apply Allayments to their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects. CORNELIUS. Your Highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; Besides, the seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious. QUEEN. O, content thee. Enter PISANIO [Aside] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him Will I first work. He's for his master, An enemy to my son.- How now, Pisanio! Doctor, your service for this time is ended; Take your own way. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do suspect you, madam; But you shall do no harm. QUEEN. [To PISANIO] Hark thee, a word. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has Strange ling'ring poisons. I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn'd nature. Those she has Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile, Which first perchance she'll prove on cats and dogs, Then afterward up higher; but there is No danger in what show of death it makes, More than the locking up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool'd With a most false effect; and I the truer So to be false with her. QUEEN. No further service, Doctor, Until I send for thee. CORNELIUS. I humbly take my leave. Exit QUEEN. Weeps she still, say'st thou? Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses? Do thou work. When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I'll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master; greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to A day's work in him. What shalt thou expect To be depender on a thing that leans, Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends So much as but to prop him? [The QUEEN drops the box. PISANIO takes it up] Thou tak'st up Thou know'st not what; but take it for thy labour. It is a thing I made, which hath the King Five times redeem'd from death. I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her; do't as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on; but think Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee. I'll move the King To any shape of thy preferment, such As thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women. Think on my words. Exit PISANIO A sly and constant knave, Not to be shak'd; the agent for his master, And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of leigers for her sweet; and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assur'd To taste of too. Re-enter PISANIO and LADIES So, so. Well done, well done. The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio; Think on my words. Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES PISANIO. And shall do. But when to my good lord I prove untrue I'll choke myself- there's all I'll do for you. Exit ----------ACT 1 SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter QUEEN, LADIES, and CORNELIUS QUEEN. Whiles yet the dew's on ground, gather those flowers; Make haste; who has the note of them? LADY. I, madam. QUEEN. Dispatch. Exeunt LADIES Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs? CORNELIUS. Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam. [Presenting a box] But I beseech your Grace, without offence- My conscience bids me ask- wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds Which are the movers of a languishing death, But, though slow, deadly? QUEEN. I wonder, Doctor, Thou ask'st me such a question. Have I not been Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn'd me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? Having thus far proceeded- Unless thou think'st me devilish- is't not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions? I will try the forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the hanging- but none human- To try the vigour of them, and apply Allayments to their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects. CORNELIUS. Your Highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; Besides, the seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious. QUEEN. O, content thee. Enter PISANIO [Aside] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him Will I first work. He's for his master, An enemy to my son.- How now, Pisanio! Doctor, your service for this time is ended; Take your own way. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do suspect you, madam; But you shall do no harm. QUEEN. [To PISANIO] Hark thee, a word. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has Strange ling'ring poisons. I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn'd nature. Those she has Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile, Which first perchance she'll prove on cats and dogs, Then afterward up higher; but there is No danger in what show of death it makes, More than the locking up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool'd With a most false effect; and I the truer So to be false with her. QUEEN. No further service, Doctor, Until I send for thee. CORNELIUS. I humbly take my leave. Exit QUEEN. Weeps she still, say'st thou? Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses? Do thou work. When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I'll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master; greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to A day's work in him. What shalt thou expect To be depender on a thing that leans, Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends So much as but to prop him? [The QUEEN drops the box. PISANIO takes it up] Thou tak'st up Thou know'st not what; but take it for thy labour. It is a thing I made, which hath the King Five times redeem'd from death. I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her; do't as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on; but think Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee. I'll move the King To any shape of thy preferment, such As thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women. Think on my words. Exit PISANIO A sly and constant knave, Not to be shak'd; the agent for his master, And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of leigers for her sweet; and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assur'd To taste of too. Re-enter PISANIO and LADIES So, so. Well done, well done. The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio; Think on my words. Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES PISANIO. And shall do. But when to my good lord I prove untrue I'll choke myself- there's all I'll do for you. Exit

Cymbeline.act 1.scene 6

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 6 with the given context.

Imogen ruminates on her fate: a cruel father who is opposed to her love; a stepmother who is cunning and double-faced; a foolish suitor, Cloten, who does not think it improper to woo a married woman. She wonders if she is actually luckier than the brothers who were stolen as babies, for she feels sure that they must be happier than her. Pisanio enters with Iachimo who brings letters from Posthumus. While Imogen reads the letter, Iachimo, smitten by her beauty, determines to win her favor. He sends Pisanio to take care of his manservant and tries to woo Imogen. He deliberately tells her that Posthumus is very happy and satisfied in Italy, without a thought of his despairing wife. He tells her that she should revenge herself on her uncaring husband by taking him, Iachimo, as a lover. Imogen is furious and threatens to haul Iachimo before the King for his unacceptable advances. However, Iachimo immediately turns the tables on her by declaring that he was only testing her loyalty and love for Posthumus. The good and naive Imogen relents, and allows him to make amends for his forthright conduct. He requests her to keep safely in her bedchamber a chest containing some expensive gifts for the Emperor which he will take with him the next morning. She agrees to do so and leaves.

----------SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Britain. The palace Enter IMOGEN alone IMOGEN. A father cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her husband banish'd. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n, As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable Is the desire that's glorious. Blessed be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes from my lord with letters. IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is in safety, And greets your Highness dearly. [Presents a letter] IMOGEN. Thanks, good sir. You're kindly welcome. IACHIMO. [Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, She is alone th' Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust. LEONATUS.' So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of my heart Is warm'd by th' rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can do. IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones Upon the number'd beach, and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious 'Twixt fair and foul? IMOGEN. What makes your admiration? IACHIMO. It cannot be i' th' eye, for apes and monkeys, 'Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i' th' judgment, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i' th' appetite; Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos'd, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur'd to feed. IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow? IACHIMO. The cloyed will- That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill'd and running- ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage. IMOGEN. What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well? IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well.- Beseech you, sir, Desire my man's abode where I did leave him. He's strange and peevish. PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome. Exit IMOGEN. Continues well my lord? His health beseech you? IACHIMO. Well, madam. IMOGEN. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is. IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call'd The Britain reveller. IMOGEN. When he was here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why. IACHIMO. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton- Your lord, I mean- laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O, Can my sides hold, to think that man- who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be- will's free hours languish for Assured bondage?' IMOGEN. Will my lord say so? IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men are much to blame. IMOGEN. Not he, I hope. IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him might Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much; In you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too. IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir? IACHIMO. Two creatures heartily. IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity? IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I' th' dungeon by a snuff? IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me? IACHIMO. That others do, I was about to say, enjoy your- But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on't. IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you- Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born- discover to me What both you spur and stop. IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul To th' oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood- falsehood as With labour; then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light That's fed with stinking tallow- it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt. IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain. IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin'd to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out. IMOGEN. Let me hear no more. IACHIMO. O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me sick! A lady So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, Would make the great'st king double, to be partner'd With tomboys hir'd with that self exhibition Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff As well might poison poison! Be reveng'd; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock. IMOGEN. Reveng'd? How should I be reveng'd? If this be true- As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse- if it be true, How should I be reveng'd? IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like Diana's priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure. IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. Let me my service tender on your lips. IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike.- What ho, Pisanio!- The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for, and a daughter who He not respects at all.- What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assur'd credit. Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which he is new o'er; and he is one The truest manner'd, such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him, Half all men's hearts are his. IMOGEN. You make amends. IACHIMO. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon. IMOGEN. All's well, sir; take my pow'r i' th' court for yours. IACHIMO. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot T' entreat your Grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends Are partners in the business. IMOGEN. Pray what is't? IACHIMO. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord- The best feather of our wing- have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France. 'Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection? IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber. IACHIMO. They are in a trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this night; I must aboard to-morrow. IMOGEN. O, no, no. IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length'ning my return. From Gallia I cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace. IMOGEN. I thank you for your pains. But not away to-morrow! IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night. I have outstood my time, which is material 'To th' tender of our present. IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. Exeunt ----------ACT 1 SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Britain. The palace Enter IMOGEN alone IMOGEN. A father cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her husband banish'd. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n, As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable Is the desire that's glorious. Blessed be those, How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes from my lord with letters. IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is in safety, And greets your Highness dearly. [Presents a letter] IMOGEN. Thanks, good sir. You're kindly welcome. IACHIMO. [Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, She is alone th' Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust. LEONATUS.' So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of my heart Is warm'd by th' rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can do. IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones Upon the number'd beach, and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious 'Twixt fair and foul? IMOGEN. What makes your admiration? IACHIMO. It cannot be i' th' eye, for apes and monkeys, 'Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i' th' judgment, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i' th' appetite; Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos'd, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur'd to feed. IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow? IACHIMO. The cloyed will- That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill'd and running- ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage. IMOGEN. What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well? IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well.- Beseech you, sir, Desire my man's abode where I did leave him. He's strange and peevish. PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome. Exit IMOGEN. Continues well my lord? His health beseech you? IACHIMO. Well, madam. IMOGEN. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is. IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call'd The Britain reveller. IMOGEN. When he was here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why. IACHIMO. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton- Your lord, I mean- laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O, Can my sides hold, to think that man- who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be- will's free hours languish for Assured bondage?' IMOGEN. Will my lord say so? IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men are much to blame. IMOGEN. Not he, I hope. IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him might Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much; In you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too. IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir? IACHIMO. Two creatures heartily. IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity? IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I' th' dungeon by a snuff? IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me? IACHIMO. That others do, I was about to say, enjoy your- But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on't. IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you- Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born- discover to me What both you spur and stop. IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul To th' oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood- falsehood as With labour; then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light That's fed with stinking tallow- it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt. IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain. IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin'd to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out. IMOGEN. Let me hear no more. IACHIMO. O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me sick! A lady So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, Would make the great'st king double, to be partner'd With tomboys hir'd with that self exhibition Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff As well might poison poison! Be reveng'd; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock. IMOGEN. Reveng'd? How should I be reveng'd? If this be true- As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse- if it be true, How should I be reveng'd? IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like Diana's priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure. IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. Let me my service tender on your lips. IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike.- What ho, Pisanio!- The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for, and a daughter who He not respects at all.- What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assur'd credit. Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which he is new o'er; and he is one The truest manner'd, such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him, Half all men's hearts are his. IMOGEN. You make amends. IACHIMO. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon. IMOGEN. All's well, sir; take my pow'r i' th' court for yours. IACHIMO. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot T' entreat your Grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends Are partners in the business. IMOGEN. Pray what is't? IACHIMO. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord- The best feather of our wing- have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France. 'Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection? IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber. IACHIMO. They are in a trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this night; I must aboard to-morrow. IMOGEN. O, no, no. IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length'ning my return. From Gallia I cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace. IMOGEN. I thank you for your pains. But not away to-morrow! IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night. I have outstood my time, which is material 'To th' tender of our present. IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 1

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 2 scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

Cloten is playing bowls with some Lords and losing. A Lord asks Cloten if he knows of the Italian visitor to court, Iachimo, a friend of Posthumus's. Cloten does not, and goes to seek him out. The Second Lord, left alone, marvels "That such a crafty devil as is his mother / Should yield the world this ass!" . She is a woman who "Bears all down with her brain," whereas Cloten cannot take two from twenty. The Lord pities Imogen for her unhappy position between her father ruled by her stepmother, the stepmother "hourly coining plots" , and a hateful suitor who wants to divorce her from her husband. He prays that Imogen holds firm.

----------SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure. FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out. CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha? SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank! SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have smell'd like a fool. CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on. CLOTEN. Sayest thou? SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to. CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. CLOTEN. Why, so I say. FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night? CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on't? SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus' friends. CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger? FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages. CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't? SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord. CLOTEN. Not easily, I think. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. SECOND LORD. I'll attend your lordship. Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T' enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit ----------ACT 2 SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure. FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out. CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha? SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank! SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have smell'd like a fool. CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on. CLOTEN. Sayest thou? SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to. CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. CLOTEN. Why, so I say. FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night? CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on't? SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus' friends. CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger? FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages. CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't? SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord. CLOTEN. Not easily, I think. SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate. CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. SECOND LORD. I'll attend your lordship. Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T' enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 2

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 2 scene 2 with the given context.

The scene is set in Imogen's bedroom. Iachimo's trunk is placed in it. After she goes to sleep, Iachimo emerges from the trunk. He is tempted by her beauty, but resists the urge to touch and kiss her. His plan is to note details of the room and identifying marks on her body, in order to convince Posthumus that he has succeeded in seducing her. He removes her bracelet, the parting gift from her husband, which he says will help in the "madding" of Posthumus . He also notes a mole on her left breast. When he feels he has enough evidence, he gets back into the trunk.

----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk ----------ACT 2 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Britain. IMOGEN'S bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 3

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 2 scene 3 based on the provided context.

Cloten is playing some Lords, either at dice or cards, and losing again. Some musicians enter; Cloten has employed them to serenade Imogen, which they do. The King and Queen enter. Cymbeline inquires whether Imogen has come out of her room. When Cloten says she has not, Cymbeline says that in time, Imogen will forget Posthumus and then she will be Cloten's. The Queen advises him to obey Imogen in everything except when she sends him away. A messenger announces that some ambassadors from Rome, including one called Lucius, have arrived. Cymbeline knows that Rome is angry with him, but he will receive Lucius, who is a worthy man, according to the honor of the Emperor. He asks Cloten to greet Imogen and then to follow him and the Queen to meet the Roman. Cloten, left alone, plans to bribe one of Imogen's ladies to buy access to her. Gold can do anything, he says, even have an honest man killed and save a thief. He knocks at Imogen's door. A Lady emerges, and Cloten offers her gold to speak for him. Imogen enters. She tells Cloten that she does not care for him, and indeed, she hates him. Cloten says she owes her father obedience. Because of her royal status, she does not have free choice and cannot marry a "base slave." Imogen angrily defends her husband, saying that Cloten, even if he were the god Jupiter's son, would be "too base / To be his groom" . Imogen calls Pisanio and send him to ask one of her ladies to search for her bracelet. She is sure that she had it last night, because she kissed it. Cloten is offended by Imogen's statement that Posthumus's "meanest garment" is dearer to her than Cloten, and threatens to tell her father. Imogen suggests he tell the Queen too, and is in no doubt that she will think the worst of her. Cloten vows revenge.

----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments Enter CLOTEN and LORDS FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace. CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose. FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. Enter musicians Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it- and then let her consider. SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother. CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth? CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's yours. QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. Exeunt all but CLOTEN CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks] I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [Knocks] Enter a LADY LADY. Who's there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. LADY. That's more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter IMOGEN CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. Exit LADY IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin; I will not. IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool? IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast. CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties- Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls- On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler- not so eminent! IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so well. CLOTEN. The south fog rot him! IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment That ever hath but clipp'd his body is dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! Enter PISANIO CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil- IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently. CLOTEN. 'His garment'! IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe! I do think I saw't this morning; confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost. IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO CLOTEN. You have abus'd me. 'His meanest garment'! IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. CLOTEN. I will inform your father. IMOGEN. Your mother too. She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th' worst of discontent. Exit CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd. 'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit ----------ACT 2 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments Enter CLOTEN and LORDS FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace. CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose. FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. Enter musicians Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it- and then let her consider. SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother. CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth? CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's yours. QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. Exeunt all but CLOTEN CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks] I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold Which buys admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [Knocks] Enter a LADY LADY. Who's there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. LADY. That's more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter IMOGEN CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. Exit LADY IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin; I will not. IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool? IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast. CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties- Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls- On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler- not so eminent! IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so well. CLOTEN. The south fog rot him! IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment That ever hath but clipp'd his body is dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! Enter PISANIO CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil- IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently. CLOTEN. 'His garment'! IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe! I do think I saw't this morning; confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost. IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO CLOTEN. You have abus'd me. 'His meanest garment'! IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. CLOTEN. I will inform your father. IMOGEN. Your mother too. She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th' worst of discontent. Exit CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd. 'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit

Cymbeline.act 2.scene 4

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 2 scene 4 using the context provided.

In Rome, Posthumus tells Philario he is sure of Imogen's honor, but has less confidence that he will win over the King. He is leaving it to time. In his exiled state, he regrets he cannot repay Philario for his generosity. But Philario says that Posthumus's goodness and company are payment enough. Besides, he is confident that Lucius, Augustus Caesar's ambassador, will by now have extracted the tribute arrears that he went to collect from Cymbeline. If Cymbeline does not pay up, he will face a Roman invasion. Posthumus believes that Cymbeline will not pay and that there will be war. He points out that the Britons are more skilled in war than they were in Julius Caesar's day, when the Roman invaders defeated them. Iachimo enters, commends Imogen's beauty to Posthumus, and gives him letters from her. Posthumus asks Iachimo whether his diamond still sparkles as brightly, or is dimmed by Imogen's betrayal. Iachimo replies that he has won the ring, for he enjoyed a night with the "easy" Imogen. Posthumus, reluctant to believe Iachimo, warns him not to joke about his losing the bet, and reminds him that they shall not remain friends. Iachimo answers that they will remain friends, since he has defeated Imogen's honor and not wronged her or Posthumus-both were willing participants. Posthumus asks for proof that he has "tasted her in bed" . Iachimo describes the furnishings of Imogen's bedroom, the carvings over the fireplace, and even the fire-irons, but Posthumus says he could have heard this from someone else. Finally, Iachimo shows Posthumus Imogen's bracelet that he stole from her as she slept. He says it matches the diamond, so both must be his. He claims that Imogen gave it to him, saying "she priz'd it once" . Posthumus suggests that maybe she took it off to send it to him, but Iachimo asks if she says that in her letter, which, of course, she does not. Posthumus now believes Iachimo. He takes off his ring, which he says has become a basilisk to his eye . He rails against the falseness of women underneath their outward beauty, and the worthlessness of their vows. Philario counsels him to be patient and take back his ring, as there is no proof that Imogen is unfaithful. It could be that she lost the bracelet, or that one of her ladies stole it. Posthumus agrees, and asks for his ring back from Iachimo. He now wants Iachimo to cite some distinguishing feature on Imogen's body as proof. Iachimo swears by Jupiter that he had it from her arm, which again convinces Posthumus that his wife is unfaithful. He is sure she would not lose it, and her ladies are honorable. Posthumus is once more convinced that she has been unfaithful, and gives the ring back to Iachimo. Philario warns him again that the evidence is not strong enough to convince. But Iachimo describes the mole under Imogen's breast, which he says he kissed. Posthumus says that this "stain" confirms another-on her character-"as big as hell can hold" . Posthumus erupts in fury and threatens to tear Imogen limb from limb in front of her father. Philario and Iachimo follow him out to prevent him from harming himself. Posthumus re-enters and delivers a soliloquy against women. He regrets that men need them at all, and says all men are bastards: even he does not know where his father was when he was conceived. His mother seemed chaste, but then so does his wife. He attributes all vices in men to the feminine aspect or "woman's part" : lying, deceiving, ambition, and so on. Even to vice, he says, they are not constant, but ever changing.

----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers. PHILARIO. What means do you make to him? POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter's state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor. PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do's commission throughly; and I think He'll grant the tribute, send th' arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter IACHIMO PHILARIO. See! Iachimo! POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble. PHILARIO. Welcome, sir. POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon. POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them. IACHIMO. Here are letters for you. POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust. IACHIMO. 'Tis very like. PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there? IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach'd. POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not Too dull for your good wearing? IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far t' enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won. POSTHUMUS. The stone's too hard to come by. IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills. POSTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them. IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe- whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You'll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not. POSTHUMUS. Proceed. IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, Where I confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching-it was hang'd With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on't was- POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me Or by some other. IACHIMO. More particulars Must justify my knowledge. POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury. IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out. POSTHUMUS. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of. IACHIMO. The roof o' th' chamber With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons- I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. POSTHUMUS. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid. IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet] Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See! And now 'tis up again. It must be married To that your diamond; I'll keep them. POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold it. Is it that Which I left with her? IACHIMO. Sir- I thank her- that. She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said She priz'd it once. POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck'd it off To send it me. IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she? POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too; [Gives the ring] It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where there's another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false! PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted Hath stol'n it from her? POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by't. Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stol'n. IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm! POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true- nay, keep the ring, 'tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn and honourable- they induc'd to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy'd her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you! PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong enough to be believ'd Of one persuaded well of. POSTHUMUS. Never talk on't; She hath been colted by him. IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast- Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her? POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it. IACHIMO. Will you hear more? POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns. Once, and a million! IACHIMO. I'll be sworn- POSTHUMUS. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold. IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing. POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and do't, i' th' court, before Her father. I'll do something- Exit PHILARIO. Quite besides The government of patience! You have won. Let's follow him and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself. IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt ----------ACT 2 SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers. PHILARIO. What means do you make to him? POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter's state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor. PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do's commission throughly; and I think He'll grant the tribute, send th' arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter IACHIMO PHILARIO. See! Iachimo! POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble. PHILARIO. Welcome, sir. POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon. POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them. IACHIMO. Here are letters for you. POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust. IACHIMO. 'Tis very like. PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there? IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach'd. POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not Too dull for your good wearing? IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far t' enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won. POSTHUMUS. The stone's too hard to come by. IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills. POSTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them. IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe- whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You'll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not. POSTHUMUS. Proceed. IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, Where I confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching-it was hang'd With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on't was- POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me Or by some other. IACHIMO. More particulars Must justify my knowledge. POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury. IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out. POSTHUMUS. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of. IACHIMO. The roof o' th' chamber With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons- I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. POSTHUMUS. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid. IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet] Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See! And now 'tis up again. It must be married To that your diamond; I'll keep them. POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold it. Is it that Which I left with her? IACHIMO. Sir- I thank her- that. She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said She priz'd it once. POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck'd it off To send it me. IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she? POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too; [Gives the ring] It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where there's another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false! PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted Hath stol'n it from her? POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by't. Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stol'n. IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm! POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true- nay, keep the ring, 'tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn and honourable- they induc'd to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy'd her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you! PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong enough to be believ'd Of one persuaded well of. POSTHUMUS. Never talk on't; She hath been colted by him. IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast- Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her? POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it. IACHIMO. Will you hear more? POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns. Once, and a million! IACHIMO. I'll be sworn- POSTHUMUS. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold. IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing. POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and do't, i' th' court, before Her father. I'll do something- Exit PHILARIO. Quite besides The government of patience! You have won. Let's follow him and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself. IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 2

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 2 with the given context.

Pisanio is astonished at the letter he has received from his master, accusing Imogen of adultery. He knows the power and strength of her love and chastity, and wonders who has poisoned his master's mind. Posthumus has written that Pisanio should kill Imogen, and that Posthumus himself, in his letter to Imogen, had provided the opportunity. The noble Pisanio is unable to even think of committing such a crime, but reveals nothing to Imogen when she arrives. Pisanio only reads half of the letter which states that Posthumus is in Cambria , at Milford-Haven, and wants Imogen to meet him there. His aim is to have Pisanio kill her on the way to Milford-Haven, but Imogen does not know this yet. She immediately prepares to leave for Milford-Haven and appeals to Pisanio to make the necessary arrangements for horses and to get her a riding-suit that should not be ostentatious. She also has to think of an excuse to explain her absence at court for a couple of days, that will help her get way before her absence is noticed. Pisanio, who is aware of the dark fate planned for her by Posthumus, can only listen in silence. He attempts to derail her plans but does not tell her now.

----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter PISANIO reading of a letter PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian- As poisonous-tongu'd as handed- hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper, Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. Enter IMOGEN I am ignorant in what I am commanded. IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio! PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus? O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters- He'd lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder- let that grieve him! Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love- of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! [Reads] 'Justice and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.' O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio- Who long'st like me to see thy lord, who long'st- O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st, But in a fainter kind- O, not like me, For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick- Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th' smothering of the sense- how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T' inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too. IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's huswife. PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider. IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt ----------ACT 3 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S palace Enter PISANIO reading of a letter PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian- As poisonous-tongu'd as handed- hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper, Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. Enter IMOGEN I am ignorant in what I am commanded. IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio! PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus? O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters- He'd lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder- let that grieve him! Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love- of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! [Reads] 'Justice and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.' O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio- Who long'st like me to see thy lord, who long'st- O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st, But in a fainter kind- O, not like me, For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick- Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th' smothering of the sense- how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T' inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too. IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's huswife. PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider. IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 3

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 3 with the given context.

From a cave in the mountainous Welsh countryside enters Belarius followed by his sons Guiderius and Arviragus. It is a fine morning, and Belarius exhorts his sons not to sit inside the cave, but to enjoy the wonderful weather. They plan to go hunting as usual with the brothers climbing the hill while Belarius tries to track game on the plain. He tells his sons that their simple life is worth all the advantages of courtly life, where every moment one could expect to be snubbed. Life at court was like living on a slippery slope, remarks Belarius bitterly, for it is precisely when one is at the peak of one's success that one is in danger of falling. The two lads, Guiderius and Arviragus, are restive. They have known nothing of court life, and cannot say if the peaceful life they lead is better than anything else. However, Belarius tells them that if they only knew the treacherous life at court, they would agree with him that the life they lead now is the best. He recounts his tenure in Cymbeline's court, when the King loved and respected him as a brave and valiant soldier. However, the King had readily listened to the false testimony of two villains who alleged that Belarius was consorting with the Romans. Cymbeline had not even given Belarius the chance to explain, and had banished him. It is only when the boys leave that Belarius reveals in a soliloquy, that Guiderius, known as Polydore, and Arviragus, called Cadwal, are actually the sons of Cymbeline. Angered at his unjust banishment, he had stolen the infant sons of the King in order to bar the line of succession to the throne. Yet, as Belarius observes, blood will tell: the lads who had known nothing of court, have the bearing and thoughts of princes.

----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven! ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven! BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours! GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit. ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour! BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains! This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys. Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit ----------ACT 3 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven! ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven! BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours! GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit. ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour! BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains! This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys. Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 4

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 3 scene 4 using the context provided.

Pisanio and Imogen are on their way to Milford Haven to meet Posthumus, as Imogen thinks. Pisanio is disturbed about leading Imogen to her death. When Imogen questions his obvious anxiety, he hands Posthumus's letter to her, in which Posthumus orders him to kill Imogen at Milford Haven for her proven adultery. Imogen asks what it means to be false to his bed: to think of him all the time, and be awakened by frightening dreams about the dangers he is in? She realizes that it is Iachimo who has been false; she suspects too that some loose Italian woman has led Posthumus astray. She herself is like a discarded garment, no longer in fashion, that must be ripped to pieces . Posthumus will bring all good seeming things into disrepute, as if they were pretended for evil purposes. She draws Pisanio's sword and orders him to take it and kill her in accordance with Posthumus's order; she asks him to tell Posthumus later of her obedience. Pisanio refuses and tosses the sword aside. She tells him he must obey his master, and she cannot kill herself as suicide is a sin. Imogen's insistence that Pisanio kill her, as suicide is a sin, triggers a series of religious images. She throws away Posthumus's letters as "heresy" ; he is one of the "false teachers" of heresy . She points out that her disobedience against her father in marrying Posthumus was very unusual; she is obedient to his order that she die. She feels sad to think how, when he is tired of his new woman, he will miss her. She asks Pisanio not to delay, since both she and Posthumus want her death. Pisanio refuses to kill Imogen, and she asks why he has therefore wasted so much time and trouble traveling all these miles. Pisanio answers that he only wanted to win time to find a way out of his situation. He is sure that "some villain" has abused Posthumus into thinking Imogen is unfaithful. Imogen asks whether this could be a Roman courtesan, but Pisanio says no. He plans to announce that Imogen is dead, and to send Posthumus proof of this. He wants Imogen to return to the court, but she is reluctant because Cloten is there. Pisanio says the alternative is to leave the country. Lucius will arrive in Milford Haven tomorrow. Imogen must disguise herself as a man-he has brought male clothing for her-and live near the house where Posthumus is staying, where she can receive reports on what he is doing. She will then present herself to Lucius and ask for a job as his servant. Pisanio will go back to court in case his absence arouses suspicion that he is involved in Imogen's disappearance. Pisanio gives Imogen the box that the Queen gave him, telling her it is medicine that will treat sea-sickness or nausea.

----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Wales, near Milford Haven Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN IMOGEN. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter? Why tender'st thou that paper to me with A look untender! If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand? That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me. PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.' PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam? IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed, Is it? PISANIO. Alas, good lady! IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him. Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies. PISANIO. Good madam, hear me. IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur'd From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now thou seem'st a coward. PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand. IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart- Something's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence!- Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience 'gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamp entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, When I desire it too. PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv'd command to do this busines I have not slept one wink. IMOGEN. Do't, and to bed then. PISANIO. I'll wake mine eyeballs first. IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus'd So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own? our horses' labour? The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court, For my being absent?- whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand, Th' elected deer before thee? PISANIO. But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider'd of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience. IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary- speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. PISANIO. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again. IMOGEN. Most like- Bringing me here to kill me. PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus'd. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury. IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan! PISANIO. No, on my life! I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss'd at court, And that will well confirm it. IMOGEN. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? where bide? how live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband? PISANIO. If you'll back to th' court- IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing- That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege. PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide. IMOGEN. Where then? Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I' th' world's volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in't; In a great pool a swan's nest. Prithee think There's livers out of Britain. PISANIO. I am most glad You think of other place. Th' ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t' appear itself must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves. IMOGEN. O! for such means, Though peril to my modesty, not death on't, I would adventure. PISANIO. Well then, here's the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness- The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self- into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it- but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein You made great Juno angry. IMOGEN. Nay, be brief; I see into thy end, and am almost A man already. PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit- 'Tis in my cloak-bag- doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you're happy- which will make him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad- You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment. IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee away! There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince's courage. Away, I prithee. PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the Queen. What's in't is precious. If you are sick at sea Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best! IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally ----------ACT 3 SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Wales, near Milford Haven Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN IMOGEN. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter? Why tender'st thou that paper to me with A look untender! If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand? That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me. PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.' PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam? IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed, Is it? PISANIO. Alas, good lady! IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him. Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies. PISANIO. Good madam, hear me. IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur'd From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now thou seem'st a coward. PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand. IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart- Something's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence!- Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience 'gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamp entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, When I desire it too. PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv'd command to do this busines I have not slept one wink. IMOGEN. Do't, and to bed then. PISANIO. I'll wake mine eyeballs first. IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus'd So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own? our horses' labour? The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court, For my being absent?- whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand, Th' elected deer before thee? PISANIO. But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider'd of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience. IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary- speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. PISANIO. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again. IMOGEN. Most like- Bringing me here to kill me. PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus'd. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury. IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan! PISANIO. No, on my life! I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss'd at court, And that will well confirm it. IMOGEN. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? where bide? how live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband? PISANIO. If you'll back to th' court- IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing- That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege. PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide. IMOGEN. Where then? Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I' th' world's volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in't; In a great pool a swan's nest. Prithee think There's livers out of Britain. PISANIO. I am most glad You think of other place. Th' ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t' appear itself must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves. IMOGEN. O! for such means, Though peril to my modesty, not death on't, I would adventure. PISANIO. Well then, here's the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness- The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self- into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it- but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein You made great Juno angry. IMOGEN. Nay, be brief; I see into thy end, and am almost A man already. PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit- 'Tis in my cloak-bag- doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you're happy- which will make him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad- You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment. IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee away! There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince's courage. Away, I prithee. PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the Queen. What's in't is precious. If you are sick at sea Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best! IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 5

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 3 scene 5 using the context provided.

Cymbeline is bidding farewell to Lucius. Lucius says he is sorry that he has to report to his master that Cymbeline is his enemy. Cymbeline explains that the Britons will not endure Caesar's domination, and for the King to show less desire for independence than his subjects would appear "unkinglike" . Cymbeline gives Lucius safe conduct to Milford Haven. Cymbeline says that he must prepare the army to fight the Roman forces, which are in Gallia and ready to invade. Cymbeline asks the Queen where Imogen is: she has lately had more of a look of malice than of duty towards him. The Queen urges him to treat her gently, and says time will heal. An attendant reveals that the doors to her rooms are locked and their knocks have gone unanswered. The Queen tries to reassure him by explaining that Imogen has asked her to excuse her staying in; she has not been feeling well. The Queen says she forgot to tell him this. The King is alarmed, and leaves. Cloten remarks that he has not seen Pisanio either for two days. He follows the King. The Queen, left alone, prays that Pisanio's absence is explained by the fact that he has swallowed her poison. She wonders if Imogen has either killed herself or run after Posthumus; either outcome would suit the Queen, since then her son Cloten would be heir to the throne. Cloten re-enters and confirms that Imogen has fled. The King is in a rage. The Queen is secretly pleased, as she hopes that Cymbeline's wrath will prove fatal to him. She exits. Cloten speaks about his feelings for Imogen, saying he loves her for her unrivalled qualities, but hates her for disdaining him and favoring Posthumus. He wants revenge on her. Pisanio enters and Cloten aggressively interrogates him as to Imogen's whereabouts. He asks if she is with Posthumus. Pisanio feigns ignorance, saying Posthumus is in Rome so she cannot be with him. Cloten threatens to kill him unless he tells all. Pisanio presents him with a letter , seemingly from Posthumus, saying that this is all he knows of her flight. Pisanio is confident that the letter will not put Imogen in danger as she is far away, and hopes it may disconcert Cloten, as it is an apparently loving letter. Aside to the audience, Pisanio says he will write to Posthumus saying that Imogen is dead. He prays for her safe return. Having read the letter, Cloten offers Pisanio preferment if he will serve him, and do whatever "villainy" Cloten asks of him . Cloten observes that since Pisanio has loyally served the "beggar" Posthumus , he will surely be loyal to him also. Pisanio agrees. Cloten asks Pisanio if he has any of Posthumus's clothes, and Pisanio says he has the suit Posthumus wore when he took leave of Imogen. Cloten asks him to fetch the suit. When Pisanio has left, Cloten reveals that he intends to travel to Milford Haven. Because Imogen once said he revered Posthumus's garment more than Cloten, he will put on the suit and "ravish her" , and kill Posthumus in front of her. That way, Imogen will see his "valour" to pay her back for her contempt. He wants both to sate his lust and to get revenge on her. Pisanio apparently overhears some of Cloten's speech, though we are not yet told this. He returns with Posthumus's clothes. Cloten asks him to take them to his room. He then asks Pisanio to be true to him. Pisanio replies that to be true to him would mean being false to that "true" man, Posthumus.

----------SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell. LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My master's enemy. CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike. LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you! CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius. LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord. CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy. LUCIUS. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness! Exeunt LUCIUS and LORDS QUEEN. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause. CLOTEN. 'Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. CYMBELINE. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. The pow'rs that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain. QUEEN. 'Tis not sleepy business, But must be look'd to speedily and strongly. CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty; We have noted it. Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance. Exit a MESSENGER QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her. Re-enter MESSENGER CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? MESSENGER. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be given to th' loud of noise we make. QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity She should that duty leave unpaid to you Which daily she was bound to proffer. This She wish'd me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory. CYMBELINE. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false! Exit QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King. CLOTEN. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days. QUEEN. Go, look after. Exit CLOTEN Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz'd her; Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown To her desir'd Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown. Re-enter CLOTEN How now, my son? CLOTEN. 'Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him. QUEEN. All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day! Exit CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment That what's else rare is chok'd; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools Shall- Enter PISANIO Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you precious pander! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. PISANIO. O good my lord! CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter- I will not ask again. Close villain, I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn. PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss'd? He is in Rome. CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me home What is become of her. PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord! CLOTEN. All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of 'worthy lord'! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death. PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter] CLOTEN. Let's see't. I will pursue her Even to Augustus' throne. PISANIO. [Aside] Or this or perish. She's far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. CLOTEN. Humh! PISANIO. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true? PISANIO. Sir, as I think. CLOTEN. It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry- that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly- I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. PISANIO. Well, my good lord. CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me? PISANIO. Sir, I will. CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy late master's garments in thy possession? PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress. CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service; go. PISANIO. I shall, my lord. Exit CLOTEN. Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing; I'll remember't anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time- the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart- that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined- which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so prais'd- to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis'd me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge. Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes Be those the garments? PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord. CLOTEN. How long is't since she went to Milford Haven? PISANIO. She can scarce be there yet. CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true. Exit PISANIO. Thou bid'st me to my loss; for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed Be cross'd with slowness! Labour be his meed! Exit ----------ACT 3 SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell. LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My master's enemy. CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike. LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you! CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius. LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord. CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy. LUCIUS. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness! Exeunt LUCIUS and LORDS QUEEN. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause. CLOTEN. 'Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. CYMBELINE. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. The pow'rs that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain. QUEEN. 'Tis not sleepy business, But must be look'd to speedily and strongly. CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty; We have noted it. Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance. Exit a MESSENGER QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her. Re-enter MESSENGER CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? MESSENGER. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be given to th' loud of noise we make. QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity She should that duty leave unpaid to you Which daily she was bound to proffer. This She wish'd me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory. CYMBELINE. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false! Exit QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King. CLOTEN. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days. QUEEN. Go, look after. Exit CLOTEN Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz'd her; Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown To her desir'd Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown. Re-enter CLOTEN How now, my son? CLOTEN. 'Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him. QUEEN. All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day! Exit CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment That what's else rare is chok'd; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools Shall- Enter PISANIO Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you precious pander! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. PISANIO. O good my lord! CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter- I will not ask again. Close villain, I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn. PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss'd? He is in Rome. CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me home What is become of her. PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord! CLOTEN. All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of 'worthy lord'! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death. PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter] CLOTEN. Let's see't. I will pursue her Even to Augustus' throne. PISANIO. [Aside] Or this or perish. She's far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. CLOTEN. Humh! PISANIO. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true? PISANIO. Sir, as I think. CLOTEN. It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry- that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly- I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. PISANIO. Well, my good lord. CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me? PISANIO. Sir, I will. CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy late master's garments in thy possession? PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress. CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service; go. PISANIO. I shall, my lord. Exit CLOTEN. Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing; I'll remember't anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time- the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart- that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined- which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so prais'd- to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis'd me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge. Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes Be those the garments? PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord. CLOTEN. How long is't since she went to Milford Haven? PISANIO. She can scarce be there yet. CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true. Exit PISANIO. Thou bid'st me to my loss; for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed Be cross'd with slowness! Labour be his meed! Exit

Cymbeline.act 3.scene 6

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 3 scene 6 with the given context.

In Wales, near Belarius's cave, Imogen enters disguised as a boy. She is lost, has slept rough for two nights, and is on the point of collapse from lack of food. She reflects that to lie when prosperous is a greater crime than to lie out of need, and so falsehood is "worse in kings than beggars" . On this basis, Posthumus is among the false ones. She notices Belarius's cave. She fears to make herself known, but starvation gives her courage. She calls out, but receives no answer, so draws her sword and enters the cave.

----------SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one. I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the cave Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep'st thyself! GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary. ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir? BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Re-enter IMOGEN IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray'rs for the provider. GUIDERIUS. Money, youth? ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those Who worship dirty gods. IMOGEN. I see you're angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it. BELARIUS. Whither bound? IMOGEN. To Milford Haven. BELARIUS. What's your name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd! 'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I'd buy. ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort He is a man. I'll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I'd give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus. BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress. GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't! ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods! BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys. IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I'd change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus' false. BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it. GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near. ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less welcome. IMOGEN. Thanks, sir. ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt ----------ACT 3 SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one. I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the cave Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep'st thyself! GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary. ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir? BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Re-enter IMOGEN IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray'rs for the provider. GUIDERIUS. Money, youth? ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those Who worship dirty gods. IMOGEN. I see you're angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it. BELARIUS. Whither bound? IMOGEN. To Milford Haven. BELARIUS. What's your name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd! 'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I'd buy. ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort He is a man. I'll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I'd give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus. BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress. GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't! ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods! BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys. IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I'd change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus' false. BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it. GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near. ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less welcome. IMOGEN. Thanks, sir. ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt