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The pompous Spanish military man, Don Armado, engages his page, Moth, in conversation about his emotional quandary. He loves the "country girl" Jaquenetta, and at the start of the scene, he is out of sorts: "Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy? The page steadily twits his dull-witted master, while apparently entertaining him with clever turns of phrase. As Armado puts it, he is "quick in answers." One example of an extended quibble they engage in has to do with the number three, as Armado says, "I have promised to study three years with the Duke." Moth: Then I am sure you know how much of the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. Armado: It doth amount to one more than two. Moth:Which the base vulgar do call three. Armado: True. Moth: Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Nowhere is three studied ere ye'll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put 'years! to the word 'three,' and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you.Armado: A most fine figure . Moth: To prove you a cipher. 47-58) The object of Armado's affections soon enters, together with Costard and Dull, and she treats him little better than his page. Armado: I will visit thee at the lodge. Jaquenetta: That's hereby. Armado: I know where it is situate. Jaquenetta: Lord, how wise you are! Armado: I will tell thee wonders. Jaquenetta: With that face? Dull tells Armado that it is the duke's pleasure that he should be responsible for meting out Costard's punishment of three days! fast per week. The scene ends with a grotesque soliloquy in which Armado declares the extent of his love for Jaquenetta.

----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The park. [Enter ARMADO and MOTH.] ARMADO. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy? MOTH. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad. ARMADO. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp. MOTH. No, no; O Lord, sir, no. ARMADO. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal? MOTH. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior. ARMADO. Why tough senior? Why tough senior? MOTH. Why tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal? ARMADO. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender. MOTH. And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough. ARMADO. Pretty and apt. MOTH. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt, and my saying pretty? ARMADO. Thou pretty, because little. MOTH. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt? ARMADO. And therefore apt, because quick. MOTH. Speak you this in my praise, master? ARMADO. In thy condign praise. MOTH. I will praise an eel with the same praise. ARMADO. What! That an eel is ingenious? MOTH. That an eel is quick. ARMADO. I do say thou art quick in answers: thou heat'st my blood. MOTH. I am answered, sir. ARMADO. I love not to be crossed. MOTH. [Aside] He speaks the mere contrary: crosses love not him. ARMADO. I have promised to study three years with the duke. MOTH. You may do it in an hour, sir. ARMADO. Impossible. MOTH. How many is one thrice told? @@@@ ARMADO. I am ill at reck'ning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster. MOTH. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir. ARMADO. I confess both: they are both the varnish of a complete man. MOTH. Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. ARMADO. It doth amount to one more than two. MOTH. Which the base vulgar do call three. ARMADO. True. MOTH. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here's three studied ere ye'll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put 'years' to the word 'three,' and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you. ARMADO. A most fine figure! MOTH. [Aside] To prove you a cipher. ARMADO. I will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised curtsy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should out-swear Cupid. Comfort me, boy: what great men have been in love? MOTH. Hercules, master. ARMADO. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. MOTH. Samson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a porter; and he was in love. ARMADO. O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth? MOTH. A woman, master. ARMADO. Of what complexion? MOTH. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four. ARMADO. Tell me precisely of what complexion. MOTH. Of the sea-water green, sir. ARMADO. Is that one of the four complexions? MOTH. As I have read, sir; and the best of them too. ARMADO. Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers; but to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit. MOTH. It was so, sir, for she had a green wit. ARMADO. My love is most immaculate white and red. MOTH. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours. ARMADO. Define, define, well-educated infant. MOTH. My father's wit my mother's tongue assist me! ARMADO. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty, and pathetical! MOTH. If she be made of white and red, Her faults will ne'er be known; For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, And fears by pale white shown. Then if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know, For still her cheeks possess the same Which native she doth owe. A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red. ARMADO. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar? MOTH. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but I think now 'tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune. ARMADO. I will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well. MOTH. [Aside] To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master. ARMADO. Sing, boy: my spirit grows heavy in love. MOTH. And that's great marvel, loving a light wench. ARMADO. I say, sing. MOTH. Forbear till this company be past. [Enter DULL, COSTARD, and JAQUENETTA.] DULL. Sir, the Duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe: and you must suffer him to take no delight nor no penance; but a' must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park; she is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well. ARMADO. I do betray myself with blushing. Maid! JAQUENETTA. Man? ARMADO. I will visit thee at the lodge. JAQUENETTA. That's hereby. ARMADO. I know where it is situate. JAQUENETTA. Lord, how wise you are! ARMADO. I will tell thee wonders. JAQUENETTA. With that face? ARMADO. I love thee. JAQUENETTA. So I heard you say. ARMADO. And so, farewell. JAQUENETTA. Fair weather after you! DULL. Come, Jaquenetta, away! [Exit with JAQUENETTA.] ARMADO. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned. COSTARD. Well, sir, I hope when I do it I shall do it on a full stomach. ARMADO. Thou shalt be heavily punished. COSTARD. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded. ARMADO. Take away this villain: shut him up. MOTH. Come, you transgressing slave: away! COSTARD. Let me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, being loose. MOTH. No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt to prison. COSTARD. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see-- MOTH. What shall some see? COSTARD. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words, and therefore I will say nothing. I thank God I have as little patience as another man, and therefore I can be quiet. [Exeunt MOTH and COSTARD.] ARMADO. I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn,--which is a great argument of falsehood,--if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil; there is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not; his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour! rust, rapier! be still, drum! for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rime, for I am sure I shall turn sonneter. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio. [Exit.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. A pavilion and tents at a distance. [Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, and other Attendants.] BOYET. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits: Consider who the king your father sends, To whom he sends, and what's his embassy: Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem, To parley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe, Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. Be now as prodigal of all dear grace As Nature was in making graces dear When she did starve the general world beside, And prodigally gave them all to you. PRINCESS. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Needs not the painted flourish of your praise: Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, Not utt'red by base sale of chapmen's tongues. I am less proud to hear you tell my worth Than you much willing to be counted wise In spending your wit in the praise of mine. But now to task the tasker: good Boyet, You are not ignorant, all-telling fame Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow, Till painful study shall outwear three years, No woman may approach his silent court: Therefore to's seemeth it a needful course, Before we enter his forbidden gates, To know his pleasure; and in that behalf, Bold of your worthiness, we single you As our best-moving fair solicitor. Tell him the daughter of the King of France, On serious business, craving quick dispatch, Importunes personal conference with his Grace. Haste, signify so much; while we attend, Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will. BOYET. Proud of employment, willingly I go. PRINCESS. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. [Exit BOYET.] Who are the votaries, my loving lords, That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke? FIRST LORD. Lord Longaville is one. PRINCESS. Know you the man? MARIA. I know him, madam: at a marriage feast, Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized In Normandy, saw I this Longaville. A man of sovereign parts, he is esteem'd, Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms: Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,-- If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,-- Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will; Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills It should none spare that come within his power. PRINCESS. Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so? MARIA. They say so most that most his humours know. PRINCESS. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest? KATHARINE. The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth, Of all that virtue love for virtue lov'd; Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill, For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, And shape to win grace though he had no wit. I saw him at the Duke Alencon's once; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness. ROSALINE. Another of these students at that time Was there with him, if I have heard a truth: Berowne they call him; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. His eye begets occasion for his wit, For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor, Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished; So sweet and voluble is his discourse. PRINCESS. God bless my ladies! Are they all in love, That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise? FIRST LORD. Here comes Boyet. [Re-enter BOYET.] PRINCESS. Now, what admittance, lord? BOYET. Navarre had notice of your fair approach, And he and his competitors in oath Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady, Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt; He rather means to lodge you in the field, Like one that comes here to besiege his court, Than seek a dispensation for his oath, To let you enter his unpeeled house. Here comes Navarre. [The LADIES mask.] [Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAINE, BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS.] KING. Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. PRINCESS. 'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine. KING. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. PRINCESS. I will be welcome then: conduct me thither. KING. Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath. PRINCESS. Our Lady help my lord! he'll be forsworn. KING. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. PRINCESS. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else. KING. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. PRINCESS. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. I hear your Grace hath sworn out house-keeping: 'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, And sin to break it. But pardon me, I am too sudden bold: To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, And suddenly resolve me in my suit. [Gives a paper.] KING. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. PRINCESS. You will the sooner that I were away, For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay. BEROWNE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? ROSALINE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? BEROWNE. I know you did. ROSALINE. How needless was it then To ask the question! BEROWNE. You must not be so quick. ROSALINE. 'Tis long of you, that spur me with such questions. BEROWNE. Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire. ROSALINE. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. BEROWNE. What time o' day? ROSALINE. The hour that fools should ask. BEROWNE. Now fair befall your mask! ROSALINE. Fair fall the face it covers! BEROWNE. And send you many lovers! ROSALINE. Amen, so you be none. BEROWNE. Nay, then will I be gone. KING. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns; Being but the one half of an entire sum Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say that he or we,--as neither have,-- Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which, One part of Aquitaine is bound to us, Although not valued to the money's worth. If then the King your father will restore But that one half which is unsatisfied, We will give up our right in Aquitaine, And hold fair friendship with his majesty. But that, it seems, he little purposeth, For here he doth demand to have repaid A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands, On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, To have his title live in Aquitaine; Which we much rather had depart withal, And have the money by our father lent, Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is. Dear Princess, were not his requests so far From reason's yielding, your fair self should make A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast, And go well satisfied to France again. PRINCESS. You do the king my father too much wrong, And wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. KING. I do protest I never heard of it; And, if you prove it, I'll repay it back Or yield up Aquitaine. PRINCESS. We arrest your word. Boyet, you can produce acquittances For such a sum from special officers Of Charles his father. KING. Satisfy me so. BOYET. So please your Grace, the packet is not come, Where that and other specialties are bound: To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. KING. It shall suffice me; at which interview All liberal reason I will yield unto. Meantime receive such welcome at my hand As honour, without breach of honour, may Make tender of to thy true worthiness. You may not come, fair Princess, in my gates; But here without you shall be so receiv'd As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart, Though so denied fair harbour in my house. Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell: To-morrow shall we visit you again. PRINCESS. Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace! KING. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. [Exeunt KING and his Train.] BEROWNE. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. ROSALINE. Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it. BEROWNE. I would you heard it groan. ROSALINE. Is the fool sick? BEROWNE. Sick at the heart. ROSALINE. Alack! let it blood. BEROWNE. Would that do it good? ROSALINE. My physic says 'ay.' BEROWNE. Will you prick't with your eye? ROSALINE. No point, with my knife. BEROWNE. Now, God save thy life! ROSALINE. And yours from long living! BEROWNE. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring.] DUMAINE. Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same? BOYET. The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name. DUMAINE. A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well. [Exit.] LONGAVILLE. I beseech you a word: what is she in the white? BOYET. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light. LONGAVILLE. Perchance light in the light. I desire her name. BOYET. She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame. LONGAVILLE. Pray you, sir, whose daughter? BOYET. Her mother's, I have heard. LONGAVILLE. God's blessing on your beard! BOYET. Good sir, be not offended. She is an heir of Falconbridge. LONGAVILLE. Nay, my choler is ended. She is a most sweet lady. BOYET. Not unlike, sir; that may be. [Exit LONGAVILLE.] BEROWNE. What's her name in the cap? BOYET. Rosaline, by good hap. BEROWNE. Is she wedded or no? BOYET. To her will, sir, or so. BEROWNE. You are welcome, sir. Adieu! BOYET. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. [Exit BEROWNE.--LADIES unmask.] MARIA. That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord; Not a word with him but a jest. BOYET. And every jest but a word. PRINCESS. It was well done of you to take him at his word. BOYET. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board. MARIA. Two hot sheeps, marry! BOYET. And wherefore not ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. MARIA. You sheep and I pasture: shall that finish the jest? BOYET. So you grant pasture for me. [Offering to kiss her.] MARIA. Not so, gentle beast. My lips are no common, though several they be. BOYET. Belonging to whom? MARIA. To my fortunes and me. PRINCESS. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree; This civil war of wits were much better us'd On Navarre and his book-men, for here 'tis abus'd. BOYET. If my observation,--which very seldom lies, By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. PRINCESS. With what? BOYET. With that which we lovers entitle affected. PRINCESS. Your reason. BOYET. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire; His heart, like an agate, with your print impress'd, Proud with his form, in his eye pride express'd; His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be; All senses to that sense did make their repair, To feel only looking on fairest of fair. Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; Who, tend'ring their own worth from where they were glass'd, Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd. His face's own margent did quote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. I'll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his, An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. PRINCESS. Come, to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos'd. BOYET. But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos'd. I only have made a mouth of his eye, By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. ROSALINE. Thou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully. MARIA. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him. ROSALINE. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim. BOYET. Do you hear, my mad wenches? MARIA. No. BOYET. What, then, do you see? ROSALINE. Ay, our way to be gone. BOYET. You are too hard for me. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT III. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. [Enter ARMADO and MOTH.] ARMADO. Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing. MOTH [Singing.] Concolinel,-- ARMADO. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither; I must employ him in a letter to my love. MOTH. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? ARMADO. How meanest thou? brawling in French? MOTH. No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of your eyes, with your arms crossed on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements, these are humours; these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note,--do you note me?--that most are affected to these. ARMADO. How hast thou purchased this experience? MOTH. By my penny of observation. ARMADO. But O--but O,-- MOTH. 'The hobby-horse is forgot.' ARMADO. Call'st thou my love 'hobby-horse'? MOTH. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps, a hackney. But have you forgot your love? ARMADO. Almost I had. MOTH. Negligent student! learn her by heart. ARMADO. By heart and in heart, boy. MOTH. And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove. ARMADO. What wilt thou prove? MOTH. A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant: by heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. ARMADO. I am all these three. MOTH. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all. ARMADO. Fetch hither the swain: he must carry me a letter. MOTH. A message well sympathized; a horse to be ambassador for an ass. ARMADO. Ha, ha! what sayest thou? MOTH. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go. ARMADO. The way is but short: away! MOTH. As swift as lead, sir. ARMADO. The meaning, pretty ingenious? Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow? MOTH. Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no. ARMADO. I say lead is slow. MOTH. You are too swift, sir, to say so: Is that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun? ARMADO. Sweet smoke of rhetoric! He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he; I shoot thee at the swain. MOTH. Thump then, and I flee. [Exit.] ARMADO. A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace! By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face: Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. My herald is return'd. [Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD.] MOTH. A wonder, master! here's a costard broken in a shin. ARMADO. Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy l'envoy; begin. COSTARD. No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the mail, sir. O! sir, plantain, a plain plantain; no l'envoy, no l'envoy; no salve, sir, but a plantain. ARMADO. By virtue thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling: O! pardon me, my stars. Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l'envoy, and the word l'envoy for a salve? MOTH. Do the wise think them other? Is not l'envoy a salve? ARMADO. No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. I will example it: The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. There's the moral. Now the l'envoy. MOTH. I will add the l'envoy. Say the moral again. ARMADO. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. MOTH. Until the goose came out of door, And stay'd the odds by adding four. Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l'envoy. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. ARMADO. Until the goose came out of door, Staying the odds by adding four. MOTH. A good l'envoy, ending in the goose; would you desire more? COSTARD. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat. Sir, your pennyworth is good an your goose be fat. To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose: Let me see: a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose. ARMADO. Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin? MOTH. By saying that a costard was broken in a shin. Then call'd you for the l'envoy. COSTARD. True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in; Then the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought; And he ended the market. ARMADO. But tell me; how was there a costard broken in a shin? MOTH. I will tell you sensibly. COSTARD. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will speak that l'envoy: I, Costard, running out, that was safely within, Fell over the threshold and broke my shin. ARMADO. We will talk no more of this matter. COSTARD. Till there be more matter in the shin. ARMADO. Sirrah Costard. I will enfranchise thee. COSTARD. O! marry me to one Frances: I smell some l'envoy, some goose, in this. ARMADO. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person: thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound. COSTARD. True, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose. ARMADO. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this:--[Giving a letter.] Bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta. [Giving money.] there is remuneration; for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. [Exit.] MOTH. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. COSTARD. My sweet ounce of man's flesh! my incony Jew! [Exit MOTH.] Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O! that's the Latin word for three farthings: three farthings, remuneration. 'What's the price of this inkle?' 'One penny.' 'No, I'll give you a remuneration.' Why, it carries it. Remuneration! Why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word. [Enter BEROWNE.] BEROWNE. O! My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met. COSTARD. Pray you, sir, how much carnation riband may a man buy for a remuneration? BEROWNE. What is a remuneration? COSTARD. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. BEROWNE. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk. COSTARD. I thank your worship. God be wi' you! BEROWNE. Stay, slave; I must employ thee: As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave, Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. COSTARD. When would you have it done, sir? BEROWNE. O, this afternoon. COSTARD. Well, I will do it, sir! fare you well. BEROWNE. O, thou knowest not what it is. COSTARD. I shall know, sir, when I have done it. BEROWNE. Why, villain, thou must know first. COSTARD. I will come to your worship to-morrow morning. BEROWNE. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this: The princess comes to hunt here in the park, And in her train there is a gentle lady; When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, And Rosaline they call her: ask for her And to her white hand see thou do commend This seal'd-up counsel. [Gives him a shilling.] There's thy guerdon: go. COSTARD. Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a 'leven-pence farthing better; most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print. Gardon- remuneration! [Exit.] BEROWNE. And I,-- Forsooth, in love; I, that have been love's whip; A very beadle to a humorous sigh; A critic, nay, a night-watch constable; A domineering pedant o'er the boy, Than whom no mortal so magnificent! This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; Regent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces, Sole imperator, and great general Of trotting 'paritors: O my little heart! And I to be a corporal of his field, And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop! What! I love! I sue, I seek a wife! A woman, that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watch'd that it may still go right! Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all; And, among three, to love the worst of all, A wightly wanton with a velvet brow, With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes; Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed, Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard: And I to sigh for her! to watch for her! To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague That Cupid will impose for my neglect Of his almighty dreadful little might. Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan: Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. [Exit.]

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scene 1|scene 2

Don Armado beseeches Holofernes to help him prepare "some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antic, or firework" to entertain the Princess, as the King desires. Holofernes proposes "The Nine Worthies," in which he himself will play three of the parts, and the rest of the sub-plot figures will fill in the others.

----------SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. [Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, ATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER. PRINCESS. Was that the King that spurr'd his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill? BOYET. I know not; but I think it was not he. PRINCESS. Whoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind. Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch; On Saturday we will return to France. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in? FORESTER. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice; A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. PRINCESS. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot. FORESTER. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. PRINCESS. What, what? First praise me, and again say no? O short-liv'd pride! Not fair? Alack for woe! FORESTER. Yes, madam, fair. PRINCESS. Nay, never paint me now; Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass [Gives money]:--take this for telling true: Fair payment for foul words is more than due. FORESTER. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. PRINCESS. See, see! my beauty will be sav'd by merit. O heresy in fair, fit for these days! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill. Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: Not wounding, pity would not let me do't; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. And out of question so it is sometimes, Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part, We bend to that the working of the heart; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill. BOYET. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty Only for praise' sake, when they strive to be Lords o'er their lords? PRINCESS. Only for praise; and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord. [Enter COSTARD.] BOYET. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. COSTARD. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady? PRINCESS. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. COSTARD. Which is the greatest lady, the highest? PRINCESS. The thickest and the tallest. COSTARD. The thickest and the tallest! It is so; truth is truth. An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit. Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here. PRINCESS. What's your will, sir? What's your will? COSTARD. I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. PRINCESS. O! thy letter, thy letter; he's a good friend of mine. Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve; Break up this capon. BOYET. I am bound to serve. This letter is mistook; it importeth none here. It is writ to Jaquenetta. PRINCESS. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear. BOYET. 'By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar-- O base and obscure vulgar!--videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came? the king: Why did he come? to see: Why did he see? to overcome: To whom came he? to the beggar: What saw he? the beggar. Who overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose side? the king's; the captive is enriched: on whose side? the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the king's, no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may: Shall I enforce thy love? I could: Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself? -me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine in the dearest design of industry, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO. 'Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar 'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey; Submissive fall his princely feet before, And he from forage will incline to play. But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then? Food for his rage, repasture for his den.' PRINCESS. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter? What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better? BOYET. I am much deceiv'd but I remember the style. PRINCESS. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile. BOYET. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court; A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the Prince and his book-mates. PRINCESS. Thou fellow, a word. Who gave thee this letter? COSTARD. I told you; my lord. PRINCESS. To whom shouldst thou give it? COSTARD. From my lord to my lady. PRINCESS. From which lord to which lady? COSTARD. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline. PRINCESS. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. Here, sweet, put up this: 'twill be thine another day. [Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN.] BOYET. Who is the suitor? who is the suitor? ROSALINE. Shall I teach you to know? BOYET. Ay, my continent of beauty. ROSALINE. Why, she that bears the bow. Finely put off! BOYET. My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry. Finely put on! ROSALINE. Well then, I am the shooter. BOYET. And who is your deer? ROSALINE. If we choose by the horns, yourself: come not near. Finely put on indeed! MARIA. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. BOYET. But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now? ROSALINE. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? BOYET. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. ROSALINE. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man. BOYET. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I cannot, another can. [Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE.] COSTARD. By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it! MARIA. A mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it. BOYET. A mark! O! mark but that mark; A mark, says my lady! Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be. MARIA. Wide o' the bow-hand! I' faith, your hand is out. COSTARD. Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout. BOYET. An' if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. COSTARD. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. MARIA. Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul. COSTARD. She's too hard for you at pricks, sir; challenge her to bowl. BOYET. I fear too much rubbing. Good-night, my good owl. [Exeunt BOYET and MARIA.] COSTARD. By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown! Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down! O' my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit! When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armado, o' the one side, O! a most dainty man! To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan! To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a' will swear! And his page o' t'other side, that handful of wit! Ah! heavens, it is a most pathetical nit. [Shouting within.] Sola, sola! [Exit running.] ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL. NATHANIEL. Very reverent sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience. HOLOFERNES. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. NATHANIEL. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first head. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. DULL. Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination,--after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion,--to insert again my haud credo for a deer. DULL. I sthe deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Twice sod simplicity, bis coctus! O! thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! NATHANIEL. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts: And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be, Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do fructify in us more than he; For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool, So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school. But, omne bene, say I; being of an old Father's mind: Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. DULL. You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit, What was a month old at Cain's birth, that's not five weeks old as yet? HOLOFERNES. Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull. DULL. What is Dictynna? NATHANIEL. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. HOLOFERNES. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score. The allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. 'Tis true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange. HOLOFERNES. God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. And I say the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside that 'twas a pricket that the Princess killed. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, I have call'd the deer the Princess killed, a pricket. NATHANIEL. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. HOLOFERNES. I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility. The preyful Princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket; Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yell; put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket- Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one sorel! Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more L. NATHANIEL. A rare talent! DULL. [Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. HOLOFERNES. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. NATHANIEL. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth. HOLOFERNES. Mehercle! if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them; but, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us. [Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.] JAQUENETTA. God give you good morrow, Master parson. HOLOFERNES. Master parson, quasi pers-on. And if one should be pierced, which is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Piercing a hogshead! A good lustre or conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master parson [Giving a letter to NATHANIEL.], be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you read it. HOLOFERNES. 'Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat,' and so forth. Ah! good old Mantuan. I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: --Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia. Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather as Horace says in his-- What, my soul, verses? NATHANIEL. Ay, sir, and very learned. HOLOFERNES. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine. NATHANIEL. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd; Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend: If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice. Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire. Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O! pardon love this wrong, That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue. HOLOFERNES. You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the 'tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you? JAQUENETTA. Ay, sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen's lords. HOLOFERNES. I will overglance the superscript: 'To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: 'Your Ladyship's in all desired employment, Berowne.'--Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's, which, accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty. Adieu. JAQUENETTA. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life! COSTARD. Have with thee, my girl. [Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.] NATHANIEL. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain Father saith-- HOLOFERNES. Sir, tell not me of the Father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel? NATHANIEL. Marvellous well for the pen. HOLOFERNES. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. NATHANIEL. And thank you too; for society,--saith the text,--is the happiness of life. HOLOFERNES. And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [To DULL] Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. [Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL.] HOLOFERNES. Satis quod sufficit. NATHANIEL. I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king's who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. HOLOFERNES. Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. NATHANIEL. A most singular and choice epithet. [Draws out his table-book.] HOLOFERNES. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should say doubt; det when he should pronounce debt,--d, e, b, t, not d, e, t: he clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebour, neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable, which he would call abominable,--it insinuateth me of insanie: anne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic. NATHANIEL. Laus Deo, bone intelligo. HOLOFERNES. Bone? bone for bene: Priscian a little scratch'd; 'twill serve. [Enter ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD.] NATHANIEL. Videsne quis venit? HOLOFERNES. Video, et gaudeo. ARMADO. [To MOTH] Chirrah! HOLOFERNES. Quare chirrah, not sirrah? ARMADO. Men of peace, well encountered. HOLOFERNES. Most military sir, salutation. MOTH. [Aside to COSTARD.] They have been at a great feast of languages and stolen the scraps. COSTARD. O! they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou are not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus; thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. MOTH. Peace! the peal begins. ARMADO. [To HOLOFERNES.] Monsieur, are you not lettered? MOTH. Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt backward with the horn on his head? HOLOFERNES. Ba, pueritia, with a horn added. MOTH. Ba! most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning. HOLOFERNES. Quis, quis, thou consonant? MOTH. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I. HOLOFERNES. I will repeat them,--a, e, i,-- MOTH. The sheep; the other two concludes it,--o, u. ARMADO. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit! snip, snap, quick and home! It rejoiceth my intellect: true wit! MOTH. Offered by a child to an old man; which is wit-old. HOLOFERNES. What is the figure? What is the figure? MOTH. Horns. HOLOFERNES. Thou disputes like an infant; go, whip thy gig. MOTH. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circum circa. A gig of a cuckold's horn. COSTARD. An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou half-penny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O! an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me. Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say. HOLOFERNES. O, I smell false Latin! 'dunghill' for unguem. ARMADO. Arts-man, praeambula; we will be singled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain? HOLOFERNES. Or mons, the hill. ARMADO. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. HOLOFERNES. I do, sans question. ARMADO. Sir, it is the King's most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the princess at her pavilion, in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon. HOLOFERNES. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable, for the afternoon. The word is well culled, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir; I do assure. ARMADO. Sir, the King is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let it pass: I do beseech thee, remember thy courtsy; I beseech thee, apparel thy head: and among other importunate and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let that pass: for I must tell thee it will please his Grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio: but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world: but let that pass. The very all of all is, but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy, that the King would have me present the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antic, or firework. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking-out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance. HOLOFERNES. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistance, the King's command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the princess, I say none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. NATHANIEL. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them? HOLOFERNES. Joshua, yourself; myself, Alexander; this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules,-- ARMADO. Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy's thumb; he is not so big as the end of his club. HOLOFERNES. Shall I have audience? He shall present Hercules in minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose. MOTH. An excellent device! So, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry 'Well done, Hercules; now thou crushest the snake!' That is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it. ARMADO. For the rest of the Worthies?-- HOLOFERNES. I will play three myself. MOTH. Thrice-worthy gentleman! ARMADO. Shall I tell you a thing? HOLOFERNES. We attend. ARMADO. We will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you, follow. HOLOFERNES. Via, goodman Dull! Thou has spoken no word all this while. DULL. Nor understood none neither, sir. HOLOFERNES. Allons! we will employ thee. DULL. I'll make one in a dance, or so, or I will play on the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay. HOLOFERNES. Most dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away. [Exeunt.]

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

act 1, scene 1|act 1, scene 2

The play begins with the King of Navarre declaring that he and his nobles, Longaville, Dumain, and Biron, need to be eternally remembered, even in death. The King proposes to accomplish this fame by forming "a little academe" in which the four men will cloister themselves in court and remain celibate for three years in order to diligently pursue their studies, thus accomplishing great learning and subsequent fame. Longaville is quick to comply to the king's plan and signs the document held out by his majesty, saying that for him, "Tis but a three years' fast." Dumain also signs his consent with ease, renouncing worldly pleasure and declaring the he may now be considered dead "to love, to wealth, to pomp". Biron, though having agreed to remain at the court of Navarre for the purpose of studying the art of living, objects to the "other strict observances," which he feels are foolish. He is not prepared to give up sensual pleasure for intellectual enrichment and states, "O, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep - Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep." Biron cleverly argues with the King that study is worth nothing if it is merely textual and not experimental. He then goes on to read aloud the articles included in the agreement which state that if any woman ventures within a mile of the court, she will be penalized by the loss of her tongue. This, Biron believes is "a dangerous law against gentility." He then reads a second item, which states that any man seen talking to a woman must necessarily endure public shame of the highest degree possible. On reading this, Biron reminds the King of the upcoming visit by the Princess of France, knowing that the King will have to speak with the princess about political matters. The King, somewhat embarrassed, admits he will have to break this part of the oath from time to time from "mere necessity." Biron then prophesies that all four of the men will break their vows and states that "necessity will make us all for sworn/three thousand times within this three years' space." In spite of his arguments and at the urging of the other lords and the King, Biron signs the agreement to give up physical pleasures for intellectual growth. Biron asks the King what they may do for recreation since women are a pleasure unavailable to them. It is unanimously decided that Armado, the "refined traveler of Spain", will provide them with entertainment. As they continue to talk, a constable named Anthony Dull enters with a countryman named Costard. The constable carries a letter written by Armado, which accuses the countryman of seducing a woman in spite of the court declaration of abstinence. The accusing letter, addressed to the King, is written in a highly decorous style and spells out in detail the crime of which Costard is accused. Costard admits he knows about the law, but has never heard of it being enforced. The King pronounces his sentence, and Costard is sent to the custody of Armado.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park [Enter the King, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN.] KING. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live regist'red upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, The endeavour of this present breath may buy That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge, And make us heirs of all eternity. Therefore, brave conquerors--for so you are That war against your own affections And the huge army of the world's desires-- Our late edict shall strongly stand in force: Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; Our court shall be a little academe, Still and contemplative in living art. You three, Berowne, Dumain, and Longaville, Have sworn for three years' term to live with me, My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here: Your oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe your names, That his own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein. If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do, Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. LONGAVILLE. I am resolv'd; 'tis but a three years' fast: The mind shall banquet, though the body pine: Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits. DUMAINE. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified: The grosser manner of these world's delights He throws upon the gross world's baser slaves; To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die, With all these living in philosophy. BEROWNE. I can but say their protestation over; So much, dear liege, I have already sworn, That is, to live and study here three years. But there are other strict observances: As, not to see a woman in that term, Which I hope well is not enrolled there: And one day in a week to touch no food, And but one meal on every day beside; The which I hope is not enrolled there: And then to sleep but three hours in the night And not be seen to wink of all the day,-- When I was wont to think no harm all night, And make a dark night too of half the day,-- Which I hope well is not enrolled there. O! these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep. KING. Your oath is pass'd to pass away from these. BEROWNE. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please: I only swore to study with your Grace, And stay here in your court for three years' space. LONGAVILLE. You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest. BEROWNE. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest. What is the end of study? let me know. KING. Why, that to know which else we should not know. BEROWNE. Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from common sense? KING. Ay, that is study's god-like recompense. BEROWNE. Come on, then; I will swear to study so, To know the thing I am forbid to know, As thus: to study where I well may dine, When I to feast expressly am forbid; Or study where to meet some mistress fine, When mistresses from common sense are hid; Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath, Study to break it, and not break my troth. If study's gain be thus, and this be so, Study knows that which yet it doth not know. Swear me to this, and I will ne'er say no. KING. These be the stops that hinder study quite, And train our intellects to vain delight. BEROWNE. Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain: As painfully to pore upon a book, To seek the light of truth; while truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile; So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to please the eye indeed, By fixing it upon a fairer eye; Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, And give him light that it was blinded by. Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, That will not be deep-search'd with saucy looks; Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others' books. These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights That give a name to every fixed star Have no more profit of their shining nights Than those that walk and wot not what they are. Too much to know is to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name. KING. How well he's read, to reason against reading! DUMAINE. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding! LONGAVILLE. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. BEROWNE. The spring is near, when green geese are a-breeding. DUMAINE. How follows that? BEROWNE. Fit in his place and time. DUMAINE. In reason nothing. BEROWNE. Something then in rime. LONGAVILLE. Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost That bites the first-born infants of the spring. BEROWNE. Well, say I am: why should proud summer boast Before the birds have any cause to sing? Why should I joy in any abortive birth? At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows; But like of each thing that in season grows; So you, to study now it is too late, Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate. KING. Well, sit out; go home, Berowne; adieu. BEROWNE. No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you; And though I have for barbarism spoke more Than for that angel knowledge you can say, Yet confident I'll keep what I have swore, And bide the penance of each three years' day. Give me the paper; let me read the same; And to the strict'st decrees I'll write my name. KING. How well this yielding rescues thee from shame! BEROWNE. 'Item. That no woman shall come within a mile of my court.'Hath this been proclaimed? LONGAVILLE. Four days ago. BEROWNE. Let's see the penalty. 'On pain of losing her tongue.' Who devised this penalty? LONGAVILLE. Marry, that did I. BEROWNE. Sweet lord, and why? LONGAVILLE. To fright them hence with that dread penalty. BEROWNE. A dangerous law against gentility! 'Item. If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.' This article, my liege, yourself must break; For well you know here comes in embassy The French king's daughter, with yourself to speak-- A mild of grace and complete majesty-- About surrender up of Aquitaine To her decrepit, sick, and bedrid father: Therefore this article is made in vain, Or vainly comes th' admired princess hither. KING. What say you, lords? why, this was quite forgot. BEROWNE. So study evermore is over-shot: While it doth study to have what it would, It doth forget to do the thing it should; And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 'Tis won as towns with fire; so won, so lost. KING. We must of force dispense with this decree; She must lie here on mere necessity. BEROWNE. Necessity will make us all forsworn Three thousand times within this three years' space; For every man with his affects is born, Not by might master'd, but by special grace. If I break faith, this word shall speak for me: I am forsworn 'on mere necessity.' So to the laws at large I write my name; [Subscribes] And he that breaks them in the least degree Stands in attainder of eternal shame. Suggestions are to other as to me; But I believe, although I seem so loath, I am the last that will last keep his oath. But is there no quick recreation granted? KING. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain; A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; One who the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony; A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny: This child of fancy, that Armado hight, For interim to our studies shall relate, In high-born words, the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world's debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I; But, I protest, I love to hear him lie, And I will use him for my minstrelsy. BEROWNE. Armado is a most illustrious wight, A man of fire-new words, fashion's own knight. LONGAVILLE. Costard the swain and he shall be our sport; And so to study three years is but short. [Enter DULL, with a letter, and COSTARD.] DULL. Which is the duke's own person? BEROWNE. This, fellow. What wouldst? DULL. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace's tharborough: but I would see his own person in flesh and blood. BEROWNE. This is he. DULL. Signior Arm--Arm--commends you. There's villainy abroad: this letter will tell you more. COSTARD. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me. KING. A letter from the magnificent Armado. BEROWNE. How long soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. LONGAVILLE. A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience! BEROWNE. To hear, or forbear laughing? LONGAVILLE. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or, to forbear both. BEROWNE. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness. COSTARD. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner. BEROWNE. In what manner? COSTARD. In manner and form following, sir; all those three: I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, put together, is in manner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner,--it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman, for the form,--in some form. BEROWNE. For the following, sir? COSTARD. As it shall follow in my correction; and God defend the right! KING. Will you hear this letter with attention? BEROWNE. As we would hear an oracle. COSTARD. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh. KING. 'Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's god and body's fostering patron,' COSTARD. Not a word of Costard yet. KING. 'So it is,'-- COSTARD. It may be so; but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so.-- KING. Peace! COSTARD. Be to me, and every man that dares not fight! KING. No words! COSTARD. Of other men's secrets, I beseech you. KING. 'So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time when? About the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper: so much for the time when. Now for the ground which; which, I mean, I upon; it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event, that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place where, it standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden: there did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,'-- COSTARD. Me. KING. 'that unlettered small-knowing soul,'-- COSTARD. Me. KING. 'that shallow vassal,'-- COSTARD. Still me.-- KING. 'which, as I remember, hight Costard,'-- COSTARD. O me. KING. 'sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, with--with,--O! with but with this I passion to say wherewith,'-- COSTARD. With a wench. KING. 'with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him, I,--as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on,--have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet Grace's officer, Antony Dull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.' DULL. Me, an't please you; I am Antony Dull. KING. 'For Jaquenetta,--so is the weaker vessel called, which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain,--I keep her as a vessel of thy law's fury; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.' BEROWNE. This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard. KING. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this? COSTARD. Sir, I confess the wench. KING. Did you hear the proclamation? COSTARD. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it. KING. It was proclaimed a year's imprisonment to be taken with a wench. COSTARD. I was taken with none, sir: I was taken with a damosel. KING. Well, it was proclaimed 'damosel'. COSTARD. This was no damosel neither, sir; she was a 'virgin'. KING. It is so varied too; for it was proclaimed 'virgin'. COSTARD. If it were, I deny her virginity: I was taken with a maid. KING. This maid not serve your turn, sir. COSTARD. This maid will serve my turn, sir. KING. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water. COSTARD. I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge. KING. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. My Lord Berowne, see him delivered o'er: And go we, lords, to put in practice that Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. [Exeunt KING, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN.] BEROWNE. I'll lay my head to any good man's hat These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. Sirrah, come on. COSTARD. I suffer for the truth, sir: for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow! [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The park. [Enter ARMADO and MOTH.] ARMADO. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy? MOTH. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad. ARMADO. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp. MOTH. No, no; O Lord, sir, no. ARMADO. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal? MOTH. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior. ARMADO. Why tough senior? Why tough senior? MOTH. Why tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal? ARMADO. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender. MOTH. And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough. ARMADO. Pretty and apt. MOTH. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt, and my saying pretty? ARMADO. Thou pretty, because little. MOTH. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt? ARMADO. And therefore apt, because quick. MOTH. Speak you this in my praise, master? ARMADO. In thy condign praise. MOTH. I will praise an eel with the same praise. ARMADO. What! That an eel is ingenious? MOTH. That an eel is quick. ARMADO. I do say thou art quick in answers: thou heat'st my blood. MOTH. I am answered, sir. ARMADO. I love not to be crossed. MOTH. [Aside] He speaks the mere contrary: crosses love not him. ARMADO. I have promised to study three years with the duke. MOTH. You may do it in an hour, sir. ARMADO. Impossible. MOTH. How many is one thrice told? @@@@ ARMADO. I am ill at reck'ning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster. MOTH. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir. ARMADO. I confess both: they are both the varnish of a complete man. MOTH. Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. ARMADO. It doth amount to one more than two. MOTH. Which the base vulgar do call three. ARMADO. True. MOTH. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here's three studied ere ye'll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put 'years' to the word 'three,' and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you. ARMADO. A most fine figure! MOTH. [Aside] To prove you a cipher. ARMADO. I will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised curtsy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should out-swear Cupid. Comfort me, boy: what great men have been in love? MOTH. Hercules, master. ARMADO. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. MOTH. Samson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a porter; and he was in love. ARMADO. O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth? MOTH. A woman, master. ARMADO. Of what complexion? MOTH. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four. ARMADO. Tell me precisely of what complexion. MOTH. Of the sea-water green, sir. ARMADO. Is that one of the four complexions? MOTH. As I have read, sir; and the best of them too. ARMADO. Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers; but to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit. MOTH. It was so, sir, for she had a green wit. ARMADO. My love is most immaculate white and red. MOTH. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours. ARMADO. Define, define, well-educated infant. MOTH. My father's wit my mother's tongue assist me! ARMADO. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty, and pathetical! MOTH. If she be made of white and red, Her faults will ne'er be known; For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, And fears by pale white shown. Then if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know, For still her cheeks possess the same Which native she doth owe. A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red. ARMADO. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar? MOTH. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but I think now 'tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune. ARMADO. I will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well. MOTH. [Aside] To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master. ARMADO. Sing, boy: my spirit grows heavy in love. MOTH. And that's great marvel, loving a light wench. ARMADO. I say, sing. MOTH. Forbear till this company be past. [Enter DULL, COSTARD, and JAQUENETTA.] DULL. Sir, the Duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe: and you must suffer him to take no delight nor no penance; but a' must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park; she is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well. ARMADO. I do betray myself with blushing. Maid! JAQUENETTA. Man? ARMADO. I will visit thee at the lodge. JAQUENETTA. That's hereby. ARMADO. I know where it is situate. JAQUENETTA. Lord, how wise you are! ARMADO. I will tell thee wonders. JAQUENETTA. With that face? ARMADO. I love thee. JAQUENETTA. So I heard you say. ARMADO. And so, farewell. JAQUENETTA. Fair weather after you! DULL. Come, Jaquenetta, away! [Exit with JAQUENETTA.] ARMADO. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned. COSTARD. Well, sir, I hope when I do it I shall do it on a full stomach. ARMADO. Thou shalt be heavily punished. COSTARD. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded. ARMADO. Take away this villain: shut him up. MOTH. Come, you transgressing slave: away! COSTARD. Let me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, being loose. MOTH. No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt to prison. COSTARD. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see-- MOTH. What shall some see? COSTARD. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words, and therefore I will say nothing. I thank God I have as little patience as another man, and therefore I can be quiet. [Exeunt MOTH and COSTARD.] ARMADO. I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn,--which is a great argument of falsehood,--if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil; there is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not; his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour! rust, rapier! be still, drum! for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rime, for I am sure I shall turn sonneter. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio. [Exit.]

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 3, scene 1 with the given context.

act 2, scene 1|act 3, scene 1|act 4, scene 1

Armado tells Moth to sing him some "sweet air" about love, and Moth willingly obliges. The servant also instructs Armado on how best to court Jaquenetta in a most comical and entertaining way, making great use of word play. Even without the help of his aside comments, it is easy to tell that Moth is mocking his companion's zealous and pompous professions of love. However, Armado is blissfully unaware of Moth's mockery and even compliments his song as the "sweet smoke of rhetoric". Armado sends Moth to fetch Costard, whom he wants to carry a letter to Jaquenetta. Moth returns with the man, and they both engage in riddling and teasing Armado, until he finally proclaims that "we will talk no more of this matter". Armado now explains to Costard the conditions for his freedom and instructs him to deliver the letter, giving him a small financial reward for the service. As Armado and Moth depart, Biron enters and stops Costard. Ironically, he has come to ask Costard to deliver a letter to Rosaline and gives the man a small reward for the service. Happy over the money he has received from the two men, Costard leaves to deliver both letters. Biron, now alone on-stage, speaks aloud about his newfound feelings of love and asks himself, "What? I love, I sue, I seek a wife?" He answers his own question as he describes Rosaline's appearance and character in a gentle, eloquent, and dignified speech.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. A pavilion and tents at a distance. [Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, and other Attendants.] BOYET. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits: Consider who the king your father sends, To whom he sends, and what's his embassy: Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem, To parley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe, Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. Be now as prodigal of all dear grace As Nature was in making graces dear When she did starve the general world beside, And prodigally gave them all to you. PRINCESS. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Needs not the painted flourish of your praise: Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, Not utt'red by base sale of chapmen's tongues. I am less proud to hear you tell my worth Than you much willing to be counted wise In spending your wit in the praise of mine. But now to task the tasker: good Boyet, You are not ignorant, all-telling fame Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow, Till painful study shall outwear three years, No woman may approach his silent court: Therefore to's seemeth it a needful course, Before we enter his forbidden gates, To know his pleasure; and in that behalf, Bold of your worthiness, we single you As our best-moving fair solicitor. Tell him the daughter of the King of France, On serious business, craving quick dispatch, Importunes personal conference with his Grace. Haste, signify so much; while we attend, Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will. BOYET. Proud of employment, willingly I go. PRINCESS. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. [Exit BOYET.] Who are the votaries, my loving lords, That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke? FIRST LORD. Lord Longaville is one. PRINCESS. Know you the man? MARIA. I know him, madam: at a marriage feast, Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized In Normandy, saw I this Longaville. A man of sovereign parts, he is esteem'd, Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms: Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,-- If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,-- Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will; Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills It should none spare that come within his power. PRINCESS. Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so? MARIA. They say so most that most his humours know. PRINCESS. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest? KATHARINE. The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth, Of all that virtue love for virtue lov'd; Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill, For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, And shape to win grace though he had no wit. I saw him at the Duke Alencon's once; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness. ROSALINE. Another of these students at that time Was there with him, if I have heard a truth: Berowne they call him; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. His eye begets occasion for his wit, For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor, Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished; So sweet and voluble is his discourse. PRINCESS. God bless my ladies! Are they all in love, That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise? FIRST LORD. Here comes Boyet. [Re-enter BOYET.] PRINCESS. Now, what admittance, lord? BOYET. Navarre had notice of your fair approach, And he and his competitors in oath Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady, Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt; He rather means to lodge you in the field, Like one that comes here to besiege his court, Than seek a dispensation for his oath, To let you enter his unpeeled house. Here comes Navarre. [The LADIES mask.] [Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAINE, BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS.] KING. Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. PRINCESS. 'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine. KING. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. PRINCESS. I will be welcome then: conduct me thither. KING. Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath. PRINCESS. Our Lady help my lord! he'll be forsworn. KING. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. PRINCESS. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else. KING. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. PRINCESS. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. I hear your Grace hath sworn out house-keeping: 'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, And sin to break it. But pardon me, I am too sudden bold: To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, And suddenly resolve me in my suit. [Gives a paper.] KING. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. PRINCESS. You will the sooner that I were away, For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay. BEROWNE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? ROSALINE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? BEROWNE. I know you did. ROSALINE. How needless was it then To ask the question! BEROWNE. You must not be so quick. ROSALINE. 'Tis long of you, that spur me with such questions. BEROWNE. Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire. ROSALINE. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. BEROWNE. What time o' day? ROSALINE. The hour that fools should ask. BEROWNE. Now fair befall your mask! ROSALINE. Fair fall the face it covers! BEROWNE. And send you many lovers! ROSALINE. Amen, so you be none. BEROWNE. Nay, then will I be gone. KING. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns; Being but the one half of an entire sum Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say that he or we,--as neither have,-- Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which, One part of Aquitaine is bound to us, Although not valued to the money's worth. If then the King your father will restore But that one half which is unsatisfied, We will give up our right in Aquitaine, And hold fair friendship with his majesty. But that, it seems, he little purposeth, For here he doth demand to have repaid A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands, On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, To have his title live in Aquitaine; Which we much rather had depart withal, And have the money by our father lent, Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is. Dear Princess, were not his requests so far From reason's yielding, your fair self should make A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast, And go well satisfied to France again. PRINCESS. You do the king my father too much wrong, And wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. KING. I do protest I never heard of it; And, if you prove it, I'll repay it back Or yield up Aquitaine. PRINCESS. We arrest your word. Boyet, you can produce acquittances For such a sum from special officers Of Charles his father. KING. Satisfy me so. BOYET. So please your Grace, the packet is not come, Where that and other specialties are bound: To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. KING. It shall suffice me; at which interview All liberal reason I will yield unto. Meantime receive such welcome at my hand As honour, without breach of honour, may Make tender of to thy true worthiness. You may not come, fair Princess, in my gates; But here without you shall be so receiv'd As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart, Though so denied fair harbour in my house. Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell: To-morrow shall we visit you again. PRINCESS. Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace! KING. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. [Exeunt KING and his Train.] BEROWNE. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. ROSALINE. Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it. BEROWNE. I would you heard it groan. ROSALINE. Is the fool sick? BEROWNE. Sick at the heart. ROSALINE. Alack! let it blood. BEROWNE. Would that do it good? ROSALINE. My physic says 'ay.' BEROWNE. Will you prick't with your eye? ROSALINE. No point, with my knife. BEROWNE. Now, God save thy life! ROSALINE. And yours from long living! BEROWNE. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring.] DUMAINE. Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same? BOYET. The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name. DUMAINE. A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well. [Exit.] LONGAVILLE. I beseech you a word: what is she in the white? BOYET. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light. LONGAVILLE. Perchance light in the light. I desire her name. BOYET. She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame. LONGAVILLE. Pray you, sir, whose daughter? BOYET. Her mother's, I have heard. LONGAVILLE. God's blessing on your beard! BOYET. Good sir, be not offended. She is an heir of Falconbridge. LONGAVILLE. Nay, my choler is ended. She is a most sweet lady. BOYET. Not unlike, sir; that may be. [Exit LONGAVILLE.] BEROWNE. What's her name in the cap? BOYET. Rosaline, by good hap. BEROWNE. Is she wedded or no? BOYET. To her will, sir, or so. BEROWNE. You are welcome, sir. Adieu! BOYET. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. [Exit BEROWNE.--LADIES unmask.] MARIA. That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord; Not a word with him but a jest. BOYET. And every jest but a word. PRINCESS. It was well done of you to take him at his word. BOYET. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board. MARIA. Two hot sheeps, marry! BOYET. And wherefore not ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. MARIA. You sheep and I pasture: shall that finish the jest? BOYET. So you grant pasture for me. [Offering to kiss her.] MARIA. Not so, gentle beast. My lips are no common, though several they be. BOYET. Belonging to whom? MARIA. To my fortunes and me. PRINCESS. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree; This civil war of wits were much better us'd On Navarre and his book-men, for here 'tis abus'd. BOYET. If my observation,--which very seldom lies, By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. PRINCESS. With what? BOYET. With that which we lovers entitle affected. PRINCESS. Your reason. BOYET. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire; His heart, like an agate, with your print impress'd, Proud with his form, in his eye pride express'd; His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be; All senses to that sense did make their repair, To feel only looking on fairest of fair. Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; Who, tend'ring their own worth from where they were glass'd, Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd. His face's own margent did quote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. I'll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his, An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. PRINCESS. Come, to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos'd. BOYET. But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos'd. I only have made a mouth of his eye, By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. ROSALINE. Thou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully. MARIA. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him. ROSALINE. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim. BOYET. Do you hear, my mad wenches? MARIA. No. BOYET. What, then, do you see? ROSALINE. Ay, our way to be gone. BOYET. You are too hard for me. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 1--------- ACT III. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. [Enter ARMADO and MOTH.] ARMADO. Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing. MOTH [Singing.] Concolinel,-- ARMADO. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither; I must employ him in a letter to my love. MOTH. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? ARMADO. How meanest thou? brawling in French? MOTH. No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of your eyes, with your arms crossed on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements, these are humours; these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note,--do you note me?--that most are affected to these. ARMADO. How hast thou purchased this experience? MOTH. By my penny of observation. ARMADO. But O--but O,-- MOTH. 'The hobby-horse is forgot.' ARMADO. Call'st thou my love 'hobby-horse'? MOTH. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps, a hackney. But have you forgot your love? ARMADO. Almost I had. MOTH. Negligent student! learn her by heart. ARMADO. By heart and in heart, boy. MOTH. And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove. ARMADO. What wilt thou prove? MOTH. A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant: by heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. ARMADO. I am all these three. MOTH. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all. ARMADO. Fetch hither the swain: he must carry me a letter. MOTH. A message well sympathized; a horse to be ambassador for an ass. ARMADO. Ha, ha! what sayest thou? MOTH. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go. ARMADO. The way is but short: away! MOTH. As swift as lead, sir. ARMADO. The meaning, pretty ingenious? Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow? MOTH. Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no. ARMADO. I say lead is slow. MOTH. You are too swift, sir, to say so: Is that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun? ARMADO. Sweet smoke of rhetoric! He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he; I shoot thee at the swain. MOTH. Thump then, and I flee. [Exit.] ARMADO. A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace! By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face: Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. My herald is return'd. [Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD.] MOTH. A wonder, master! here's a costard broken in a shin. ARMADO. Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy l'envoy; begin. COSTARD. No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the mail, sir. O! sir, plantain, a plain plantain; no l'envoy, no l'envoy; no salve, sir, but a plantain. ARMADO. By virtue thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling: O! pardon me, my stars. Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l'envoy, and the word l'envoy for a salve? MOTH. Do the wise think them other? Is not l'envoy a salve? ARMADO. No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. I will example it: The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. There's the moral. Now the l'envoy. MOTH. I will add the l'envoy. Say the moral again. ARMADO. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. MOTH. Until the goose came out of door, And stay'd the odds by adding four. Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l'envoy. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. ARMADO. Until the goose came out of door, Staying the odds by adding four. MOTH. A good l'envoy, ending in the goose; would you desire more? COSTARD. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat. Sir, your pennyworth is good an your goose be fat. To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose: Let me see: a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose. ARMADO. Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin? MOTH. By saying that a costard was broken in a shin. Then call'd you for the l'envoy. COSTARD. True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in; Then the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought; And he ended the market. ARMADO. But tell me; how was there a costard broken in a shin? MOTH. I will tell you sensibly. COSTARD. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will speak that l'envoy: I, Costard, running out, that was safely within, Fell over the threshold and broke my shin. ARMADO. We will talk no more of this matter. COSTARD. Till there be more matter in the shin. ARMADO. Sirrah Costard. I will enfranchise thee. COSTARD. O! marry me to one Frances: I smell some l'envoy, some goose, in this. ARMADO. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person: thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound. COSTARD. True, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose. ARMADO. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this:--[Giving a letter.] Bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta. [Giving money.] there is remuneration; for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. [Exit.] MOTH. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. COSTARD. My sweet ounce of man's flesh! my incony Jew! [Exit MOTH.] Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O! that's the Latin word for three farthings: three farthings, remuneration. 'What's the price of this inkle?' 'One penny.' 'No, I'll give you a remuneration.' Why, it carries it. Remuneration! Why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word. [Enter BEROWNE.] BEROWNE. O! My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met. COSTARD. Pray you, sir, how much carnation riband may a man buy for a remuneration? BEROWNE. What is a remuneration? COSTARD. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. BEROWNE. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk. COSTARD. I thank your worship. God be wi' you! BEROWNE. Stay, slave; I must employ thee: As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave, Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. COSTARD. When would you have it done, sir? BEROWNE. O, this afternoon. COSTARD. Well, I will do it, sir! fare you well. BEROWNE. O, thou knowest not what it is. COSTARD. I shall know, sir, when I have done it. BEROWNE. Why, villain, thou must know first. COSTARD. I will come to your worship to-morrow morning. BEROWNE. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this: The princess comes to hunt here in the park, And in her train there is a gentle lady; When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, And Rosaline they call her: ask for her And to her white hand see thou do commend This seal'd-up counsel. [Gives him a shilling.] There's thy guerdon: go. COSTARD. Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a 'leven-pence farthing better; most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print. Gardon- remuneration! [Exit.] BEROWNE. And I,-- Forsooth, in love; I, that have been love's whip; A very beadle to a humorous sigh; A critic, nay, a night-watch constable; A domineering pedant o'er the boy, Than whom no mortal so magnificent! This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; Regent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces, Sole imperator, and great general Of trotting 'paritors: O my little heart! And I to be a corporal of his field, And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop! What! I love! I sue, I seek a wife! A woman, that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watch'd that it may still go right! Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all; And, among three, to love the worst of all, A wightly wanton with a velvet brow, With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes; Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed, Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard: And I to sigh for her! to watch for her! To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague That Cupid will impose for my neglect Of his almighty dreadful little might. Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan: Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. [Exit.] ----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. [Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, ATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER. PRINCESS. Was that the King that spurr'd his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill? BOYET. I know not; but I think it was not he. PRINCESS. Whoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind. Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch; On Saturday we will return to France. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in? FORESTER. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice; A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. PRINCESS. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot. FORESTER. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. PRINCESS. What, what? First praise me, and again say no? O short-liv'd pride! Not fair? Alack for woe! FORESTER. Yes, madam, fair. PRINCESS. Nay, never paint me now; Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass [Gives money]:--take this for telling true: Fair payment for foul words is more than due. FORESTER. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. PRINCESS. See, see! my beauty will be sav'd by merit. O heresy in fair, fit for these days! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill. Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: Not wounding, pity would not let me do't; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. And out of question so it is sometimes, Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part, We bend to that the working of the heart; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill. BOYET. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty Only for praise' sake, when they strive to be Lords o'er their lords? PRINCESS. Only for praise; and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord. [Enter COSTARD.] BOYET. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. COSTARD. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady? PRINCESS. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. COSTARD. Which is the greatest lady, the highest? PRINCESS. The thickest and the tallest. COSTARD. The thickest and the tallest! It is so; truth is truth. An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit. Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here. PRINCESS. What's your will, sir? What's your will? COSTARD. I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. PRINCESS. O! thy letter, thy letter; he's a good friend of mine. Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve; Break up this capon. BOYET. I am bound to serve. This letter is mistook; it importeth none here. It is writ to Jaquenetta. PRINCESS. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear. BOYET. 'By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar-- O base and obscure vulgar!--videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came? the king: Why did he come? to see: Why did he see? to overcome: To whom came he? to the beggar: What saw he? the beggar. Who overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose side? the king's; the captive is enriched: on whose side? the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the king's, no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may: Shall I enforce thy love? I could: Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself? -me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine in the dearest design of industry, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO. 'Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar 'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey; Submissive fall his princely feet before, And he from forage will incline to play. But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then? Food for his rage, repasture for his den.' PRINCESS. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter? What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better? BOYET. I am much deceiv'd but I remember the style. PRINCESS. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile. BOYET. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court; A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the Prince and his book-mates. PRINCESS. Thou fellow, a word. Who gave thee this letter? COSTARD. I told you; my lord. PRINCESS. To whom shouldst thou give it? COSTARD. From my lord to my lady. PRINCESS. From which lord to which lady? COSTARD. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline. PRINCESS. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. Here, sweet, put up this: 'twill be thine another day. [Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN.] BOYET. Who is the suitor? who is the suitor? ROSALINE. Shall I teach you to know? BOYET. Ay, my continent of beauty. ROSALINE. Why, she that bears the bow. Finely put off! BOYET. My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry. Finely put on! ROSALINE. Well then, I am the shooter. BOYET. And who is your deer? ROSALINE. If we choose by the horns, yourself: come not near. Finely put on indeed! MARIA. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. BOYET. But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now? ROSALINE. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? BOYET. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. ROSALINE. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man. BOYET. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I cannot, another can. [Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE.] COSTARD. By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it! MARIA. A mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it. BOYET. A mark! O! mark but that mark; A mark, says my lady! Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be. MARIA. Wide o' the bow-hand! I' faith, your hand is out. COSTARD. Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout. BOYET. An' if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. COSTARD. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. MARIA. Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul. COSTARD. She's too hard for you at pricks, sir; challenge her to bowl. BOYET. I fear too much rubbing. Good-night, my good owl. [Exeunt BOYET and MARIA.] COSTARD. By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown! Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down! O' my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit! When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armado, o' the one side, O! a most dainty man! To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan! To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a' will swear! And his page o' t'other side, that handful of wit! Ah! heavens, it is a most pathetical nit. [Shouting within.] Sola, sola! [Exit running.]

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 4, scene 2, utilizing the provided context.

This scene introduces two new characters - Holofernes, who is a pedantic schoolteacher, and Sir Nathaniel, who is a curate that is greatly impressed with the bookish knowledge of Holofernes. These two, along with the constable Dull, are involved in an utterly senseless debate on the age of the deer killed by the princess. With pomposity, Holofernes draws every excessive word and phrase out of the subject that he can, in an attempt to sound learned and educated. The conversation continues in almost a slapstick manner as the other characters mis-hear and misunderstand each other completely. Jaquenetta enters with Costard, who still bears the letter that was intended for Rosaline. She greets the curate and asks him to read the letter for her, thinking it is from Armado. The letter, instead, contains Biron's gracious poem to Rosaline. Holofernes tries to sound intelligent as he dissects and criticizes the poem, stating it has little literary merit. He then tries to show his own flashy and educated use of language, sounding much less graceful than the poem he has criticized. He finally advises Jaquenetta to take the letter to the king to explain the error of the mis-delivered letter from Biron. When Jaquenetta and Costard leave, Holofernes invites Nathaniel to dine with him at his pupil's house, where he promises to show the poor construction of the verses he considers "very unlearned." He then extemporizes on his own, using extremely excessive alliteration. Nathaniel eagerly accepts the invitation, calling Holofernes "a rare talent".

----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL. NATHANIEL. Very reverent sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience. HOLOFERNES. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. NATHANIEL. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first head. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. DULL. Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination,--after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion,--to insert again my haud credo for a deer. DULL. I sthe deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Twice sod simplicity, bis coctus! O! thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! NATHANIEL. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts: And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be, Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do fructify in us more than he; For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool, So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school. But, omne bene, say I; being of an old Father's mind: Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. DULL. You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit, What was a month old at Cain's birth, that's not five weeks old as yet? HOLOFERNES. Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull. DULL. What is Dictynna? NATHANIEL. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. HOLOFERNES. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score. The allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. 'Tis true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange. HOLOFERNES. God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. And I say the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside that 'twas a pricket that the Princess killed. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, I have call'd the deer the Princess killed, a pricket. NATHANIEL. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. HOLOFERNES. I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility. The preyful Princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket; Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yell; put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket- Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one sorel! Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more L. NATHANIEL. A rare talent! DULL. [Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. HOLOFERNES. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. NATHANIEL. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth. HOLOFERNES. Mehercle! if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them; but, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us. [Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.] JAQUENETTA. God give you good morrow, Master parson. HOLOFERNES. Master parson, quasi pers-on. And if one should be pierced, which is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Piercing a hogshead! A good lustre or conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master parson [Giving a letter to NATHANIEL.], be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you read it. HOLOFERNES. 'Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat,' and so forth. Ah! good old Mantuan. I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: --Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia. Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather as Horace says in his-- What, my soul, verses? NATHANIEL. Ay, sir, and very learned. HOLOFERNES. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine. NATHANIEL. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd; Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend: If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice. Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire. Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O! pardon love this wrong, That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue. HOLOFERNES. You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the 'tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you? JAQUENETTA. Ay, sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen's lords. HOLOFERNES. I will overglance the superscript: 'To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: 'Your Ladyship's in all desired employment, Berowne.'--Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's, which, accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty. Adieu. JAQUENETTA. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life! COSTARD. Have with thee, my girl. [Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.] NATHANIEL. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain Father saith-- HOLOFERNES. Sir, tell not me of the Father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel? NATHANIEL. Marvellous well for the pen. HOLOFERNES. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. NATHANIEL. And thank you too; for society,--saith the text,--is the happiness of life. HOLOFERNES. And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [To DULL] Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. [Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL.] HOLOFERNES. Satis quod sufficit. NATHANIEL. I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king's who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. HOLOFERNES. Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. NATHANIEL. A most singular and choice epithet. [Draws out his table-book.] HOLOFERNES. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should say doubt; det when he should pronounce debt,--d, e, b, t, not d, e, t: he clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebour, neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable, which he would call abominable,--it insinuateth me of insanie: anne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic. NATHANIEL. Laus Deo, bone intelligo. HOLOFERNES. Bone? bone for bene: Priscian a little scratch'd; 'twill serve. [Enter ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD.] NATHANIEL. Videsne quis venit? HOLOFERNES. Video, et gaudeo. ARMADO. [To MOTH] Chirrah! HOLOFERNES. Quare chirrah, not sirrah? ARMADO. Men of peace, well encountered. HOLOFERNES. Most military sir, salutation. MOTH. [Aside to COSTARD.] They have been at a great feast of languages and stolen the scraps. COSTARD. O! they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou are not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus; thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. MOTH. Peace! the peal begins. ARMADO. [To HOLOFERNES.] Monsieur, are you not lettered? MOTH. Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt backward with the horn on his head? HOLOFERNES. Ba, pueritia, with a horn added. MOTH. Ba! most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning. HOLOFERNES. Quis, quis, thou consonant? MOTH. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I. HOLOFERNES. I will repeat them,--a, e, i,-- MOTH. The sheep; the other two concludes it,--o, u. ARMADO. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit! snip, snap, quick and home! It rejoiceth my intellect: true wit! MOTH. Offered by a child to an old man; which is wit-old. HOLOFERNES. What is the figure? What is the figure? MOTH. Horns. HOLOFERNES. Thou disputes like an infant; go, whip thy gig. MOTH. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circum circa. A gig of a cuckold's horn. COSTARD. An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou half-penny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O! an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me. Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say. HOLOFERNES. O, I smell false Latin! 'dunghill' for unguem. ARMADO. Arts-man, praeambula; we will be singled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain? HOLOFERNES. Or mons, the hill. ARMADO. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. HOLOFERNES. I do, sans question. ARMADO. Sir, it is the King's most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the princess at her pavilion, in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon. HOLOFERNES. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable, for the afternoon. The word is well culled, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir; I do assure. ARMADO. Sir, the King is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let it pass: I do beseech thee, remember thy courtsy; I beseech thee, apparel thy head: and among other importunate and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let that pass: for I must tell thee it will please his Grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio: but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world: but let that pass. The very all of all is, but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy, that the King would have me present the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antic, or firework. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking-out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance. HOLOFERNES. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistance, the King's command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the princess, I say none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. NATHANIEL. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them? HOLOFERNES. Joshua, yourself; myself, Alexander; this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules,-- ARMADO. Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy's thumb; he is not so big as the end of his club. HOLOFERNES. Shall I have audience? He shall present Hercules in minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose. MOTH. An excellent device! So, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry 'Well done, Hercules; now thou crushest the snake!' That is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it. ARMADO. For the rest of the Worthies?-- HOLOFERNES. I will play three myself. MOTH. Thrice-worthy gentleman! ARMADO. Shall I tell you a thing? HOLOFERNES. We attend. ARMADO. We will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you, follow. HOLOFERNES. Via, goodman Dull! Thou has spoken no word all this while. DULL. Nor understood none neither, sir. HOLOFERNES. Allons! we will employ thee. DULL. I'll make one in a dance, or so, or I will play on the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay. HOLOFERNES. Most dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away. [Exeunt.]

Love's Labours Lost.act 4

cliffnotes

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

While the Princess and her ladies are hunting, Costard approaches them with the letter for Rosaline. The Princess takes the letter, and Boyet reads it aloud. However, Costard accidentally gave the royal party the letter meant for Jaquenetta. The court is confused but realizes who Armando is. They ask Costard again who gave him the letter, and he says Berowne. Amidst the confusion, Boyet banters with Rosaline trying to win her love, but she refuses.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. [Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, ATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER. PRINCESS. Was that the King that spurr'd his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill? BOYET. I know not; but I think it was not he. PRINCESS. Whoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind. Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch; On Saturday we will return to France. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in? FORESTER. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice; A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. PRINCESS. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot. FORESTER. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. PRINCESS. What, what? First praise me, and again say no? O short-liv'd pride! Not fair? Alack for woe! FORESTER. Yes, madam, fair. PRINCESS. Nay, never paint me now; Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass [Gives money]:--take this for telling true: Fair payment for foul words is more than due. FORESTER. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. PRINCESS. See, see! my beauty will be sav'd by merit. O heresy in fair, fit for these days! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill. Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: Not wounding, pity would not let me do't; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. And out of question so it is sometimes, Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part, We bend to that the working of the heart; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill. BOYET. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty Only for praise' sake, when they strive to be Lords o'er their lords? PRINCESS. Only for praise; and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord. [Enter COSTARD.] BOYET. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. COSTARD. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady? PRINCESS. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. COSTARD. Which is the greatest lady, the highest? PRINCESS. The thickest and the tallest. COSTARD. The thickest and the tallest! It is so; truth is truth. An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit. Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here. PRINCESS. What's your will, sir? What's your will? COSTARD. I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. PRINCESS. O! thy letter, thy letter; he's a good friend of mine. Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve; Break up this capon. BOYET. I am bound to serve. This letter is mistook; it importeth none here. It is writ to Jaquenetta. PRINCESS. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear. BOYET. 'By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar-- O base and obscure vulgar!--videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came? the king: Why did he come? to see: Why did he see? to overcome: To whom came he? to the beggar: What saw he? the beggar. Who overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose side? the king's; the captive is enriched: on whose side? the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the king's, no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may: Shall I enforce thy love? I could: Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself? -me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine in the dearest design of industry, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO. 'Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar 'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey; Submissive fall his princely feet before, And he from forage will incline to play. But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then? Food for his rage, repasture for his den.' PRINCESS. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter? What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better? BOYET. I am much deceiv'd but I remember the style. PRINCESS. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile. BOYET. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court; A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the Prince and his book-mates. PRINCESS. Thou fellow, a word. Who gave thee this letter? COSTARD. I told you; my lord. PRINCESS. To whom shouldst thou give it? COSTARD. From my lord to my lady. PRINCESS. From which lord to which lady? COSTARD. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline. PRINCESS. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. Here, sweet, put up this: 'twill be thine another day. [Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN.] BOYET. Who is the suitor? who is the suitor? ROSALINE. Shall I teach you to know? BOYET. Ay, my continent of beauty. ROSALINE. Why, she that bears the bow. Finely put off! BOYET. My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry. Finely put on! ROSALINE. Well then, I am the shooter. BOYET. And who is your deer? ROSALINE. If we choose by the horns, yourself: come not near. Finely put on indeed! MARIA. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. BOYET. But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now? ROSALINE. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? BOYET. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. ROSALINE. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man. BOYET. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I cannot, another can. [Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE.] COSTARD. By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it! MARIA. A mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it. BOYET. A mark! O! mark but that mark; A mark, says my lady! Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be. MARIA. Wide o' the bow-hand! I' faith, your hand is out. COSTARD. Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout. BOYET. An' if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. COSTARD. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. MARIA. Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul. COSTARD. She's too hard for you at pricks, sir; challenge her to bowl. BOYET. I fear too much rubbing. Good-night, my good owl. [Exeunt BOYET and MARIA.] COSTARD. By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown! Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down! O' my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit! When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armado, o' the one side, O! a most dainty man! To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan! To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a' will swear! And his page o' t'other side, that handful of wit! Ah! heavens, it is a most pathetical nit. [Shouting within.] Sola, sola! [Exit running.] ----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL. NATHANIEL. Very reverent sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience. HOLOFERNES. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. NATHANIEL. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first head. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. DULL. Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination,--after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion,--to insert again my haud credo for a deer. DULL. I sthe deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Twice sod simplicity, bis coctus! O! thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! NATHANIEL. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts: And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be, Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do fructify in us more than he; For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool, So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school. But, omne bene, say I; being of an old Father's mind: Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. DULL. You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit, What was a month old at Cain's birth, that's not five weeks old as yet? HOLOFERNES. Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull. DULL. What is Dictynna? NATHANIEL. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. HOLOFERNES. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score. The allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. 'Tis true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange. HOLOFERNES. God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. And I say the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside that 'twas a pricket that the Princess killed. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, I have call'd the deer the Princess killed, a pricket. NATHANIEL. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. HOLOFERNES. I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility. The preyful Princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket; Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yell; put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket- Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one sorel! Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more L. NATHANIEL. A rare talent! DULL. [Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. HOLOFERNES. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. NATHANIEL. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth. HOLOFERNES. Mehercle! if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them; but, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us. [Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.] JAQUENETTA. God give you good morrow, Master parson. HOLOFERNES. Master parson, quasi pers-on. And if one should be pierced, which is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Piercing a hogshead! A good lustre or conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master parson [Giving a letter to NATHANIEL.], be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you read it. HOLOFERNES. 'Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat,' and so forth. Ah! good old Mantuan. I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: --Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia. Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather as Horace says in his-- What, my soul, verses? NATHANIEL. Ay, sir, and very learned. HOLOFERNES. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine. NATHANIEL. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd; Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend: If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice. Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire. Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O! pardon love this wrong, That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue. HOLOFERNES. You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the 'tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you? JAQUENETTA. Ay, sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen's lords. HOLOFERNES. I will overglance the superscript: 'To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: 'Your Ladyship's in all desired employment, Berowne.'--Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's, which, accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty. Adieu. JAQUENETTA. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life! COSTARD. Have with thee, my girl. [Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.] NATHANIEL. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain Father saith-- HOLOFERNES. Sir, tell not me of the Father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel? NATHANIEL. Marvellous well for the pen. HOLOFERNES. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. NATHANIEL. And thank you too; for society,--saith the text,--is the happiness of life. HOLOFERNES. And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [To DULL] Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. [Exeunt.]

Love's Labours Lost.act i

cliffnotes

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

act ii, scene i|act iii, scene i

Armado asks Moth to bring Costard to him to deliver a letter. Moth returns with Costard, who has broken his shin, and the three have a discussion of riddles, morals, and l'envoy. Armado tells Costard that he is going to set him free, on the condition that he will deliver a letter to Jaquenetta. Costard agrees, Armado gives him money, and he and Moth depart. Berowne enters and asks Costard to deliver a letter to Rosaline for him. Costard agrees, is given more money, and exits. After Costard leaves, Berowne laments his love.

----------ACT II, SCENE I--------- ACT I. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park [Enter the King, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN.] KING. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live regist'red upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, The endeavour of this present breath may buy That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge, And make us heirs of all eternity. Therefore, brave conquerors--for so you are That war against your own affections And the huge army of the world's desires-- Our late edict shall strongly stand in force: Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; Our court shall be a little academe, Still and contemplative in living art. You three, Berowne, Dumain, and Longaville, Have sworn for three years' term to live with me, My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here: Your oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe your names, That his own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein. If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do, Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. LONGAVILLE. I am resolv'd; 'tis but a three years' fast: The mind shall banquet, though the body pine: Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits. DUMAINE. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified: The grosser manner of these world's delights He throws upon the gross world's baser slaves; To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die, With all these living in philosophy. BEROWNE. I can but say their protestation over; So much, dear liege, I have already sworn, That is, to live and study here three years. But there are other strict observances: As, not to see a woman in that term, Which I hope well is not enrolled there: And one day in a week to touch no food, And but one meal on every day beside; The which I hope is not enrolled there: And then to sleep but three hours in the night And not be seen to wink of all the day,-- When I was wont to think no harm all night, And make a dark night too of half the day,-- Which I hope well is not enrolled there. O! these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep. KING. Your oath is pass'd to pass away from these. BEROWNE. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please: I only swore to study with your Grace, And stay here in your court for three years' space. LONGAVILLE. You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest. BEROWNE. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest. What is the end of study? let me know. KING. Why, that to know which else we should not know. BEROWNE. Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from common sense? KING. Ay, that is study's god-like recompense. BEROWNE. Come on, then; I will swear to study so, To know the thing I am forbid to know, As thus: to study where I well may dine, When I to feast expressly am forbid; Or study where to meet some mistress fine, When mistresses from common sense are hid; Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath, Study to break it, and not break my troth. If study's gain be thus, and this be so, Study knows that which yet it doth not know. Swear me to this, and I will ne'er say no. KING. These be the stops that hinder study quite, And train our intellects to vain delight. BEROWNE. Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain: As painfully to pore upon a book, To seek the light of truth; while truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile; So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to please the eye indeed, By fixing it upon a fairer eye; Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, And give him light that it was blinded by. Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, That will not be deep-search'd with saucy looks; Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others' books. These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights That give a name to every fixed star Have no more profit of their shining nights Than those that walk and wot not what they are. Too much to know is to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name. KING. How well he's read, to reason against reading! DUMAINE. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding! LONGAVILLE. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. BEROWNE. The spring is near, when green geese are a-breeding. DUMAINE. How follows that? BEROWNE. Fit in his place and time. DUMAINE. In reason nothing. BEROWNE. Something then in rime. LONGAVILLE. Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost That bites the first-born infants of the spring. BEROWNE. Well, say I am: why should proud summer boast Before the birds have any cause to sing? Why should I joy in any abortive birth? At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows; But like of each thing that in season grows; So you, to study now it is too late, Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate. KING. Well, sit out; go home, Berowne; adieu. BEROWNE. No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you; And though I have for barbarism spoke more Than for that angel knowledge you can say, Yet confident I'll keep what I have swore, And bide the penance of each three years' day. Give me the paper; let me read the same; And to the strict'st decrees I'll write my name. KING. How well this yielding rescues thee from shame! BEROWNE. 'Item. That no woman shall come within a mile of my court.'Hath this been proclaimed? LONGAVILLE. Four days ago. BEROWNE. Let's see the penalty. 'On pain of losing her tongue.' Who devised this penalty? LONGAVILLE. Marry, that did I. BEROWNE. Sweet lord, and why? LONGAVILLE. To fright them hence with that dread penalty. BEROWNE. A dangerous law against gentility! 'Item. If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.' This article, my liege, yourself must break; For well you know here comes in embassy The French king's daughter, with yourself to speak-- A mild of grace and complete majesty-- About surrender up of Aquitaine To her decrepit, sick, and bedrid father: Therefore this article is made in vain, Or vainly comes th' admired princess hither. KING. What say you, lords? why, this was quite forgot. BEROWNE. So study evermore is over-shot: While it doth study to have what it would, It doth forget to do the thing it should; And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 'Tis won as towns with fire; so won, so lost. KING. We must of force dispense with this decree; She must lie here on mere necessity. BEROWNE. Necessity will make us all forsworn Three thousand times within this three years' space; For every man with his affects is born, Not by might master'd, but by special grace. If I break faith, this word shall speak for me: I am forsworn 'on mere necessity.' So to the laws at large I write my name; [Subscribes] And he that breaks them in the least degree Stands in attainder of eternal shame. Suggestions are to other as to me; But I believe, although I seem so loath, I am the last that will last keep his oath. But is there no quick recreation granted? KING. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain; A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; One who the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony; A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny: This child of fancy, that Armado hight, For interim to our studies shall relate, In high-born words, the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world's debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I; But, I protest, I love to hear him lie, And I will use him for my minstrelsy. BEROWNE. Armado is a most illustrious wight, A man of fire-new words, fashion's own knight. LONGAVILLE. Costard the swain and he shall be our sport; And so to study three years is but short. [Enter DULL, with a letter, and COSTARD.] DULL. Which is the duke's own person? BEROWNE. This, fellow. What wouldst? DULL. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace's tharborough: but I would see his own person in flesh and blood. BEROWNE. This is he. DULL. Signior Arm--Arm--commends you. There's villainy abroad: this letter will tell you more. COSTARD. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me. KING. A letter from the magnificent Armado. BEROWNE. How long soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. LONGAVILLE. A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience! BEROWNE. To hear, or forbear laughing? LONGAVILLE. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or, to forbear both. BEROWNE. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness. COSTARD. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner. BEROWNE. In what manner? COSTARD. In manner and form following, sir; all those three: I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, put together, is in manner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner,--it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman, for the form,--in some form. BEROWNE. For the following, sir? COSTARD. As it shall follow in my correction; and God defend the right! KING. Will you hear this letter with attention? BEROWNE. As we would hear an oracle. COSTARD. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh. KING. 'Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's god and body's fostering patron,' COSTARD. Not a word of Costard yet. KING. 'So it is,'-- COSTARD. It may be so; but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so.-- KING. Peace! COSTARD. Be to me, and every man that dares not fight! KING. No words! COSTARD. Of other men's secrets, I beseech you. KING. 'So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time when? About the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper: so much for the time when. Now for the ground which; which, I mean, I upon; it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event, that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place where, it standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden: there did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,'-- COSTARD. Me. KING. 'that unlettered small-knowing soul,'-- COSTARD. Me. KING. 'that shallow vassal,'-- COSTARD. Still me.-- KING. 'which, as I remember, hight Costard,'-- COSTARD. O me. KING. 'sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, with--with,--O! with but with this I passion to say wherewith,'-- COSTARD. With a wench. KING. 'with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him, I,--as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on,--have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet Grace's officer, Antony Dull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.' DULL. Me, an't please you; I am Antony Dull. KING. 'For Jaquenetta,--so is the weaker vessel called, which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain,--I keep her as a vessel of thy law's fury; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.' BEROWNE. This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard. KING. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this? COSTARD. Sir, I confess the wench. KING. Did you hear the proclamation? COSTARD. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it. KING. It was proclaimed a year's imprisonment to be taken with a wench. COSTARD. I was taken with none, sir: I was taken with a damosel. KING. Well, it was proclaimed 'damosel'. COSTARD. This was no damosel neither, sir; she was a 'virgin'. KING. It is so varied too; for it was proclaimed 'virgin'. COSTARD. If it were, I deny her virginity: I was taken with a maid. KING. This maid not serve your turn, sir. COSTARD. This maid will serve my turn, sir. KING. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water. COSTARD. I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge. KING. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. My Lord Berowne, see him delivered o'er: And go we, lords, to put in practice that Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. [Exeunt KING, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN.] BEROWNE. I'll lay my head to any good man's hat These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. Sirrah, come on. COSTARD. I suffer for the truth, sir: for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow! [Exeunt.] ----------ACT III, SCENE I--------- ACT II. SCENE I. The King of Navarre's park. A pavilion and tents at a distance. [Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, and other Attendants.] BOYET. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits: Consider who the king your father sends, To whom he sends, and what's his embassy: Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem, To parley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe, Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. Be now as prodigal of all dear grace As Nature was in making graces dear When she did starve the general world beside, And prodigally gave them all to you. PRINCESS. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Needs not the painted flourish of your praise: Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, Not utt'red by base sale of chapmen's tongues. I am less proud to hear you tell my worth Than you much willing to be counted wise In spending your wit in the praise of mine. But now to task the tasker: good Boyet, You are not ignorant, all-telling fame Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow, Till painful study shall outwear three years, No woman may approach his silent court: Therefore to's seemeth it a needful course, Before we enter his forbidden gates, To know his pleasure; and in that behalf, Bold of your worthiness, we single you As our best-moving fair solicitor. Tell him the daughter of the King of France, On serious business, craving quick dispatch, Importunes personal conference with his Grace. Haste, signify so much; while we attend, Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will. BOYET. Proud of employment, willingly I go. PRINCESS. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. [Exit BOYET.] Who are the votaries, my loving lords, That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke? FIRST LORD. Lord Longaville is one. PRINCESS. Know you the man? MARIA. I know him, madam: at a marriage feast, Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized In Normandy, saw I this Longaville. A man of sovereign parts, he is esteem'd, Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms: Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,-- If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,-- Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will; Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills It should none spare that come within his power. PRINCESS. Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so? MARIA. They say so most that most his humours know. PRINCESS. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest? KATHARINE. The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth, Of all that virtue love for virtue lov'd; Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill, For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, And shape to win grace though he had no wit. I saw him at the Duke Alencon's once; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness. ROSALINE. Another of these students at that time Was there with him, if I have heard a truth: Berowne they call him; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. His eye begets occasion for his wit, For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor, Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished; So sweet and voluble is his discourse. PRINCESS. God bless my ladies! Are they all in love, That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise? FIRST LORD. Here comes Boyet. [Re-enter BOYET.] PRINCESS. Now, what admittance, lord? BOYET. Navarre had notice of your fair approach, And he and his competitors in oath Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady, Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt; He rather means to lodge you in the field, Like one that comes here to besiege his court, Than seek a dispensation for his oath, To let you enter his unpeeled house. Here comes Navarre. [The LADIES mask.] [Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAINE, BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS.] KING. Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. PRINCESS. 'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine. KING. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. PRINCESS. I will be welcome then: conduct me thither. KING. Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath. PRINCESS. Our Lady help my lord! he'll be forsworn. KING. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. PRINCESS. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else. KING. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. PRINCESS. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. I hear your Grace hath sworn out house-keeping: 'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, And sin to break it. But pardon me, I am too sudden bold: To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, And suddenly resolve me in my suit. [Gives a paper.] KING. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. PRINCESS. You will the sooner that I were away, For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay. BEROWNE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? ROSALINE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? BEROWNE. I know you did. ROSALINE. How needless was it then To ask the question! BEROWNE. You must not be so quick. ROSALINE. 'Tis long of you, that spur me with such questions. BEROWNE. Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire. ROSALINE. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. BEROWNE. What time o' day? ROSALINE. The hour that fools should ask. BEROWNE. Now fair befall your mask! ROSALINE. Fair fall the face it covers! BEROWNE. And send you many lovers! ROSALINE. Amen, so you be none. BEROWNE. Nay, then will I be gone. KING. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns; Being but the one half of an entire sum Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say that he or we,--as neither have,-- Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which, One part of Aquitaine is bound to us, Although not valued to the money's worth. If then the King your father will restore But that one half which is unsatisfied, We will give up our right in Aquitaine, And hold fair friendship with his majesty. But that, it seems, he little purposeth, For here he doth demand to have repaid A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands, On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, To have his title live in Aquitaine; Which we much rather had depart withal, And have the money by our father lent, Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is. Dear Princess, were not his requests so far From reason's yielding, your fair self should make A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast, And go well satisfied to France again. PRINCESS. You do the king my father too much wrong, And wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. KING. I do protest I never heard of it; And, if you prove it, I'll repay it back Or yield up Aquitaine. PRINCESS. We arrest your word. Boyet, you can produce acquittances For such a sum from special officers Of Charles his father. KING. Satisfy me so. BOYET. So please your Grace, the packet is not come, Where that and other specialties are bound: To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. KING. It shall suffice me; at which interview All liberal reason I will yield unto. Meantime receive such welcome at my hand As honour, without breach of honour, may Make tender of to thy true worthiness. You may not come, fair Princess, in my gates; But here without you shall be so receiv'd As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart, Though so denied fair harbour in my house. Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell: To-morrow shall we visit you again. PRINCESS. Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace! KING. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. [Exeunt KING and his Train.] BEROWNE. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. ROSALINE. Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it. BEROWNE. I would you heard it groan. ROSALINE. Is the fool sick? BEROWNE. Sick at the heart. ROSALINE. Alack! let it blood. BEROWNE. Would that do it good? ROSALINE. My physic says 'ay.' BEROWNE. Will you prick't with your eye? ROSALINE. No point, with my knife. BEROWNE. Now, God save thy life! ROSALINE. And yours from long living! BEROWNE. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring.] DUMAINE. Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same? BOYET. The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name. DUMAINE. A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well. [Exit.] LONGAVILLE. I beseech you a word: what is she in the white? BOYET. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light. LONGAVILLE. Perchance light in the light. I desire her name. BOYET. She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame. LONGAVILLE. Pray you, sir, whose daughter? BOYET. Her mother's, I have heard. LONGAVILLE. God's blessing on your beard! BOYET. Good sir, be not offended. She is an heir of Falconbridge. LONGAVILLE. Nay, my choler is ended. She is a most sweet lady. BOYET. Not unlike, sir; that may be. [Exit LONGAVILLE.] BEROWNE. What's her name in the cap? BOYET. Rosaline, by good hap. BEROWNE. Is she wedded or no? BOYET. To her will, sir, or so. BEROWNE. You are welcome, sir. Adieu! BOYET. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. [Exit BEROWNE.--LADIES unmask.] MARIA. That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord; Not a word with him but a jest. BOYET. And every jest but a word. PRINCESS. It was well done of you to take him at his word. BOYET. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board. MARIA. Two hot sheeps, marry! BOYET. And wherefore not ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. MARIA. You sheep and I pasture: shall that finish the jest? BOYET. So you grant pasture for me. [Offering to kiss her.] MARIA. Not so, gentle beast. My lips are no common, though several they be. BOYET. Belonging to whom? MARIA. To my fortunes and me. PRINCESS. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree; This civil war of wits were much better us'd On Navarre and his book-men, for here 'tis abus'd. BOYET. If my observation,--which very seldom lies, By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. PRINCESS. With what? BOYET. With that which we lovers entitle affected. PRINCESS. Your reason. BOYET. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire; His heart, like an agate, with your print impress'd, Proud with his form, in his eye pride express'd; His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be; All senses to that sense did make their repair, To feel only looking on fairest of fair. Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; Who, tend'ring their own worth from where they were glass'd, Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd. His face's own margent did quote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. I'll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his, An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. PRINCESS. Come, to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos'd. BOYET. But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos'd. I only have made a mouth of his eye, By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. ROSALINE. Thou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully. MARIA. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him. ROSALINE. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim. BOYET. Do you hear, my mad wenches? MARIA. No. BOYET. What, then, do you see? ROSALINE. Ay, our way to be gone. BOYET. You are too hard for me. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 1.scene 1

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In a desolate place blasted by thunderstorms, Three Witches meet to predict the future.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. An open Place. Thunder and Lightning. [Enter three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won. THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH. Where the place? SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin! ALL. Paddock calls:--anon:-- Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Witches vanish.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 1 SCENE 1 | CL1FFSNOTES--------- ACT I. SCENE I. An open Place. Thunder and Lightning. [Enter three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won. THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH. Where the place? SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin! ALL. Paddock calls:--anon:-- Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Witches vanish.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. An open Place. Thunder and Lightning. [Enter three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won. THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH. Where the place? SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin! ALL. Paddock calls:--anon:-- Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Witches vanish.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. An open Place. Thunder and Lightning. [Enter three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won. THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH. Where the place? SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin! ALL. Paddock calls:--anon:-- Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Witches vanish.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. An open Place. Thunder and Lightning. [Enter three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won. THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH. Where the place? SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin! ALL. Paddock calls:--anon:-- Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Witches vanish.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. An open Place. Thunder and Lightning. [Enter three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won. THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH. Where the place? SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin! ALL. Paddock calls:--anon:-- Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. [Witches vanish.]

Macbeth.act 1.scene 2

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Create a compact summary that covers the main points of macbeth: summary & analysis act 1 scene 2 | cl1ffsnotes, utilizing the provided context.

Scotland is at war. King Duncan faces not only his own rebellious kinsmen but also an invasion by King Sweno of the Norwegians. In this scene, Duncan receives three significant reports: the death of the rebel Macdonald at the hands of "brave Macbeth"; Macbeth's action against the Norwegians; and the treachery of the Thane of Cawdor, who has sided with the enemy. In each case, Macbeth's heroism shines out, leading to victory for Scotland and surrender by Sweno. Finally, Duncan orders Cawdor's execution and arranges for his title to pass to Macbeth.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. A Camp near Forres. [Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Soldier.] DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought 'Gainst my captivity.--Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. SOLDIER. Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald,-- Worthy to be a rebel,--for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him,--from the Western isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak; For brave Macbeth,--well he deserves that name,-- Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, Which smok'd with bloody execution, Like valor's minion, Carv'd out his passag tTill he fac'd the slave; And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And fix'd his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! SOLDIER. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break; So from that spring, whence comfort seem'd to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd, Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault. DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo? SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell:-- But I am faint; my gashes cry for help. DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; They smack of honor both.--Go, get him surgeons. [Exit Soldier, attended.] Who comes here? MALCOLM. The worthy Thane of Ross. LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange. [Enter Ross.] ROSS. God save the King! DUNCAN. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane? ROSS. From Fife, great king; Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us. DUNCAN. Great happiness! ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's-inch, Ten thousand dollars to our general use. DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest:--go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. ROSS. I'll see it done. DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 1 SCENE 2 | CL1FFSNOTES--------- SCENE II. A Camp near Forres. [Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Soldier.] DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought 'Gainst my captivity.--Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. SOLDIER. Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald,-- Worthy to be a rebel,--for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him,--from the Western isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak; For brave Macbeth,--well he deserves that name,-- Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, Which smok'd with bloody execution, Like valor's minion, Carv'd out his passag tTill he fac'd the slave; And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And fix'd his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! SOLDIER. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break; So from that spring, whence comfort seem'd to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd, Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault. DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo? SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell:-- But I am faint; my gashes cry for help. DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; They smack of honor both.--Go, get him surgeons. [Exit Soldier, attended.] Who comes here? MALCOLM. The worthy Thane of Ross. LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange. [Enter Ross.] ROSS. God save the King! DUNCAN. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane? ROSS. From Fife, great king; Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us. DUNCAN. Great happiness! ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's-inch, Ten thousand dollars to our general use. DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest:--go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. ROSS. I'll see it done. DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. A Camp near Forres. [Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Soldier.] DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought 'Gainst my captivity.--Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. SOLDIER. Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald,-- Worthy to be a rebel,--for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him,--from the Western isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak; For brave Macbeth,--well he deserves that name,-- Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, Which smok'd with bloody execution, Like valor's minion, Carv'd out his passag tTill he fac'd the slave; And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And fix'd his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! SOLDIER. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break; So from that spring, whence comfort seem'd to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd, Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault. DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo? SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell:-- But I am faint; my gashes cry for help. DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; They smack of honor both.--Go, get him surgeons. [Exit Soldier, attended.] Who comes here? MALCOLM. The worthy Thane of Ross. LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange. [Enter Ross.] ROSS. God save the King! DUNCAN. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane? ROSS. From Fife, great king; Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us. DUNCAN. Great happiness! ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's-inch, Ten thousand dollars to our general use. DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest:--go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. ROSS. I'll see it done. DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. A Camp near Forres. [Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Soldier.] DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought 'Gainst my captivity.--Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. SOLDIER. Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald,-- Worthy to be a rebel,--for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him,--from the Western isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak; For brave Macbeth,--well he deserves that name,-- Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, Which smok'd with bloody execution, Like valor's minion, Carv'd out his passag tTill he fac'd the slave; And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And fix'd his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! SOLDIER. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break; So from that spring, whence comfort seem'd to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd, Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault. DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo? SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell:-- But I am faint; my gashes cry for help. DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; They smack of honor both.--Go, get him surgeons. [Exit Soldier, attended.] Who comes here? MALCOLM. The worthy Thane of Ross. LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange. [Enter Ross.] ROSS. God save the King! DUNCAN. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane? ROSS. From Fife, great king; Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us. DUNCAN. Great happiness! ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's-inch, Ten thousand dollars to our general use. DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest:--go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. ROSS. I'll see it done. DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. A Camp near Forres. [Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Soldier.] DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought 'Gainst my captivity.--Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. SOLDIER. Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald,-- Worthy to be a rebel,--for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him,--from the Western isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak; For brave Macbeth,--well he deserves that name,-- Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, Which smok'd with bloody execution, Like valor's minion, Carv'd out his passag tTill he fac'd the slave; And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And fix'd his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! SOLDIER. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break; So from that spring, whence comfort seem'd to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd, Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault. DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo? SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell:-- But I am faint; my gashes cry for help. DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; They smack of honor both.--Go, get him surgeons. [Exit Soldier, attended.] Who comes here? MALCOLM. The worthy Thane of Ross. LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange. [Enter Ross.] ROSS. God save the King! DUNCAN. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane? ROSS. From Fife, great king; Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us. DUNCAN. Great happiness! ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's-inch, Ten thousand dollars to our general use. DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest:--go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. ROSS. I'll see it done. DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. A Camp near Forres. [Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Soldier.] DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought 'Gainst my captivity.--Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. SOLDIER. Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald,-- Worthy to be a rebel,--for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him,--from the Western isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak; For brave Macbeth,--well he deserves that name,-- Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, Which smok'd with bloody execution, Like valor's minion, Carv'd out his passag tTill he fac'd the slave; And ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And fix'd his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! SOLDIER. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break; So from that spring, whence comfort seem'd to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd, Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault. DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo? SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg'd with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell:-- But I am faint; my gashes cry for help. DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; They smack of honor both.--Go, get him surgeons. [Exit Soldier, attended.] Who comes here? MALCOLM. The worthy Thane of Ross. LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange. [Enter Ross.] ROSS. God save the King! DUNCAN. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane? ROSS. From Fife, great king; Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us. DUNCAN. Great happiness! ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's-inch, Ten thousand dollars to our general use. DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest:--go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. ROSS. I'll see it done. DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 1.scene 3

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Craft a concise overview of act 1, scene 3 using the context provided.

act 1, scene 3|macbeth: summary & analysis act 1 scene 3 | cl1ffsnotes|scene 3

On the heath near the battlefield, thunder rolls and the three witches appear. One says that she has just come from "illing swine" and another describes the revenge she has planned upon a sailor whose wife refused to share her chestnuts. Suddenly a drum beats, and the third witch cries that Macbeth is coming. Macbeth and Banquo, on their way to the king's court at Forres, come upon the witches and shrink in horror at the sight of the old women. Banquo asks whether they are mortal, noting that they don't seem to be "inhabitants o' th' earth". He also wonders whether they are really women, since they seem to have beards like men. The witches hail Macbeth as thane of Glamis and as thane of Cawdor. Macbeth is baffled by this second title, as he has not yet heard of King Duncan's decision. The witches also declare that Macbeth will be king one day. Stunned and intrigued, Macbeth presses the witches for more information, but they have turned their attention to Banquo, speaking in yet more riddles. They call Banquo "lesser than Macbeth, and greater," and "not so happy, yet much happier"; then they tell him that he will never be king but that his children will sit upon the throne. Macbeth implores the witches to explain what they meant by calling him thane of Cawdor, but they vanish into thin air. In disbelief, Macbeth and Banquo discuss the strange encounter. Macbeth fixates on the details of the prophecy. Your children shall be kings," he says to his friend, to which Banquo responds: "You shall be king". Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Ross and Angus, who have come to convey them to the king. Ross tells Macbeth that the king has made him thane of Cawdor, as the former thane is to be executed for treason. Macbeth, amazed that the witches' prophecy has come true, asks Banquo if he hopes his children will be kings. Banquo replies that devils often tell half-truths in order to "win us to our harm". Macbeth ignores his companions and speaks to himself, ruminating upon the possibility that he might one day be king. He wonders whether the reign will simply fall to him or whether he will have to perform a dark deed in order to gain the crown. At last he shakes himself from his reverie and the group departs for Forres. As they leave, Macbeth whispers to Banquo that, at a later time, he would like to speak to him privately about what has transpired

----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. A heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister? SECOND WITCH. Killing swine. THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou? FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd:--"Give me," quoth I: "Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger: But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind. FIRST WITCH. Thou art kind. THIRD WITCH. And I another. FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other: And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I' the shipman's card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid: Weary seven-nights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost.-- Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come. [Drum within.] THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come. ALL. The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine:-- Peace!--the charm's wound up. [Enter Macbeth and Banquo.] MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres?--What are these So wither'd, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't?--Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her chappy finger laying Upon her skinny lips:--you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. MACBETH. Speak, if you can;--what are you? FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter! BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?-- I' the name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal:--to me you speak not: If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate. FIRST WITCH. Hail! SECOND WITCH. Hail! THIRD WITCH. Hail! FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier. THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?--Speak, I charge you. [Witches vanish.] BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them:--whither are they vanish'd? MACBETH. Into the air; and what seem'd corporal melted As breath into the wind.--Would they had stay'd! BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? MACBETH. Your children shall be kings. BANQUO. You shall be king. MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so? BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here? [Enter Ross and Angus.] ROSS. The king hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, The news of thy success: and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc'd with that, In viewing o'er the rest o' the self-same day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as hail Came post with post; and every one did bear Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense, And pour'd them down before him. ANGUS. We are sent To give thee, from our royal master, thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee. ROSS. And, for an earnest of a greater honor, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine. BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true? MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow'd robes? ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet; But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin'd With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not; But treasons capital, confess'd and proved, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind.--Thanks for your pains.-- Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis'd no less to them? BANQUO. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.-- Cousins, a word, I pray you. MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.--I thank you, gentlemen.-- [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good:--if ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings: My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is But what is not. BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt. MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir. BANQUO. New honors come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use. MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. MACBETH. Give me your favor:--my dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register'd where every day I turn The leaf to read them.--Let us toward the king.-- Think upon what hath chanc'd; and, at more time, The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other. BANQUO. Very gladly. MACBETH. Till then, enough.--Come, friends. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 1 SCENE 3 | CL1FFSNOTES--------- SCENE III. A heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister? SECOND WITCH. Killing swine. THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou? FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd:--"Give me," quoth I: "Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger: But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind. FIRST WITCH. Thou art kind. THIRD WITCH. And I another. FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other: And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I' the shipman's card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid: Weary seven-nights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost.-- Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come. [Drum within.] THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come. ALL. The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine:-- Peace!--the charm's wound up. [Enter Macbeth and Banquo.] MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres?--What are these So wither'd, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't?--Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her chappy finger laying Upon her skinny lips:--you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. MACBETH. Speak, if you can;--what are you? FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter! BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?-- I' the name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal:--to me you speak not: If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate. FIRST WITCH. Hail! SECOND WITCH. Hail! THIRD WITCH. Hail! FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier. THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?--Speak, I charge you. [Witches vanish.] BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them:--whither are they vanish'd? MACBETH. Into the air; and what seem'd corporal melted As breath into the wind.--Would they had stay'd! BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? MACBETH. Your children shall be kings. BANQUO. You shall be king. MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so? BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here? [Enter Ross and Angus.] ROSS. The king hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, The news of thy success: and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc'd with that, In viewing o'er the rest o' the self-same day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as hail Came post with post; and every one did bear Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense, And pour'd them down before him. ANGUS. We are sent To give thee, from our royal master, thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee. ROSS. And, for an earnest of a greater honor, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine. BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true? MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow'd robes? ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet; But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin'd With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not; But treasons capital, confess'd and proved, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind.--Thanks for your pains.-- Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis'd no less to them? BANQUO. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.-- Cousins, a word, I pray you. MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.--I thank you, gentlemen.-- [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good:--if ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings: My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is But what is not. BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt. MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir. BANQUO. New honors come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use. MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. MACBETH. Give me your favor:--my dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register'd where every day I turn The leaf to read them.--Let us toward the king.-- Think upon what hath chanc'd; and, at more time, The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other. BANQUO. Very gladly. MACBETH. Till then, enough.--Come, friends. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. A heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister? SECOND WITCH. Killing swine. THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou? FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd:--"Give me," quoth I: "Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger: But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind. FIRST WITCH. Thou art kind. THIRD WITCH. And I another. FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other: And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I' the shipman's card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid: Weary seven-nights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost.-- Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come. [Drum within.] THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come. ALL. The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine:-- Peace!--the charm's wound up. [Enter Macbeth and Banquo.] MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres?--What are these So wither'd, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't?--Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her chappy finger laying Upon her skinny lips:--you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. MACBETH. Speak, if you can;--what are you? FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter! BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?-- I' the name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal:--to me you speak not: If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate. FIRST WITCH. Hail! SECOND WITCH. Hail! THIRD WITCH. Hail! FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier. THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?--Speak, I charge you. [Witches vanish.] BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them:--whither are they vanish'd? MACBETH. Into the air; and what seem'd corporal melted As breath into the wind.--Would they had stay'd! BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? MACBETH. Your children shall be kings. BANQUO. You shall be king. MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so? BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here? [Enter Ross and Angus.] ROSS. The king hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, The news of thy success: and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc'd with that, In viewing o'er the rest o' the self-same day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as hail Came post with post; and every one did bear Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense, And pour'd them down before him. ANGUS. We are sent To give thee, from our royal master, thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee. ROSS. And, for an earnest of a greater honor, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine. BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true? MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow'd robes? ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet; But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin'd With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not; But treasons capital, confess'd and proved, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind.--Thanks for your pains.-- Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis'd no less to them? BANQUO. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.-- Cousins, a word, I pray you. MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.--I thank you, gentlemen.-- [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good:--if ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings: My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is But what is not. BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt. MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir. BANQUO. New honors come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use. MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. MACBETH. Give me your favor:--my dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register'd where every day I turn The leaf to read them.--Let us toward the king.-- Think upon what hath chanc'd; and, at more time, The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other. BANQUO. Very gladly. MACBETH. Till then, enough.--Come, friends. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. A heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister? SECOND WITCH. Killing swine. THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou? FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd:--"Give me," quoth I: "Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger: But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind. FIRST WITCH. Thou art kind. THIRD WITCH. And I another. FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other: And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I' the shipman's card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid: Weary seven-nights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost.-- Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come. [Drum within.] THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come. ALL. The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine:-- Peace!--the charm's wound up. [Enter Macbeth and Banquo.] MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres?--What are these So wither'd, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't?--Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her chappy finger laying Upon her skinny lips:--you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. MACBETH. Speak, if you can;--what are you? FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter! BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?-- I' the name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal:--to me you speak not: If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate. FIRST WITCH. Hail! SECOND WITCH. Hail! THIRD WITCH. Hail! FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier. THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?--Speak, I charge you. [Witches vanish.] BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them:--whither are they vanish'd? MACBETH. Into the air; and what seem'd corporal melted As breath into the wind.--Would they had stay'd! BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? MACBETH. Your children shall be kings. BANQUO. You shall be king. MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so? BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here? [Enter Ross and Angus.] ROSS. The king hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, The news of thy success: and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc'd with that, In viewing o'er the rest o' the self-same day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as hail Came post with post; and every one did bear Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense, And pour'd them down before him. ANGUS. We are sent To give thee, from our royal master, thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee. ROSS. And, for an earnest of a greater honor, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine. BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true? MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow'd robes? ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet; But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin'd With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not; But treasons capital, confess'd and proved, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind.--Thanks for your pains.-- Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis'd no less to them? BANQUO. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.-- Cousins, a word, I pray you. MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.--I thank you, gentlemen.-- [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good:--if ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings: My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is But what is not. BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt. MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir. BANQUO. New honors come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use. MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. MACBETH. Give me your favor:--my dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register'd where every day I turn The leaf to read them.--Let us toward the king.-- Think upon what hath chanc'd; and, at more time, The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other. BANQUO. Very gladly. MACBETH. Till then, enough.--Come, friends. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 1, scene 3 based on the provided context.

Now that the witches' prophecy has been realized, they reconvene at the predetermined heath. The first witch explains to the others why she was late in coming. Angered at the impudence of a sailor's wife in not giving her chestnuts, the first witch vows to seek revenge on the sailor, making him a sleepless, cursed man. It is important to note here that the witch associates sleeplessness with an evil or cursed life. Macbeth, after killing King Duncan, can hardly sleep because of his ghastly nightmares. While the witches are talking, Macbeth and Banquo enter the area. Macbeth proclaims that he has never seen a day "so fair and foul. This is reminiscent of the weird sisters' statement in Scene 1 that "fair is foul and foul is fair. This is a prominent theme in the play, as it beautifully expresses the macabre state of affairs within Macbeth and without. Banquo, after seeing the witches, becomes horrified by their hideous appearances. Macbeth, however, ignores the physical aspects of the sorceresses and asks them to speak. Each witch addresses him in a different manner-one as the Thane of Glamis, the second as the Thane of Cawdor and the third as "that shalt be king hereafter. After hearing these strange prophecies, Macbeth remains in a sort of ecstatic stupor while Banquo asks the witches to look into his future. The weird sisters say that while Banquo himself will not be as happy or lucky as Macbeth will, he will be much more fortunate in the long run. Also, they tell him that he will beget a line of kings even though he will never be a monarch himself. Awakened from his stupor, Macbeth asks the witches how it can be possible that he will be the Thane of Cawdor, when to his knowledge, the nobleman still lives. He also asks them from whence they get their knowledge of the future. Suddenly, the weird sisters disappear into thin air, much to the surprise of Banquo and Macbeth. Ross and Angus, sent by King Duncan, meet up with the pair at this time. Ross tells Macbeth that in return for his brave combat, Duncan bestows upon him the title of the Thane of Cawdor. Angus explains that the current Thane of Cawdor will be executed for his treachery. Both Macbeth and Banquo are stunned to realize that the witches' first prophecy has actually come to pass. Banquo, however, tells Macbeth that oftentimes the prophecies of such evil creatures come with heavy consequences. It is important to note here that while Banquo quickly realized the truly "foul" nature of the witches, Macbeth still considered them as "fair. While Banquo talks to Angus and Ross, Macbeth engages in profound thought. He cannot determine whether the prophecies are good or evil. If the sayings are evil, he says, then it is strange that he has achieved so much success by them already. If the predictions are good, however, then he wonders why he is so frightened by the sudden thought that has just occurred to him. Macbeth has just considered killing King Duncan in order to shorten the interim period between the present and the realization of the last prophecy. At the same time, however, Macbeth concedes that he could also just let fate run its course. Macbeth urges Banquo to carefully analyze the night's strange incidents so that they can talk about them in detail later. The group then leaves the heath and travels towards the residence of the king

----------ACT 1 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. A heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister? SECOND WITCH. Killing swine. THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou? FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd:--"Give me," quoth I: "Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger: But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind. FIRST WITCH. Thou art kind. THIRD WITCH. And I another. FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other: And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I' the shipman's card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid: Weary seven-nights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost.-- Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come. [Drum within.] THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come. ALL. The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine:-- Peace!--the charm's wound up. [Enter Macbeth and Banquo.] MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres?--What are these So wither'd, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't?--Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her chappy finger laying Upon her skinny lips:--you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. MACBETH. Speak, if you can;--what are you? FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter! BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?-- I' the name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal:--to me you speak not: If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate. FIRST WITCH. Hail! SECOND WITCH. Hail! THIRD WITCH. Hail! FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier. THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?--Speak, I charge you. [Witches vanish.] BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them:--whither are they vanish'd? MACBETH. Into the air; and what seem'd corporal melted As breath into the wind.--Would they had stay'd! BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? MACBETH. Your children shall be kings. BANQUO. You shall be king. MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so? BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here? [Enter Ross and Angus.] ROSS. The king hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, The news of thy success: and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc'd with that, In viewing o'er the rest o' the self-same day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as hail Came post with post; and every one did bear Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense, And pour'd them down before him. ANGUS. We are sent To give thee, from our royal master, thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee. ROSS. And, for an earnest of a greater honor, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine. BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true? MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow'd robes? ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet; But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin'd With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not; But treasons capital, confess'd and proved, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind.--Thanks for your pains.-- Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis'd no less to them? BANQUO. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.-- Cousins, a word, I pray you. MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.--I thank you, gentlemen.-- [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good:--if ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings: My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is But what is not. BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt. MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir. BANQUO. New honors come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use. MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. MACBETH. Give me your favor:--my dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register'd where every day I turn The leaf to read them.--Let us toward the king.-- Think upon what hath chanc'd; and, at more time, The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other. BANQUO. Very gladly. MACBETH. Till then, enough.--Come, friends. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. A heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister? SECOND WITCH. Killing swine. THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou? FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd:--"Give me," quoth I: "Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger: But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind. FIRST WITCH. Thou art kind. THIRD WITCH. And I another. FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other: And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I' the shipman's card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid: Weary seven-nights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost.-- Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come. [Drum within.] THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come. ALL. The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine:-- Peace!--the charm's wound up. [Enter Macbeth and Banquo.] MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres?--What are these So wither'd, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't?--Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her chappy finger laying Upon her skinny lips:--you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. MACBETH. Speak, if you can;--what are you? FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter! BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?-- I' the name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal:--to me you speak not: If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate. FIRST WITCH. Hail! SECOND WITCH. Hail! THIRD WITCH. Hail! FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier. THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more: By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?--Speak, I charge you. [Witches vanish.] BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them:--whither are they vanish'd? MACBETH. Into the air; and what seem'd corporal melted As breath into the wind.--Would they had stay'd! BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? MACBETH. Your children shall be kings. BANQUO. You shall be king. MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so? BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here? [Enter Ross and Angus.] ROSS. The king hath happily receiv'd, Macbeth, The news of thy success: and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc'd with that, In viewing o'er the rest o' the self-same day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as hail Came post with post; and every one did bear Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense, And pour'd them down before him. ANGUS. We are sent To give thee, from our royal master, thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee. ROSS. And, for an earnest of a greater honor, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine. BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true? MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow'd robes? ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet; But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin'd With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour'd in his country's wreck, I know not; But treasons capital, confess'd and proved, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind.--Thanks for your pains.-- Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis'd no less to them? BANQUO. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.-- Cousins, a word, I pray you. MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.--I thank you, gentlemen.-- [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good:--if ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings: My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man, that function Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is But what is not. BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt. MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir. BANQUO. New honors come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use. MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. MACBETH. Give me your favor:--my dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register'd where every day I turn The leaf to read them.--Let us toward the king.-- Think upon what hath chanc'd; and, at more time, The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other. BANQUO. Very gladly. MACBETH. Till then, enough.--Come, friends. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 1.scene 4

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for macbeth: summary & analysis act 1 scene 4 | cl1ffsnotes based on the provided context.

In the palace court room, King Duncan receives the news of the execution of Cawdor and delivers formal thanks to Macbeth and Banquo for their part in the battle. Then, to the private astonishment of Macbeth, Duncan announces that his successor as king, whenever that may be, will be his son Malcolm.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return'd? MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die: who did report, That very frankly he confess'd his treasons; Implor'd your highness' pardon; and set forth A deep repentance: nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd As 'twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN. There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.-- [Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus.] O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me: thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv'd; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay. MACBETH. The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honor. DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labor To make thee full of growing.--Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv'd, nor must be known No less to have done so,let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart. BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own. DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.--Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honor must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.--From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you. MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not us'd for you: I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave. DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor! MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland!--That is a step, On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand! yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. [Exit.] DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo!--he is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed,-- It is a banquet to me. Let us after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman. [Flourish. Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 1 SCENE 4 | CL1FFSNOTES--------- SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return'd? MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die: who did report, That very frankly he confess'd his treasons; Implor'd your highness' pardon; and set forth A deep repentance: nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd As 'twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN. There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.-- [Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus.] O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me: thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv'd; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay. MACBETH. The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honor. DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labor To make thee full of growing.--Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv'd, nor must be known No less to have done so,let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart. BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own. DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.--Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honor must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.--From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you. MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not us'd for you: I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave. DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor! MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland!--That is a step, On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand! yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. [Exit.] DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo!--he is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed,-- It is a banquet to me. Let us after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman. [Flourish. Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return'd? MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die: who did report, That very frankly he confess'd his treasons; Implor'd your highness' pardon; and set forth A deep repentance: nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd As 'twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN. There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.-- [Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus.] O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me: thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv'd; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay. MACBETH. The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honor. DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labor To make thee full of growing.--Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv'd, nor must be known No less to have done so,let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart. BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own. DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.--Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honor must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.--From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you. MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not us'd for you: I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave. DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor! MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland!--That is a step, On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand! yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. [Exit.] DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo!--he is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed,-- It is a banquet to me. Let us after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman. [Flourish. Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return'd? MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die: who did report, That very frankly he confess'd his treasons; Implor'd your highness' pardon; and set forth A deep repentance: nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd As 'twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN. There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.-- [Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus.] O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me: thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv'd; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay. MACBETH. The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honor. DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labor To make thee full of growing.--Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv'd, nor must be known No less to have done so,let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart. BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own. DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.--Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honor must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.--From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you. MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not us'd for you: I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave. DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor! MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland!--That is a step, On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand! yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. [Exit.] DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo!--he is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed,-- It is a banquet to me. Let us after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman. [Flourish. Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return'd? MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die: who did report, That very frankly he confess'd his treasons; Implor'd your highness' pardon; and set forth A deep repentance: nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd As 'twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN. There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.-- [Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus.] O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me: thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv'd; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay. MACBETH. The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honor. DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labor To make thee full of growing.--Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv'd, nor must be known No less to have done so,let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart. BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own. DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.--Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honor must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.--From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you. MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not us'd for you: I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave. DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor! MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland!--That is a step, On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand! yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. [Exit.] DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo!--he is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed,-- It is a banquet to me. Let us after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman. [Flourish. Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return'd? MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die: who did report, That very frankly he confess'd his treasons; Implor'd your highness' pardon; and set forth A deep repentance: nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd As 'twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN. There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.-- [Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus.] O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me: thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv'd; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay. MACBETH. The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your highness' part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honor. DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labor To make thee full of growing.--Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv'd, nor must be known No less to have done so,let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart. BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own. DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.--Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honor must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.--From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you. MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not us'd for you: I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave. DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor! MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland!--That is a step, On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires: The eye wink at the hand! yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. [Exit.] DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo!--he is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed,-- It is a banquet to me. Let us after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman. [Flourish. Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 1.scene 5

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of macbeth: summary & analysis act 1 scene 5 | cl1ffsnotes, utilizing the provided context.

At Macbeth's home, the castle of Inverness, Lady Macbeth reads a letter from her husband concerning his meeting with the Witches. She is immediately aware of the significance of their prophetic words and, on being informed that King Duncan will be paying a royal visit to Inverness, makes up her mind to carry out the murder of the king in order to hasten the prophecy. In doing so, she suggests that her husband is weak -- he contains too much of "the milk of human kindness." When Macbeth arrives from the court of Duncan, bearing news of the king's forthcoming visit, his wife makes her plans clear to him.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth's Castle. [Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.] LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me, 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness; that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis'd; yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition; but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it: And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal. [Enter an Attendant.] What is your tidings? ATTENDANT. The king comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it: Is not thy master with him? who, were't so, Would have inform'd for preparation. ATTENDANT. So please you, it is true:--our thane is coming: One of my fellows had the speed of him; Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. LADY MACBETH. Give him tending; He brings great news. [Exit Attendant.] The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, "Hold, hold!" [Enter Macbeth.] Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence? MACBETH. To-morrow,--as he purposes. LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters:--to beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't. He that's coming Must be provided for: and you shall put This night's great business into my despatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. MACBETH. We will speak further. LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favor ever is to fear: Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 1 SCENE 5 | CL1FFSNOTES--------- SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth's Castle. [Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.] LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me, 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness; that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis'd; yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition; but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it: And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal. [Enter an Attendant.] What is your tidings? ATTENDANT. The king comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it: Is not thy master with him? who, were't so, Would have inform'd for preparation. ATTENDANT. So please you, it is true:--our thane is coming: One of my fellows had the speed of him; Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. LADY MACBETH. Give him tending; He brings great news. [Exit Attendant.] The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, "Hold, hold!" [Enter Macbeth.] Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence? MACBETH. To-morrow,--as he purposes. LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters:--to beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't. He that's coming Must be provided for: and you shall put This night's great business into my despatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. MACBETH. We will speak further. LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favor ever is to fear: Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth's Castle. [Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.] LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me, 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness; that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis'd; yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition; but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it: And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal. [Enter an Attendant.] What is your tidings? ATTENDANT. The king comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it: Is not thy master with him? who, were't so, Would have inform'd for preparation. ATTENDANT. So please you, it is true:--our thane is coming: One of my fellows had the speed of him; Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. LADY MACBETH. Give him tending; He brings great news. [Exit Attendant.] The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, "Hold, hold!" [Enter Macbeth.] Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence? MACBETH. To-morrow,--as he purposes. LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters:--to beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't. He that's coming Must be provided for: and you shall put This night's great business into my despatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. MACBETH. We will speak further. LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favor ever is to fear: Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth's Castle. [Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.] LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me, 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness; that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis'd; yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition; but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it: And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal. [Enter an Attendant.] What is your tidings? ATTENDANT. The king comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it: Is not thy master with him? who, were't so, Would have inform'd for preparation. ATTENDANT. So please you, it is true:--our thane is coming: One of my fellows had the speed of him; Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. LADY MACBETH. Give him tending; He brings great news. [Exit Attendant.] The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, "Hold, hold!" [Enter Macbeth.] Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence? MACBETH. To-morrow,--as he purposes. LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters:--to beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't. He that's coming Must be provided for: and you shall put This night's great business into my despatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. MACBETH. We will speak further. LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favor ever is to fear: Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth's Castle. [Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.] LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me, 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness; that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis'd; yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition; but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it: And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal. [Enter an Attendant.] What is your tidings? ATTENDANT. The king comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it: Is not thy master with him? who, were't so, Would have inform'd for preparation. ATTENDANT. So please you, it is true:--our thane is coming: One of my fellows had the speed of him; Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. LADY MACBETH. Give him tending; He brings great news. [Exit Attendant.] The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, "Hold, hold!" [Enter Macbeth.] Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence? MACBETH. To-morrow,--as he purposes. LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters:--to beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't. He that's coming Must be provided for: and you shall put This night's great business into my despatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. MACBETH. We will speak further. LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favor ever is to fear: Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth's Castle. [Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.] LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me, 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness; that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis'd; yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition; but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it: And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear; And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal. [Enter an Attendant.] What is your tidings? ATTENDANT. The king comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it: Is not thy master with him? who, were't so, Would have inform'd for preparation. ATTENDANT. So please you, it is true:--our thane is coming: One of my fellows had the speed of him; Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. LADY MACBETH. Give him tending; He brings great news. [Exit Attendant.] The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here; And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murdering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, "Hold, hold!" [Enter Macbeth.] Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence? MACBETH. To-morrow,--as he purposes. LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters:--to beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't. He that's coming Must be provided for: and you shall put This night's great business into my despatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. MACBETH. We will speak further. LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favor ever is to fear: Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 1.scene 6

cliffnotes

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

This short scene opens outside of Inverness Castle where King Duncan has arrived with his sons, Banquo, and other noblemen and attendants. The king admires the castle, and Banquo agrees that it is truly "heavenly". As they discuss the merits of the place, Lady Macbeth comes out to greet them, and pleasantries are traded between them. He then takes Lady Macbeth's hand and asks her to lead him to his host.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. [Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending.] [Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made His pendant bed and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd The air is delicate. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] DUNCAN. See, see, our honour'd hostess!-- The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble. LADY MACBETH. All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap'd up to them, We rest your hermits. DUNCAN. Where's the Thane of Cawdor? We cours'd him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight. LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your highness' pleasure, Still to return your own. DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 1 SCENE 6 | CL1FFSNOTES--------- SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. [Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending.] [Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made His pendant bed and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd The air is delicate. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] DUNCAN. See, see, our honour'd hostess!-- The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble. LADY MACBETH. All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap'd up to them, We rest your hermits. DUNCAN. Where's the Thane of Cawdor? We cours'd him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight. LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your highness' pleasure, Still to return your own. DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. [Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending.] [Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made His pendant bed and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd The air is delicate. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] DUNCAN. See, see, our honour'd hostess!-- The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble. LADY MACBETH. All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap'd up to them, We rest your hermits. DUNCAN. Where's the Thane of Cawdor? We cours'd him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight. LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your highness' pleasure, Still to return your own. DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. [Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending.] [Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made His pendant bed and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd The air is delicate. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] DUNCAN. See, see, our honour'd hostess!-- The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble. LADY MACBETH. All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap'd up to them, We rest your hermits. DUNCAN. Where's the Thane of Cawdor? We cours'd him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight. LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your highness' pleasure, Still to return your own. DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. [Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending.] [Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made His pendant bed and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd The air is delicate. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] DUNCAN. See, see, our honour'd hostess!-- The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble. LADY MACBETH. All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap'd up to them, We rest your hermits. DUNCAN. Where's the Thane of Cawdor? We cours'd him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight. LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your highness' pleasure, Still to return your own. DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. [Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending.] [Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants.] DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made His pendant bed and procreant cradle: Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd The air is delicate. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] DUNCAN. See, see, our honour'd hostess!-- The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble. LADY MACBETH. All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap'd up to them, We rest your hermits. DUNCAN. Where's the Thane of Cawdor? We cours'd him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight. LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your highness' pleasure, Still to return your own. DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 1.scene 7

cliffnotes

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

The scene opens with the solitary Macbeth wrestling with his thoughts of murdering the king, and he seems to be losing to his conscience. He is bothered that Duncan is his kinsman and that the execution would take place at Inverness when he should be serving as the king's kind host. He also reckons with Duncan's virtues: his kindness and his success in his position. He knows that the people support Duncan and will weep his loss. He ends his soliloquy by stating that only "vaulting ambition" makes him consider the evil deed; he has no complaint against the king, which makes the murder seem doubly vile to him. He is obviously vacillating between good and evil. Then Lady Macbeth enters and complains to Macbeth that he has foolishly left the king at dinner. Macbeth's answer to her is a total shock, for he says, "We will proceed no further in this business." His wife unmercifully attacks his weakness saying that he is a fearful coward, a seeming ironic statement since Macbeth is an honored and valiant warrior who has just come from his ultimate victory. But it is obvious that his wife's words have affected him. He tries to protest by saying, "I dare do all that may become a man; who does do more is none." This answer causes Lady Macbeth to issue a new tirade against him. When Macbeth questions her about the possibility of failure in the deed, she laughs and says, "We will not fail. " She then proceeds to tell her husband how Duncan will be murdered and how she will make his two chamberlains appear to be guilty. She will get the guards drunk with wine, and Macbeth will stab Duncan while he is unguarded. Then they will smear the king's blood on the innocent chamberlains. Macbeth, against his better judgment, agrees to the plan saying, "I am settled and bend up." In other words, he gives in to the evils of his wife rather than listening to the counsel of his conscience. Macbeth ends the scene by saying, "false face must hide what the false heart doth know," a statement which serves as a flashback to Duncan's original statement about not being able to identify a traitor by his face.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. [Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly. If the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, With his surcease, success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all--here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,-- We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. He's here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed: then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off: And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.--I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, And falls on the other. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] How now! what news? LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber? MACBETH. Hath he ask'd for me? LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has? MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem; Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would," Like the poor cat i' the adage? MACBETH. Pr'ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY MACBETH. What beast was't, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this. MACBETH. If we should fail? LADY MACBETH. We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep,-- Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey Soundly invite him, his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbec only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon The unguarded Duncan? what not put upon His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell? MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv'd, When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers, That they have don't? LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar Upon his death? MACBETH. I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 1 SCENE 7 | CL1FFSNOTES--------- SCENE VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. [Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly. If the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, With his surcease, success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all--here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,-- We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. He's here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed: then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off: And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.--I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, And falls on the other. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] How now! what news? LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber? MACBETH. Hath he ask'd for me? LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has? MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem; Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would," Like the poor cat i' the adage? MACBETH. Pr'ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY MACBETH. What beast was't, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this. MACBETH. If we should fail? LADY MACBETH. We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep,-- Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey Soundly invite him, his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbec only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon The unguarded Duncan? what not put upon His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell? MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv'd, When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers, That they have don't? LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar Upon his death? MACBETH. I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. [Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly. If the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, With his surcease, success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all--here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,-- We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. He's here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed: then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off: And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.--I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, And falls on the other. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] How now! what news? LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber? MACBETH. Hath he ask'd for me? LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has? MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem; Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would," Like the poor cat i' the adage? MACBETH. Pr'ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY MACBETH. What beast was't, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this. MACBETH. If we should fail? LADY MACBETH. We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep,-- Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey Soundly invite him, his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbec only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon The unguarded Duncan? what not put upon His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell? MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv'd, When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers, That they have don't? LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar Upon his death? MACBETH. I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. [Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly. If the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, With his surcease, success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all--here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,-- We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. He's here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed: then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off: And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.--I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, And falls on the other. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] How now! what news? LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber? MACBETH. Hath he ask'd for me? LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has? MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem; Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would," Like the poor cat i' the adage? MACBETH. Pr'ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY MACBETH. What beast was't, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this. MACBETH. If we should fail? LADY MACBETH. We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep,-- Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey Soundly invite him, his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbec only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon The unguarded Duncan? what not put upon His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell? MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv'd, When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers, That they have don't? LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar Upon his death? MACBETH. I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. [Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly. If the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, With his surcease, success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all--here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,-- We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. He's here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed: then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off: And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.--I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, And falls on the other. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] How now! what news? LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp'd: why have you left the chamber? MACBETH. Hath he ask'd for me? LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has? MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem; Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would," Like the poor cat i' the adage? MACBETH. Pr'ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY MACBETH. What beast was't, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this. MACBETH. If we should fail? LADY MACBETH. We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep,-- Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey Soundly invite him, his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbec only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon The unguarded Duncan? what not put upon His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell? MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv'd, When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us'd their very daggers, That they have don't? LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar Upon his death? MACBETH. I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 2.scene 1

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act 2, scene 1|macbeth: summary & analysis act 2 scene 1 | cliffsnotes

As Macbeth makes his way toward the king's bedchamber, he encounters Banquo with his son Fleance. Banquo has been unable to sleep and explains to Macbeth that he has been dreaming of the weird sisters. After arranging to meet again in order to discuss the matter, Banquo asserts his allegiance to the king and bids good night to Macbeth. No sooner is Macbeth alone, than he has an extraordinary experience. Either in the heat of the moment or through some supernatural visitation, he sees a ghostly dagger indicating the way to the Duncan. Convinced that "there's no such thing," he climbs to the king's chamber.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. [Enter Banquo, preceeded by Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. How goes the night, boy? FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock. BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve. FLEANCE. I take't, 'tis later, sir. BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.--There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out:--take thee that too.-- A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep:--merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!--Give me my sword. Who's there? [Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch.] MACBETH. A friend. BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's a-bed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your officers: This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up In measureless content. MACBETH. Being unprepar'd, Our will became the servant to defect; Which else should free have wrought. BANQUO. All's well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show'd some truth. MACBETH. I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure. MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent,--when 'tis, It shall make honor for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis'd, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell'd. MACBETH. Good repose the while! BANQUO. Thanks, sir: the like to you! [Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.] MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Exit Servant.] Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:-- I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.--There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [A bell rings.] I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell. [Exit.] [Enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.--Hark!--Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there?--what, ho! LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd, And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss 'em.--Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't.--My husband! [Re-enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. I have done the deed.--Didst thou not hear a noise? LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? MACBETH. When? LADY MACBETH. Now. MACBETH. As I descended? LADY MACBETH. Ay. MACBETH. Hark!-- Who lies i' the second chamber? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands.] LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. MACBETH. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and address'd them Again to sleep. LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg'd together. MACBETH. One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us." LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply. MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat. LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast. LADY MACBETH. What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!" LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things.--Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.-- Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. MACBETH. I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not. LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.] MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.--[Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking: Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers:--be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. [Knocking within.] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst! [Exeunt.] [Enter a Porter. Knocking within.] PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat for't.--[Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose.-- [Knocking.] Knock, knock: never at quiet! What are you?--But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter. [Opens the gate.] [Enter Macduff and Lennox.] MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late? PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke? PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to: in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. PORTER. That it did, sir, i' the very throat o' me; but I requited him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring?-- Our knocking has awak'd him; here he comes. [Enter Macbeth.] LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir! MACBETH. Good morrow, both! MACDUFF. Is the king stirring, worthy thane? MACBETH. Not yet. MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him: I have almost slipp'd the hour. MACBETH. I'll bring you to him. MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet 'tis one. MACBETH. The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door. MACDUFF. I'll make so bold to call. For 'tis my limited service. [Exit Macduff.] LENNOX. Goes the king hence to-day? MACBETH. He does: he did appoint so. LENNOX. The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say, Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death; And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus'd events, New hatch'd to the woeful time: the obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night; some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake. MACBETH. 'Twas a rough night. LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. [Re-enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee! MACBETH, LENNOX. What's the matter? MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' the building. MACBETH. What is't you say? the life? LENNOX. Mean you his majesty? MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon:--do not bid me speak; See, and then speak yourselves. [Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.] Awake, awake!-- Ring the alarum bell:--murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit, And look on death itself! up, up, and see The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror! [Alarum-bell rings.] [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? speak, speak! MACDUFF. O gentle lady, 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman's ear, Would murder as it fell. [Re-enter Banquo.] O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master's murder'd! LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel any where.-- Dear Duff, I pr'ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. [Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross.] MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. [Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.] DONALBAIN. What is amiss? MACBETH. You are, and do not know't: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd. MACDUFF. Your royal father's murder'd. MALCOLM. O, by whom? LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't: Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found Upon their pillows: They star'd, and were distracted; no man's life Was to be trusted with them. MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them. MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so? MACBETH. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: The expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood; And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make's love known? LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho! MACDUFF. Look to the lady. MALCOLM. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours? DONALBAIN. What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let's away; Our tears are not yet brew'd. MALCOLM. Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion. BANQUO. Look to the lady:-- [Lady Macbeth is carried out.] And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence, Against the undivulg'd pretense I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL. So all. MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i' the hall together. ALL. Well contented. [Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.] MALCOLM. What will you do? Let's not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer: where we are, There's daggers in men's smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody. MALCOLM. This murderous shaft that's shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away: there's warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there's no mercy left. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 2 SCENE 1 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. [Enter Banquo, preceeded by Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. How goes the night, boy? FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock. BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve. FLEANCE. I take't, 'tis later, sir. BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.--There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out:--take thee that too.-- A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep:--merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!--Give me my sword. Who's there? [Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch.] MACBETH. A friend. BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's a-bed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your officers: This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up In measureless content. MACBETH. Being unprepar'd, Our will became the servant to defect; Which else should free have wrought. BANQUO. All's well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show'd some truth. MACBETH. I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure. MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent,--when 'tis, It shall make honor for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis'd, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell'd. MACBETH. Good repose the while! BANQUO. Thanks, sir: the like to you! [Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.] MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Exit Servant.] Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:-- I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.--There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [A bell rings.] I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell. [Exit.] [Enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.--Hark!--Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there?--what, ho! LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd, And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss 'em.--Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't.--My husband! [Re-enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. I have done the deed.--Didst thou not hear a noise? LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? MACBETH. When? LADY MACBETH. Now. MACBETH. As I descended? LADY MACBETH. Ay. MACBETH. Hark!-- Who lies i' the second chamber? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands.] LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. MACBETH. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and address'd them Again to sleep. LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg'd together. MACBETH. One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us." LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply. MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat. LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast. LADY MACBETH. What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!" LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things.--Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.-- Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. MACBETH. I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not. LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.] MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.--[Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking: Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers:--be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. [Knocking within.] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst! [Exeunt.] [Enter a Porter. Knocking within.] PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat for't.--[Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose.-- [Knocking.] Knock, knock: never at quiet! What are you?--But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter. [Opens the gate.] [Enter Macduff and Lennox.] MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late? PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke? PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to: in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. PORTER. That it did, sir, i' the very throat o' me; but I requited him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring?-- Our knocking has awak'd him; here he comes. [Enter Macbeth.] LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir! MACBETH. Good morrow, both! MACDUFF. Is the king stirring, worthy thane? MACBETH. Not yet. MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him: I have almost slipp'd the hour. MACBETH. I'll bring you to him. MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet 'tis one. MACBETH. The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door. MACDUFF. I'll make so bold to call. For 'tis my limited service. [Exit Macduff.] LENNOX. Goes the king hence to-day? MACBETH. He does: he did appoint so. LENNOX. The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say, Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death; And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus'd events, New hatch'd to the woeful time: the obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night; some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake. MACBETH. 'Twas a rough night. LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. [Re-enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee! MACBETH, LENNOX. What's the matter? MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' the building. MACBETH. What is't you say? the life? LENNOX. Mean you his majesty? MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon:--do not bid me speak; See, and then speak yourselves. [Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.] Awake, awake!-- Ring the alarum bell:--murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit, And look on death itself! up, up, and see The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror! [Alarum-bell rings.] [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? speak, speak! MACDUFF. O gentle lady, 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman's ear, Would murder as it fell. [Re-enter Banquo.] O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master's murder'd! LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel any where.-- Dear Duff, I pr'ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. [Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross.] MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. [Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.] DONALBAIN. What is amiss? MACBETH. You are, and do not know't: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd. MACDUFF. Your royal father's murder'd. MALCOLM. O, by whom? LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't: Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found Upon their pillows: They star'd, and were distracted; no man's life Was to be trusted with them. MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them. MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so? MACBETH. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: The expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood; And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make's love known? LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho! MACDUFF. Look to the lady. MALCOLM. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours? DONALBAIN. What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let's away; Our tears are not yet brew'd. MALCOLM. Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion. BANQUO. Look to the lady:-- [Lady Macbeth is carried out.] And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence, Against the undivulg'd pretense I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL. So all. MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i' the hall together. ALL. Well contented. [Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.] MALCOLM. What will you do? Let's not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer: where we are, There's daggers in men's smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody. MALCOLM. This murderous shaft that's shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away: there's warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there's no mercy left. [Exeunt.]

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Generate a succinct summary for act 2, scene 1 with the given context.

act 2, scene 1|scene 1

Banquo and his son Fleance walk in the torch-lit hall of Macbeth's castle. Fleance says that it is after midnight, and his father responds that although he is tired, he wishes to stay awake because his sleep has lately inspired "cursed thoughts". Macbeth enters, and Banquo is surprised to see him still up. Banquo says that the king is asleep and mentions that he had a dream about the "three weird sisters. When Banquo suggests that the witches have revealed "some truth" to Macbeth, Macbeth claims that he has not thought of them at all since their encounter in the woods. He and Banquo agree to discuss the witches' prophecies at a later time. Banquo and Fleance leave, and suddenly, in the darkened hall, Macbeth has a vision of a dagger floating in the air before him, its handle pointing toward his hand and its tip aiming him toward Duncan. Macbeth tries to grasp the weapon and fails. He wonders whether what he sees is real or a "dagger of the mind, a false creation / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain". Continuing to gaze upon the dagger, he thinks he sees blood on the blade, then abruptly decides that the vision is just a manifestation of his unease over killing Duncan. The night around him seems thick with horror and witchcraft, but Macbeth stiffens and resolves to do his bloody work. A bell tolls--Lady Macbeth's signal that the chamberlains are asleep--and Macbeth strides toward Duncan's chamber

----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. [Enter Banquo, preceeded by Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. How goes the night, boy? FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock. BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve. FLEANCE. I take't, 'tis later, sir. BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.--There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out:--take thee that too.-- A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep:--merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!--Give me my sword. Who's there? [Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch.] MACBETH. A friend. BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's a-bed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your officers: This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up In measureless content. MACBETH. Being unprepar'd, Our will became the servant to defect; Which else should free have wrought. BANQUO. All's well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show'd some truth. MACBETH. I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure. MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent,--when 'tis, It shall make honor for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis'd, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell'd. MACBETH. Good repose the while! BANQUO. Thanks, sir: the like to you! [Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.] MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Exit Servant.] Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:-- I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.--There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [A bell rings.] I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell. [Exit.] [Enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.--Hark!--Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there?--what, ho! LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd, And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss 'em.--Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't.--My husband! [Re-enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. I have done the deed.--Didst thou not hear a noise? LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? MACBETH. When? LADY MACBETH. Now. MACBETH. As I descended? LADY MACBETH. Ay. MACBETH. Hark!-- Who lies i' the second chamber? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands.] LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. MACBETH. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and address'd them Again to sleep. LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg'd together. MACBETH. One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us." LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply. MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat. LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast. LADY MACBETH. What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!" LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things.--Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.-- Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. MACBETH. I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not. LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.] MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.--[Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking: Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers:--be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. [Knocking within.] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst! [Exeunt.] [Enter a Porter. Knocking within.] PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat for't.--[Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose.-- [Knocking.] Knock, knock: never at quiet! What are you?--But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter. [Opens the gate.] [Enter Macduff and Lennox.] MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late? PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke? PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to: in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. PORTER. That it did, sir, i' the very throat o' me; but I requited him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring?-- Our knocking has awak'd him; here he comes. [Enter Macbeth.] LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir! MACBETH. Good morrow, both! MACDUFF. Is the king stirring, worthy thane? MACBETH. Not yet. MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him: I have almost slipp'd the hour. MACBETH. I'll bring you to him. MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet 'tis one. MACBETH. The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door. MACDUFF. I'll make so bold to call. For 'tis my limited service. [Exit Macduff.] LENNOX. Goes the king hence to-day? MACBETH. He does: he did appoint so. LENNOX. The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say, Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death; And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus'd events, New hatch'd to the woeful time: the obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night; some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake. MACBETH. 'Twas a rough night. LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. [Re-enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee! MACBETH, LENNOX. What's the matter? MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' the building. MACBETH. What is't you say? the life? LENNOX. Mean you his majesty? MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon:--do not bid me speak; See, and then speak yourselves. [Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.] Awake, awake!-- Ring the alarum bell:--murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit, And look on death itself! up, up, and see The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror! [Alarum-bell rings.] [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? speak, speak! MACDUFF. O gentle lady, 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman's ear, Would murder as it fell. [Re-enter Banquo.] O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master's murder'd! LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel any where.-- Dear Duff, I pr'ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. [Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross.] MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. [Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.] DONALBAIN. What is amiss? MACBETH. You are, and do not know't: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd. MACDUFF. Your royal father's murder'd. MALCOLM. O, by whom? LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't: Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found Upon their pillows: They star'd, and were distracted; no man's life Was to be trusted with them. MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them. MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so? MACBETH. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: The expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood; And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make's love known? LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho! MACDUFF. Look to the lady. MALCOLM. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours? DONALBAIN. What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let's away; Our tears are not yet brew'd. MALCOLM. Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion. BANQUO. Look to the lady:-- [Lady Macbeth is carried out.] And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence, Against the undivulg'd pretense I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL. So all. MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i' the hall together. ALL. Well contented. [Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.] MALCOLM. What will you do? Let's not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer: where we are, There's daggers in men's smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody. MALCOLM. This murderous shaft that's shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away: there's warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there's no mercy left. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. [Enter Banquo, preceeded by Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. How goes the night, boy? FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock. BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve. FLEANCE. I take't, 'tis later, sir. BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.--There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out:--take thee that too.-- A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep:--merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!--Give me my sword. Who's there? [Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch.] MACBETH. A friend. BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's a-bed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your officers: This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up In measureless content. MACBETH. Being unprepar'd, Our will became the servant to defect; Which else should free have wrought. BANQUO. All's well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show'd some truth. MACBETH. I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure. MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent,--when 'tis, It shall make honor for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis'd, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell'd. MACBETH. Good repose the while! BANQUO. Thanks, sir: the like to you! [Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.] MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Exit Servant.] Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:-- I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.--There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [A bell rings.] I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell. [Exit.] [Enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.--Hark!--Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there?--what, ho! LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd, And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss 'em.--Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't.--My husband! [Re-enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. I have done the deed.--Didst thou not hear a noise? LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? MACBETH. When? LADY MACBETH. Now. MACBETH. As I descended? LADY MACBETH. Ay. MACBETH. Hark!-- Who lies i' the second chamber? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands.] LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. MACBETH. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and address'd them Again to sleep. LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg'd together. MACBETH. One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us." LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply. MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat. LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast. LADY MACBETH. What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!" LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things.--Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.-- Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. MACBETH. I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not. LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.] MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.--[Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking: Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers:--be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. [Knocking within.] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst! [Exeunt.] [Enter a Porter. Knocking within.] PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat for't.--[Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose.-- [Knocking.] Knock, knock: never at quiet! What are you?--But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter. [Opens the gate.] [Enter Macduff and Lennox.] MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late? PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke? PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to: in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. PORTER. That it did, sir, i' the very throat o' me; but I requited him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring?-- Our knocking has awak'd him; here he comes. [Enter Macbeth.] LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir! MACBETH. Good morrow, both! MACDUFF. Is the king stirring, worthy thane? MACBETH. Not yet. MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him: I have almost slipp'd the hour. MACBETH. I'll bring you to him. MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet 'tis one. MACBETH. The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door. MACDUFF. I'll make so bold to call. For 'tis my limited service. [Exit Macduff.] LENNOX. Goes the king hence to-day? MACBETH. He does: he did appoint so. LENNOX. The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say, Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death; And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus'd events, New hatch'd to the woeful time: the obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night; some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake. MACBETH. 'Twas a rough night. LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. [Re-enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee! MACBETH, LENNOX. What's the matter? MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' the building. MACBETH. What is't you say? the life? LENNOX. Mean you his majesty? MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon:--do not bid me speak; See, and then speak yourselves. [Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.] Awake, awake!-- Ring the alarum bell:--murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit, And look on death itself! up, up, and see The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror! [Alarum-bell rings.] [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? speak, speak! MACDUFF. O gentle lady, 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman's ear, Would murder as it fell. [Re-enter Banquo.] O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master's murder'd! LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel any where.-- Dear Duff, I pr'ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. [Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross.] MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. [Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.] DONALBAIN. What is amiss? MACBETH. You are, and do not know't: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd. MACDUFF. Your royal father's murder'd. MALCOLM. O, by whom? LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't: Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found Upon their pillows: They star'd, and were distracted; no man's life Was to be trusted with them. MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them. MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so? MACBETH. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: The expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood; And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make's love known? LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho! MACDUFF. Look to the lady. MALCOLM. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours? DONALBAIN. What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let's away; Our tears are not yet brew'd. MALCOLM. Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion. BANQUO. Look to the lady:-- [Lady Macbeth is carried out.] And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence, Against the undivulg'd pretense I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL. So all. MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i' the hall together. ALL. Well contented. [Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.] MALCOLM. What will you do? Let's not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer: where we are, There's daggers in men's smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody. MALCOLM. This murderous shaft that's shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away: there's warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there's no mercy left. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

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

On his way to the King's chamber, Macbeth meets Banquo and his son Fleance. Macbeth asks why he is up so late and Banquo responds that he has been dreaming about the witches. They arrange to meet to discuss the matter. Macbeth is alone again and suddenly he sees an apparition. "Is this a dagger, which I see before me? the handle toward my hand? Come let me clutch thee I have thee not, and yet I can see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling, as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat oppressed brain?" The dagger points the way to Duncan and Macbeth climbs to the sleeping King.

----------ACT 2 SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. [Enter Banquo, preceeded by Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. How goes the night, boy? FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock. BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve. FLEANCE. I take't, 'tis later, sir. BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.--There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out:--take thee that too.-- A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep:--merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!--Give me my sword. Who's there? [Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch.] MACBETH. A friend. BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's a-bed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your officers: This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up In measureless content. MACBETH. Being unprepar'd, Our will became the servant to defect; Which else should free have wrought. BANQUO. All's well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show'd some truth. MACBETH. I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure. MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent,--when 'tis, It shall make honor for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis'd, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell'd. MACBETH. Good repose the while! BANQUO. Thanks, sir: the like to you! [Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.] MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Exit Servant.] Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:-- I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.--There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [A bell rings.] I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell. [Exit.] [Enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.--Hark!--Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there?--what, ho! LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd, And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss 'em.--Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't.--My husband! [Re-enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. I have done the deed.--Didst thou not hear a noise? LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? MACBETH. When? LADY MACBETH. Now. MACBETH. As I descended? LADY MACBETH. Ay. MACBETH. Hark!-- Who lies i' the second chamber? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands.] LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. MACBETH. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and address'd them Again to sleep. LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg'd together. MACBETH. One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us." LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply. MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat. LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast. LADY MACBETH. What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!" LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things.--Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.-- Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. MACBETH. I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not. LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.] MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.--[Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking: Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers:--be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. [Knocking within.] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst! [Exeunt.] [Enter a Porter. Knocking within.] PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat for't.--[Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose.-- [Knocking.] Knock, knock: never at quiet! What are you?--But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter. [Opens the gate.] [Enter Macduff and Lennox.] MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late? PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke? PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to: in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. PORTER. That it did, sir, i' the very throat o' me; but I requited him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring?-- Our knocking has awak'd him; here he comes. [Enter Macbeth.] LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir! MACBETH. Good morrow, both! MACDUFF. Is the king stirring, worthy thane? MACBETH. Not yet. MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him: I have almost slipp'd the hour. MACBETH. I'll bring you to him. MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet 'tis one. MACBETH. The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door. MACDUFF. I'll make so bold to call. For 'tis my limited service. [Exit Macduff.] LENNOX. Goes the king hence to-day? MACBETH. He does: he did appoint so. LENNOX. The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say, Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death; And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus'd events, New hatch'd to the woeful time: the obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night; some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake. MACBETH. 'Twas a rough night. LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. [Re-enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee! MACBETH, LENNOX. What's the matter? MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' the building. MACBETH. What is't you say? the life? LENNOX. Mean you his majesty? MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon:--do not bid me speak; See, and then speak yourselves. [Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.] Awake, awake!-- Ring the alarum bell:--murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit, And look on death itself! up, up, and see The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror! [Alarum-bell rings.] [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? speak, speak! MACDUFF. O gentle lady, 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman's ear, Would murder as it fell. [Re-enter Banquo.] O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master's murder'd! LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel any where.-- Dear Duff, I pr'ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. [Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross.] MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. [Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.] DONALBAIN. What is amiss? MACBETH. You are, and do not know't: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd. MACDUFF. Your royal father's murder'd. MALCOLM. O, by whom? LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't: Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found Upon their pillows: They star'd, and were distracted; no man's life Was to be trusted with them. MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them. MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so? MACBETH. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: The expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood; And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make's love known? LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho! MACDUFF. Look to the lady. MALCOLM. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours? DONALBAIN. What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let's away; Our tears are not yet brew'd. MALCOLM. Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion. BANQUO. Look to the lady:-- [Lady Macbeth is carried out.] And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence, Against the undivulg'd pretense I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL. So all. MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i' the hall together. ALL. Well contented. [Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.] MALCOLM. What will you do? Let's not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer: where we are, There's daggers in men's smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody. MALCOLM. This murderous shaft that's shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away: there's warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there's no mercy left. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. [Enter Banquo, preceeded by Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. How goes the night, boy? FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock. BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve. FLEANCE. I take't, 'tis later, sir. BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.--There's husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out:--take thee that too.-- A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep:--merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!--Give me my sword. Who's there? [Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch.] MACBETH. A friend. BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's a-bed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your officers: This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up In measureless content. MACBETH. Being unprepar'd, Our will became the servant to defect; Which else should free have wrought. BANQUO. All's well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show'd some truth. MACBETH. I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure. MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent,--when 'tis, It shall make honor for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis'd, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell'd. MACBETH. Good repose the while! BANQUO. Thanks, sir: the like to you! [Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.] MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Exit Servant.] Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:-- I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.--There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [A bell rings.] I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell. [Exit.] [Enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.--Hark!--Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there?--what, ho! LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd, And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss 'em.--Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't.--My husband! [Re-enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. I have done the deed.--Didst thou not hear a noise? LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? MACBETH. When? LADY MACBETH. Now. MACBETH. As I descended? LADY MACBETH. Ay. MACBETH. Hark!-- Who lies i' the second chamber? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands.] LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. MACBETH. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and address'd them Again to sleep. LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg'd together. MACBETH. One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us." LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply. MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat. LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast. LADY MACBETH. What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!" LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things.--Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.-- Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. MACBETH. I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not. LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.] MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.--[Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking: Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers:--be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. [Knocking within.] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst! [Exeunt.] [Enter a Porter. Knocking within.] PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock. Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat for't.--[Knocking.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose.-- [Knocking.] Knock, knock: never at quiet! What are you?--But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter. [Opens the gate.] [Enter Macduff and Lennox.] MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late? PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke? PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to: in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. PORTER. That it did, sir, i' the very throat o' me; but I requited him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring?-- Our knocking has awak'd him; here he comes. [Enter Macbeth.] LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir! MACBETH. Good morrow, both! MACDUFF. Is the king stirring, worthy thane? MACBETH. Not yet. MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him: I have almost slipp'd the hour. MACBETH. I'll bring you to him. MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet 'tis one. MACBETH. The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door. MACDUFF. I'll make so bold to call. For 'tis my limited service. [Exit Macduff.] LENNOX. Goes the king hence to-day? MACBETH. He does: he did appoint so. LENNOX. The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say, Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death; And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus'd events, New hatch'd to the woeful time: the obscure bird Clamour'd the live-long night; some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake. MACBETH. 'Twas a rough night. LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. [Re-enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee! MACBETH, LENNOX. What's the matter? MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence The life o' the building. MACBETH. What is't you say? the life? LENNOX. Mean you his majesty? MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon:--do not bid me speak; See, and then speak yourselves. [Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.] Awake, awake!-- Ring the alarum bell:--murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit, And look on death itself! up, up, and see The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror! [Alarum-bell rings.] [Re-enter Lady Macbeth.] LADY MACBETH. What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? speak, speak! MACDUFF. O gentle lady, 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman's ear, Would murder as it fell. [Re-enter Banquo.] O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master's murder'd! LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel any where.-- Dear Duff, I pr'ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. [Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross.] MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. [Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.] DONALBAIN. What is amiss? MACBETH. You are, and do not know't: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd. MACDUFF. Your royal father's murder'd. MALCOLM. O, by whom? LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't: Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found Upon their pillows: They star'd, and were distracted; no man's life Was to be trusted with them. MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them. MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so? MACBETH. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: The expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood; And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make's love known? LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho! MACDUFF. Look to the lady. MALCOLM. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours? DONALBAIN. What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let's away; Our tears are not yet brew'd. MALCOLM. Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion. BANQUO. Look to the lady:-- [Lady Macbeth is carried out.] And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence, Against the undivulg'd pretense I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL. So all. MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i' the hall together. ALL. Well contented. [Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.] MALCOLM. What will you do? Let's not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer: where we are, There's daggers in men's smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody. MALCOLM. This murderous shaft that's shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away: there's warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there's no mercy left. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 2.scene 2

cliffnotes

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

Lady Macbeth enters and says aloud that the wine which "made them drunk hath made me bold. " She has arranged everything for her husband. The servants have passed out from drinking too much, Duncan is sound asleep and unguarded, and she has left the daggers out for Macbeth to use. She says that if the king had not resembled her own father in his sleep, she probably would have killed him herself. Instead, Macbeth has done the dastardly deed. He comes in covered in blood and carrying the two murder weapons. He is visibly and understandably shaken. He thinks he has heard a voice crying to him, "Sleep no more, Macbeth does murder sleep", a foreshadowing of his future sleeplessness. Lady Macbeth interrupts his demented thoughts and warns him to wash up and take the daggers back to the crime scene. The troubled Macbeth answers, "I'll go no more; I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on it again I dare not." Lady Macbeth calls him a coward and takes the daggers back herself. As she departs from Macbeth, there is a loud and repeated knocking. This sound pushes Macbeth to a panic level. He looks at his hands and asks, "Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?' When Lady Macbeth returns, she chides her husband more, saying she would be ashamed to have a heart as white as his. She also leads him out towards their bedroom to wash up and change into nightgowns. As they leave, she warns her husband not to be lost "so poorly in your thoughts." His answer is "To know my deed, twere best not know myself." His guilt and fear have already commenced.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Without the Castle. [Enter Ross and an old Man.] OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well: Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings. ROSS. Ah, good father, Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act, Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock 'tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp; Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it? OLD MAN. 'Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. ROSS. And Duncan's horses,--a thing most strange and certain,-- Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind. OLD MAN. 'Tis said they eat each other. ROSS. They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look'd upon't. Here comes the good Macduff. [Enter Macduff.] How goes the world, sir, now? MACDUFF. Why, see you not? ROSS. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed? MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain. ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend? MACDUFF. They were suborn'd: Malcolm and Donalbain, the king's two sons, Are stol'n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. ROSS. 'Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!--Then 'tis most like, The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. MACDUFF. He is already nam'd; and gone to Scone To be invested. ROSS. Where is Duncan's body? MACDUFF. Carried to Colme-kill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones. ROSS. Will you to Scone? MACDUFF. No, cousin, I'll to Fife. ROSS. Well, I will thither. MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there,--adieu!-- Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! ROSS. Farewell, father. OLD MAN. God's benison go with you; and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes! [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 2 SCENE 2 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE II. The same. Without the Castle. [Enter Ross and an old Man.] OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well: Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings. ROSS. Ah, good father, Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act, Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock 'tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp; Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it? OLD MAN. 'Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. ROSS. And Duncan's horses,--a thing most strange and certain,-- Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind. OLD MAN. 'Tis said they eat each other. ROSS. They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look'd upon't. Here comes the good Macduff. [Enter Macduff.] How goes the world, sir, now? MACDUFF. Why, see you not? ROSS. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed? MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain. ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend? MACDUFF. They were suborn'd: Malcolm and Donalbain, the king's two sons, Are stol'n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. ROSS. 'Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!--Then 'tis most like, The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. MACDUFF. He is already nam'd; and gone to Scone To be invested. ROSS. Where is Duncan's body? MACDUFF. Carried to Colme-kill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones. ROSS. Will you to Scone? MACDUFF. No, cousin, I'll to Fife. ROSS. Well, I will thither. MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there,--adieu!-- Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! ROSS. Farewell, father. OLD MAN. God's benison go with you; and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes! [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Without the Castle. [Enter Ross and an old Man.] OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well: Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings. ROSS. Ah, good father, Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act, Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock 'tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp; Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it? OLD MAN. 'Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. ROSS. And Duncan's horses,--a thing most strange and certain,-- Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind. OLD MAN. 'Tis said they eat each other. ROSS. They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look'd upon't. Here comes the good Macduff. [Enter Macduff.] How goes the world, sir, now? MACDUFF. Why, see you not? ROSS. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed? MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain. ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend? MACDUFF. They were suborn'd: Malcolm and Donalbain, the king's two sons, Are stol'n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. ROSS. 'Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!--Then 'tis most like, The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. MACDUFF. He is already nam'd; and gone to Scone To be invested. ROSS. Where is Duncan's body? MACDUFF. Carried to Colme-kill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones. ROSS. Will you to Scone? MACDUFF. No, cousin, I'll to Fife. ROSS. Well, I will thither. MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there,--adieu!-- Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! ROSS. Farewell, father. OLD MAN. God's benison go with you; and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes! [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Without the Castle. [Enter Ross and an old Man.] OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well: Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings. ROSS. Ah, good father, Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act, Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock 'tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp; Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it? OLD MAN. 'Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. ROSS. And Duncan's horses,--a thing most strange and certain,-- Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind. OLD MAN. 'Tis said they eat each other. ROSS. They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look'd upon't. Here comes the good Macduff. [Enter Macduff.] How goes the world, sir, now? MACDUFF. Why, see you not? ROSS. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed? MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain. ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend? MACDUFF. They were suborn'd: Malcolm and Donalbain, the king's two sons, Are stol'n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. ROSS. 'Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!--Then 'tis most like, The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. MACDUFF. He is already nam'd; and gone to Scone To be invested. ROSS. Where is Duncan's body? MACDUFF. Carried to Colme-kill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones. ROSS. Will you to Scone? MACDUFF. No, cousin, I'll to Fife. ROSS. Well, I will thither. MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there,--adieu!-- Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! ROSS. Farewell, father. OLD MAN. God's benison go with you; and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes! [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 2 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Without the Castle. [Enter Ross and an old Man.] OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well: Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings. ROSS. Ah, good father, Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act, Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock 'tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp; Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it? OLD MAN. 'Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. ROSS. And Duncan's horses,--a thing most strange and certain,-- Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind. OLD MAN. 'Tis said they eat each other. ROSS. They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look'd upon't. Here comes the good Macduff. [Enter Macduff.] How goes the world, sir, now? MACDUFF. Why, see you not? ROSS. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed? MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain. ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend? MACDUFF. They were suborn'd: Malcolm and Donalbain, the king's two sons, Are stol'n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. ROSS. 'Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!--Then 'tis most like, The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. MACDUFF. He is already nam'd; and gone to Scone To be invested. ROSS. Where is Duncan's body? MACDUFF. Carried to Colme-kill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones. ROSS. Will you to Scone? MACDUFF. No, cousin, I'll to Fife. ROSS. Well, I will thither. MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there,--adieu!-- Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! ROSS. Farewell, father. OLD MAN. God's benison go with you; and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes! [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 3.scene 1

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 3, scene 1 with the given context.

act 3, scene 1|macbeth: summary & analysis act 3 scene 1 | cliffsnotes|scene 1

In the royal palace at Forres, Banquo paces and thinks about the coronation of Macbeth and the prophecies of the weird sisters. The witches foretold that Macbeth would be king and that Banquo's line would eventually sit on the throne. If the first prophecy came true, Banquo thinks, feeling the stirring of ambition, why not the second. Macbeth enters, attired as king. He is followed by Lady Macbeth, now his queen, and the court. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth ask Banquo to attend the feast they will host that night. Banquo accepts their invitation and says that he plans to go for a ride on his horse for the afternoon. Macbeth mentions that they should discuss the problem of Malcolm and Donalbain. The brothers have fled from Scotland and may be plotting against his crown. Banquo departs, and Macbeth dismisses his court. He is left alone in the hall with a single servant, to whom he speaks about some men who have come to see him. Macbeth asks if the men are still waiting and orders that they be fetched. Once the servant has gone, Macbeth begins a soliloquy. He muses on the subject of Banquo, reflecting that his old friend is the only man in Scotland whom he fears. He notes that if the witches' prophecy is true, his will be a "fruitless crown," by which he means that he will not have an heir. The murder of Duncan, which weighs so heavily on his conscience, may have simply cleared the way for Banquo's sons to overthrow Macbeth's own family. The servant reenters with Macbeth's two visitors. Macbeth reminds the two men, who are murderers he has hired, of a conversation he had with them the day before, in which he chronicled the wrongs Banquo had done them in the past. He asks if they are angry and manly enough to take revenge on Banquo. They reply that they are, and Macbeth accepts their promise that they will murder his former friend. Macbeth reminds the murderers that Fleance must be killed along with his father and tells them to wait within the castle for his command

----------ACT 3, SCENE 1--------- ACT III. SCENE I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Banquo.] BANQUO. Thou hast it now,--king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promis'd; and, I fear, Thou play'dst most foully for't; yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity; But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them,-- As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine,-- Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush; no more. [Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Here's our chief guest. LADY MACBETH. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming. MACBETH. To-night we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I'll request your presence. BANQUO. Let your highness Command upon me; to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie For ever knit. MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. We should have else desir'd your good advice,-- Which still hath been both grave and prosperous,-- In this day's council; but we'll take to-morrow. Is't far you ride? BANQUO. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time 'Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night, For a dark hour or twain. MACBETH. Fail not our feast. BANQUO. My lord, I will not. MACBETH. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd In England and in Ireland; not confessing Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention: but of that to-morrow; When therewithal we shall have cause of state Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon's. MACBETH. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot; And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell.-- [Exit Banquo.] Let every man be master of his time Till seven at night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper time alone: while then, God be with you! [Exeunt Lady Macbeth, Lords, Ladies, &c.] Sirrah, a word with you: attend those men Our pleasure? ATTENDANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. MACBETH. Bring them before us. [Exit Attendant.] To be thus is nothing; But to be safely thus:--our fears in Banquo. Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear'd: 'tis much he dares; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear: and under him, My genius is rebuk'd; as, it is said, Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like, They hail'd him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If't be so, For Banquo's issue have I fil'd my mind; For them the gracious Duncan have I murder'd; Put rancours in the vessel of my peace Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, And champion me to the utterance!--Who's there?-- [Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers.] Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. [Exit Attendant.] Was it not yesterday we spoke together? FIRST MURDERER. It was, so please your highness. MACBETH. Well then, now Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know That it was he, in the times past, which held you So under fortune; which you thought had been Our innocent self: this I made good to you In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else that might To half a soul and to a notion craz'd Say, "Thus did Banquo." FIRST MURDERER. You made it known to us. MACBETH. I did so; and went further, which is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature, That you can let this go? Are you so gospell'd, To pray for this good man and for his issue, Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave, And beggar'd yours forever? FIRST MURDERER. We are men, my liege. MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs: the valu'd file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The house-keeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos'd; whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill That writes them all alike: and so of men. Now, if you have a station in the file, Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say it; And I will put that business in your bosoms, Whose execution takes your enemy off; Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect. SECOND MURDERER. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incens'd that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. FIRST MURDERER. And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it or be rid on't. MACBETH. Both of you Know Banquo was your enemy. BOTH MURDERERS. True, my lord. MACBETH. So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, That every minute of his being thrusts Against my near'st of life; and though I could With barefac'd power sweep him from my sight, And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall Who I myself struck down: and thence it is That I to your assistance do make love; Masking the business from the common eye For sundry weighty reasons. SECOND MURDERER. We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us. FIRST MURDERER. Though our lives-- MACBETH. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most, I will advise you where to plant yourselves; Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time, The moment on't; for't must be done to-night And something from the palace; always thought That I require a clearness; and with him,-- To leave no rubs nor botches in the work,-- Fleance his son, that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to me Than is his father's, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart: I'll come to you anon. BOTH MURDERERS. We are resolv'd, my lord. MACBETH. I'll call upon you straight: abide within. [Exeunt Murderers.] It is concluded:--Banquo, thy soul's flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. [Exit.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 3 SCENE 1 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- ACT III. SCENE I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Banquo.] BANQUO. Thou hast it now,--king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promis'd; and, I fear, Thou play'dst most foully for't; yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity; But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them,-- As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine,-- Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush; no more. [Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Here's our chief guest. LADY MACBETH. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming. MACBETH. To-night we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I'll request your presence. BANQUO. Let your highness Command upon me; to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie For ever knit. MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. We should have else desir'd your good advice,-- Which still hath been both grave and prosperous,-- In this day's council; but we'll take to-morrow. Is't far you ride? BANQUO. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time 'Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night, For a dark hour or twain. MACBETH. Fail not our feast. BANQUO. My lord, I will not. MACBETH. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd In England and in Ireland; not confessing Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention: but of that to-morrow; When therewithal we shall have cause of state Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon's. MACBETH. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot; And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell.-- [Exit Banquo.] Let every man be master of his time Till seven at night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper time alone: while then, God be with you! [Exeunt Lady Macbeth, Lords, Ladies, &c.] Sirrah, a word with you: attend those men Our pleasure? ATTENDANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. MACBETH. Bring them before us. [Exit Attendant.] To be thus is nothing; But to be safely thus:--our fears in Banquo. Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear'd: 'tis much he dares; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear: and under him, My genius is rebuk'd; as, it is said, Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like, They hail'd him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If't be so, For Banquo's issue have I fil'd my mind; For them the gracious Duncan have I murder'd; Put rancours in the vessel of my peace Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, And champion me to the utterance!--Who's there?-- [Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers.] Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. [Exit Attendant.] Was it not yesterday we spoke together? FIRST MURDERER. It was, so please your highness. MACBETH. Well then, now Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know That it was he, in the times past, which held you So under fortune; which you thought had been Our innocent self: this I made good to you In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else that might To half a soul and to a notion craz'd Say, "Thus did Banquo." FIRST MURDERER. You made it known to us. MACBETH. I did so; and went further, which is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature, That you can let this go? Are you so gospell'd, To pray for this good man and for his issue, Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave, And beggar'd yours forever? FIRST MURDERER. We are men, my liege. MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs: the valu'd file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The house-keeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos'd; whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill That writes them all alike: and so of men. Now, if you have a station in the file, Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say it; And I will put that business in your bosoms, Whose execution takes your enemy off; Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect. SECOND MURDERER. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incens'd that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. FIRST MURDERER. And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it or be rid on't. MACBETH. Both of you Know Banquo was your enemy. BOTH MURDERERS. True, my lord. MACBETH. So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, That every minute of his being thrusts Against my near'st of life; and though I could With barefac'd power sweep him from my sight, And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall Who I myself struck down: and thence it is That I to your assistance do make love; Masking the business from the common eye For sundry weighty reasons. SECOND MURDERER. We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us. FIRST MURDERER. Though our lives-- MACBETH. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most, I will advise you where to plant yourselves; Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time, The moment on't; for't must be done to-night And something from the palace; always thought That I require a clearness; and with him,-- To leave no rubs nor botches in the work,-- Fleance his son, that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to me Than is his father's, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart: I'll come to you anon. BOTH MURDERERS. We are resolv'd, my lord. MACBETH. I'll call upon you straight: abide within. [Exeunt Murderers.] It is concluded:--Banquo, thy soul's flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. [Exit.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 1--------- ACT III. SCENE I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Banquo.] BANQUO. Thou hast it now,--king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promis'd; and, I fear, Thou play'dst most foully for't; yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity; But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them,-- As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine,-- Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush; no more. [Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Here's our chief guest. LADY MACBETH. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming. MACBETH. To-night we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I'll request your presence. BANQUO. Let your highness Command upon me; to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie For ever knit. MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. We should have else desir'd your good advice,-- Which still hath been both grave and prosperous,-- In this day's council; but we'll take to-morrow. Is't far you ride? BANQUO. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time 'Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night, For a dark hour or twain. MACBETH. Fail not our feast. BANQUO. My lord, I will not. MACBETH. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd In England and in Ireland; not confessing Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention: but of that to-morrow; When therewithal we shall have cause of state Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon's. MACBETH. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot; And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell.-- [Exit Banquo.] Let every man be master of his time Till seven at night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper time alone: while then, God be with you! [Exeunt Lady Macbeth, Lords, Ladies, &c.] Sirrah, a word with you: attend those men Our pleasure? ATTENDANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. MACBETH. Bring them before us. [Exit Attendant.] To be thus is nothing; But to be safely thus:--our fears in Banquo. Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear'd: 'tis much he dares; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear: and under him, My genius is rebuk'd; as, it is said, Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like, They hail'd him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If't be so, For Banquo's issue have I fil'd my mind; For them the gracious Duncan have I murder'd; Put rancours in the vessel of my peace Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, And champion me to the utterance!--Who's there?-- [Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers.] Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. [Exit Attendant.] Was it not yesterday we spoke together? FIRST MURDERER. It was, so please your highness. MACBETH. Well then, now Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know That it was he, in the times past, which held you So under fortune; which you thought had been Our innocent self: this I made good to you In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else that might To half a soul and to a notion craz'd Say, "Thus did Banquo." FIRST MURDERER. You made it known to us. MACBETH. I did so; and went further, which is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature, That you can let this go? Are you so gospell'd, To pray for this good man and for his issue, Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave, And beggar'd yours forever? FIRST MURDERER. We are men, my liege. MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs: the valu'd file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The house-keeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos'd; whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill That writes them all alike: and so of men. Now, if you have a station in the file, Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say it; And I will put that business in your bosoms, Whose execution takes your enemy off; Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect. SECOND MURDERER. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incens'd that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. FIRST MURDERER. And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it or be rid on't. MACBETH. Both of you Know Banquo was your enemy. BOTH MURDERERS. True, my lord. MACBETH. So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, That every minute of his being thrusts Against my near'st of life; and though I could With barefac'd power sweep him from my sight, And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall Who I myself struck down: and thence it is That I to your assistance do make love; Masking the business from the common eye For sundry weighty reasons. SECOND MURDERER. We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us. FIRST MURDERER. Though our lives-- MACBETH. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most, I will advise you where to plant yourselves; Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time, The moment on't; for't must be done to-night And something from the palace; always thought That I require a clearness; and with him,-- To leave no rubs nor botches in the work,-- Fleance his son, that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to me Than is his father's, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart: I'll come to you anon. BOTH MURDERERS. We are resolv'd, my lord. MACBETH. I'll call upon you straight: abide within. [Exeunt Murderers.] It is concluded:--Banquo, thy soul's flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. [Exit.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT III. SCENE I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Banquo.] BANQUO. Thou hast it now,--king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promis'd; and, I fear, Thou play'dst most foully for't; yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity; But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them,-- As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine,-- Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush; no more. [Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Here's our chief guest. LADY MACBETH. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming. MACBETH. To-night we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I'll request your presence. BANQUO. Let your highness Command upon me; to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie For ever knit. MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. We should have else desir'd your good advice,-- Which still hath been both grave and prosperous,-- In this day's council; but we'll take to-morrow. Is't far you ride? BANQUO. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time 'Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night, For a dark hour or twain. MACBETH. Fail not our feast. BANQUO. My lord, I will not. MACBETH. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd In England and in Ireland; not confessing Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention: but of that to-morrow; When therewithal we shall have cause of state Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon's. MACBETH. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot; And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell.-- [Exit Banquo.] Let every man be master of his time Till seven at night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper time alone: while then, God be with you! [Exeunt Lady Macbeth, Lords, Ladies, &c.] Sirrah, a word with you: attend those men Our pleasure? ATTENDANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. MACBETH. Bring them before us. [Exit Attendant.] To be thus is nothing; But to be safely thus:--our fears in Banquo. Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear'd: 'tis much he dares; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear: and under him, My genius is rebuk'd; as, it is said, Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like, They hail'd him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If't be so, For Banquo's issue have I fil'd my mind; For them the gracious Duncan have I murder'd; Put rancours in the vessel of my peace Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, And champion me to the utterance!--Who's there?-- [Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers.] Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. [Exit Attendant.] Was it not yesterday we spoke together? FIRST MURDERER. It was, so please your highness. MACBETH. Well then, now Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know That it was he, in the times past, which held you So under fortune; which you thought had been Our innocent self: this I made good to you In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else that might To half a soul and to a notion craz'd Say, "Thus did Banquo." FIRST MURDERER. You made it known to us. MACBETH. I did so; and went further, which is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature, That you can let this go? Are you so gospell'd, To pray for this good man and for his issue, Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave, And beggar'd yours forever? FIRST MURDERER. We are men, my liege. MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs: the valu'd file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The house-keeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos'd; whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill That writes them all alike: and so of men. Now, if you have a station in the file, Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say it; And I will put that business in your bosoms, Whose execution takes your enemy off; Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect. SECOND MURDERER. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incens'd that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. FIRST MURDERER. And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it or be rid on't. MACBETH. Both of you Know Banquo was your enemy. BOTH MURDERERS. True, my lord. MACBETH. So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, That every minute of his being thrusts Against my near'st of life; and though I could With barefac'd power sweep him from my sight, And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall Who I myself struck down: and thence it is That I to your assistance do make love; Masking the business from the common eye For sundry weighty reasons. SECOND MURDERER. We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us. FIRST MURDERER. Though our lives-- MACBETH. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most, I will advise you where to plant yourselves; Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time, The moment on't; for't must be done to-night And something from the palace; always thought That I require a clearness; and with him,-- To leave no rubs nor botches in the work,-- Fleance his son, that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to me Than is his father's, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart: I'll come to you anon. BOTH MURDERERS. We are resolv'd, my lord. MACBETH. I'll call upon you straight: abide within. [Exeunt Murderers.] It is concluded:--Banquo, thy soul's flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. [Exit.]

Macbeth.act 3.scene 2

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for macbeth: summary & analysis act 3 scene 2 | cliffsnotes based on the provided context.

This short scene allows the audience once more into the private thoughts of the murderous couple, while holding the action momentarily in suspense. As the hired killers make their way toward Banquo, Macbeth and his wife meet secretly. His wife attempts to soothe his troubled mind but ironically feels the same doubts herself. Killing the king has provided them with many more difficulties than they first envisioned. To the astonishment of his wife, Macbeth reveals his plan to murder Banquo.

----------ACT 3, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. [Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.] LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court? SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night. LADY MACBETH. Say to the king, I would attend his leisure For a few words. SERVANT. Madam, I will. [Exit.] LADY MACBETH. Naught's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content: 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy. [Enter Macbeth.] How now, my lord! why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making; Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard: what's done is done. MACBETH. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it; She'll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, Both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly: better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further. LADY MACBETH. Come on; Gently my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to-night. MACBETH. So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you: Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honors in these flattering streams; And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are. LADY MACBETH. You must leave this. MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives. LADY MACBETH. But in them nature's copy's not eterne. MACBETH. There's comfort yet; they are assailable; Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons, The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note. LADY MACBETH. What's to be done? MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day; And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale!--Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.-- Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill: So, pr'ythee, go with me. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 3 SCENE 2 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. [Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.] LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court? SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night. LADY MACBETH. Say to the king, I would attend his leisure For a few words. SERVANT. Madam, I will. [Exit.] LADY MACBETH. Naught's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content: 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy. [Enter Macbeth.] How now, my lord! why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making; Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard: what's done is done. MACBETH. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it; She'll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, Both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly: better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further. LADY MACBETH. Come on; Gently my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to-night. MACBETH. So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you: Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honors in these flattering streams; And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are. LADY MACBETH. You must leave this. MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives. LADY MACBETH. But in them nature's copy's not eterne. MACBETH. There's comfort yet; they are assailable; Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons, The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note. LADY MACBETH. What's to be done? MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day; And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale!--Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.-- Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill: So, pr'ythee, go with me. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. [Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.] LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court? SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night. LADY MACBETH. Say to the king, I would attend his leisure For a few words. SERVANT. Madam, I will. [Exit.] LADY MACBETH. Naught's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content: 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy. [Enter Macbeth.] How now, my lord! why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making; Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard: what's done is done. MACBETH. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it; She'll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, Both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly: better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further. LADY MACBETH. Come on; Gently my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to-night. MACBETH. So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you: Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honors in these flattering streams; And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are. LADY MACBETH. You must leave this. MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives. LADY MACBETH. But in them nature's copy's not eterne. MACBETH. There's comfort yet; they are assailable; Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons, The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note. LADY MACBETH. What's to be done? MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day; And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale!--Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.-- Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill: So, pr'ythee, go with me. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. [Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.] LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court? SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night. LADY MACBETH. Say to the king, I would attend his leisure For a few words. SERVANT. Madam, I will. [Exit.] LADY MACBETH. Naught's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content: 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy. [Enter Macbeth.] How now, my lord! why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making; Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard: what's done is done. MACBETH. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it; She'll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, Both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly: better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further. LADY MACBETH. Come on; Gently my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to-night. MACBETH. So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you: Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honors in these flattering streams; And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are. LADY MACBETH. You must leave this. MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives. LADY MACBETH. But in them nature's copy's not eterne. MACBETH. There's comfort yet; they are assailable; Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons, The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note. LADY MACBETH. What's to be done? MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day; And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale!--Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.-- Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill: So, pr'ythee, go with me. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. [Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.] LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court? SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night. LADY MACBETH. Say to the king, I would attend his leisure For a few words. SERVANT. Madam, I will. [Exit.] LADY MACBETH. Naught's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content: 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy. [Enter Macbeth.] How now, my lord! why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making; Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard: what's done is done. MACBETH. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it; She'll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, Both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly: better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further. LADY MACBETH. Come on; Gently my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to-night. MACBETH. So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you: Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honors in these flattering streams; And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are. LADY MACBETH. You must leave this. MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives. LADY MACBETH. But in them nature's copy's not eterne. MACBETH. There's comfort yet; they are assailable; Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons, The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note. LADY MACBETH. What's to be done? MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day; And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale!--Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.-- Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill: So, pr'ythee, go with me. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 3.scene 3

cliffnotes

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

The knocking that began in Scene 2 intensifies at the beginning of this scene. Finally one of the drunken porters awakens and comes to the door of the castle. He imagines he is opening hell's gate, and a number of sinners are outside waiting to come in, including a greedy farmer who hanged himself, an equivocator who "committed treason enough for God's sake," and an English tailor who was a thief. When the porter actually opens the door, he finds Macduff and Lennox, who have come to wake the king. As the porter humorously talks to the two of them about the effects of alcohol, Macbeth enters the scene and offers to lead them to Duncan's room. As they walk, Macduff ironically says to Macbeth of the king's visit that it must have been "joyful trouble." He then enters the king's chambers, leaving Lennox and Macbeth outside in conversation about last night's foul weather . Lennox explained that in his neighborhood there were lamentings, screeching owls , earthquakes, and strange screams of death. The citizens said that such things were prophesies of "dire combustion and confused events" . Macbeth succinctly responds in perfect understatement, "Twas a rough night." Their conversation is interrupted by the wild-eyed Macduff screaming, "Horror, horror, horror." He then reports Duncan's murder by saying, "Confusion hath made his masterpiece!...... Murder has broke ope the Lord's anointed temple." Macbeth and Lennox head off towards the king's room, and Macduff gives orders to sound the alarm to announce the murder and treason. The scene is chaos, but Lady Macbeth enters calmly and asks what is going on. Ironically, Macduff calls her, "O, gentle lady' and explains that he cannot tell her, for the news would "murder" her ears and gentleness. Banquo next enters and is told of the murder. Lady Macbeth pretends to overhear and exclaims, "What, in our house?" Macbeth and Lennox return, and Macbeth, in total hypocrisy and trying to eloquently express his grief, speaks some of the greatest truth in the play. " Had I but died an hour before this chance , I had lived a blessed time; for from this instant there's nothing serious in mortality ...grace is dead." As he concludes this speech, the king's sons, Malcolm and Donaldbain, enter and learn of their father's death, seemingly at the hands of his servants who were smeared with blood. Then Macbeth confesses to having killed both servants out of feigned fury over their murderous deed . In order to diffuse the tension of the moment and to detract attention from her husband, Lady Macbeth, the great pretender, acts as if she has fainted. Banquo, the personification of goodness in the scene, takes charge. He tells the servants to tend to Lady Macbeth, and to the others he suggests that they all get dressed and then meet to discuss the situation and the next steps. Banquo closes by saying, "In the great hand of God I stand...to fight treasonous malice." The others all agree to meet, except for Malcolm and Donaldbain, who are going their separate ways to England and Ireland, in order to protect themselves from the traitor's hand.

----------ACT 3, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. [Enter three Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. But who did bid thee join with us? THIRD MURDERER. Macbeth. SECOND MURDERER. He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just. FIRST MURDERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day: Now spurs the lated traveller apace, To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch. THIRD MURDERER. Hark! I hear horses. BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho! SECOND MURDERER. Then 'tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i' the court. FIRST MURDERER. His horses go about. THIRD MURDERER. Almost a mile; but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk. SECOND MURDERER. A light, a light! THIRD MURDERER. 'Tis he. FIRST MURDERER. Stand to't. [Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. It will be rain to-night. FIRST MURDERER. Let it come down. [Assaults Banquo.] BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge.--O slave! [Dies. Fleance escapes.] THIRD MURDERER. Who did strike out the light? FIRST MURDERER. Was't not the way? THIRD MURDERER. There's but one down: the son is fled. SECOND MURDERER. We have lost best half of our affair. FIRST MURDERER. Well, let's away, and say how much is done. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 3 SCENE 3 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. [Enter three Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. But who did bid thee join with us? THIRD MURDERER. Macbeth. SECOND MURDERER. He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just. FIRST MURDERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day: Now spurs the lated traveller apace, To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch. THIRD MURDERER. Hark! I hear horses. BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho! SECOND MURDERER. Then 'tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i' the court. FIRST MURDERER. His horses go about. THIRD MURDERER. Almost a mile; but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk. SECOND MURDERER. A light, a light! THIRD MURDERER. 'Tis he. FIRST MURDERER. Stand to't. [Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. It will be rain to-night. FIRST MURDERER. Let it come down. [Assaults Banquo.] BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge.--O slave! [Dies. Fleance escapes.] THIRD MURDERER. Who did strike out the light? FIRST MURDERER. Was't not the way? THIRD MURDERER. There's but one down: the son is fled. SECOND MURDERER. We have lost best half of our affair. FIRST MURDERER. Well, let's away, and say how much is done. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. [Enter three Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. But who did bid thee join with us? THIRD MURDERER. Macbeth. SECOND MURDERER. He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just. FIRST MURDERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day: Now spurs the lated traveller apace, To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch. THIRD MURDERER. Hark! I hear horses. BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho! SECOND MURDERER. Then 'tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i' the court. FIRST MURDERER. His horses go about. THIRD MURDERER. Almost a mile; but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk. SECOND MURDERER. A light, a light! THIRD MURDERER. 'Tis he. FIRST MURDERER. Stand to't. [Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. It will be rain to-night. FIRST MURDERER. Let it come down. [Assaults Banquo.] BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge.--O slave! [Dies. Fleance escapes.] THIRD MURDERER. Who did strike out the light? FIRST MURDERER. Was't not the way? THIRD MURDERER. There's but one down: the son is fled. SECOND MURDERER. We have lost best half of our affair. FIRST MURDERER. Well, let's away, and say how much is done. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. [Enter three Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. But who did bid thee join with us? THIRD MURDERER. Macbeth. SECOND MURDERER. He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just. FIRST MURDERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day: Now spurs the lated traveller apace, To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch. THIRD MURDERER. Hark! I hear horses. BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho! SECOND MURDERER. Then 'tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i' the court. FIRST MURDERER. His horses go about. THIRD MURDERER. Almost a mile; but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk. SECOND MURDERER. A light, a light! THIRD MURDERER. 'Tis he. FIRST MURDERER. Stand to't. [Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. It will be rain to-night. FIRST MURDERER. Let it come down. [Assaults Banquo.] BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge.--O slave! [Dies. Fleance escapes.] THIRD MURDERER. Who did strike out the light? FIRST MURDERER. Was't not the way? THIRD MURDERER. There's but one down: the son is fled. SECOND MURDERER. We have lost best half of our affair. FIRST MURDERER. Well, let's away, and say how much is done. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. [Enter three Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. But who did bid thee join with us? THIRD MURDERER. Macbeth. SECOND MURDERER. He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just. FIRST MURDERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day: Now spurs the lated traveller apace, To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch. THIRD MURDERER. Hark! I hear horses. BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho! SECOND MURDERER. Then 'tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i' the court. FIRST MURDERER. His horses go about. THIRD MURDERER. Almost a mile; but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk. SECOND MURDERER. A light, a light! THIRD MURDERER. 'Tis he. FIRST MURDERER. Stand to't. [Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch.] BANQUO. It will be rain to-night. FIRST MURDERER. Let it come down. [Assaults Banquo.] BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge.--O slave! [Dies. Fleance escapes.] THIRD MURDERER. Who did strike out the light? FIRST MURDERER. Was't not the way? THIRD MURDERER. There's but one down: the son is fled. SECOND MURDERER. We have lost best half of our affair. FIRST MURDERER. Well, let's away, and say how much is done. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 3.scene 4

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of macbeth: summary & analysis act 3 scene 4 | cliffsnotes, utilizing the provided context.

act 3, scene 4|macbeth: summary & analysis act 3 scene 4 | cliffsnotes|scene 4

At Forres, Macbeth and his wife welcome the thanes of Scotland to the banquet. Immediately prior to the feast, one of the murderers appears at a side door and reveals to Macbeth the truth about the mission: their success in the killing of Banquo and their failure to murder Fleance. Macbeth recomposes himself and returns to the table. As he raises a toast to his absent friend, he imagines he sees the ghost of Banquo. As with the ethereal dagger, the ghost of Banquo appears to come and go, propelling Macbeth into alternating fits of courage and despair. Lady Macbeth invites the thanes to depart and, once alone, tries one last time to soothe her husband. But Macbeth's paranoid mind is already on to the next murder, that of Macduff. To ascertain his future with greater certainty, he makes clear his intention to visit the Weird Sisters once more.

----------ACT 3, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared. [Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants.] MACBETH. You know your own degrees: sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome. LORDS. Thanks to your majesty. MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society, And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time, We will require her welcome. LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; For my heart speaks they are welcome. MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.-- Both sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst: [Enter first Murderer to the door.] Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure The table round.--There's blood upon thy face. MURDERER. 'Tis Banquo's then. MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within. Is he despatch'd? MURDERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him. MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats; yet he's good That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, Thou art the nonpareil. MURDERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is 'scap'd. MACBETH. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; Whole as the marble, founded as the rock; As broad and general as the casing air: But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe? MURDERER. Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature. MACBETH. Thanks for that: There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the present.--Get thee gone; to-morrow We'll hear, ourselves, again. [Exit Murderer.] LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making, 'Tis given with welcome; to feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!-- Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May't please your highness sit. [The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth's place.] MACBETH. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd, Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present; Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance! ROSS. His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness To grace us with your royal company? MACBETH. The table's full. LENNOX. Here is a place reserv'd, sir. MACBETH. Where? LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your highness? MACBETH. Which of you have done this? LORDS. What, my good lord? MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it: never shake Thy gory locks at me. ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his highness is not well. LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends:--my lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well: if much you note him, You shall offend him, and extend his passion: Feed, and regard him not.--Are you a man? MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil. LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,-- Impostors to true fear,--would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Pr'ythee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?-- Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.-- If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost disappears.] LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann'd in folly? MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him. LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame! MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, Ere humane statute purg'd the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools: this is more strange Than such a murder is. LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you. MACBETH. I do forget:-- Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I'll sit down.--Give me some wine, fill full.-- I drink to the general joy o' the whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst, And all to all. LORDS. Our duties, and the pledge. [Ghost rises again.] MACBETH. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with! LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom: 'tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. MACBETH. What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence! [Ghost disappears.] Why, so;--being gone, I am a man again.--Pray you, sit still. LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting, With most admir'd disorder. MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine are blanch'd with fear. ROSS. What sights, my lord? LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him: at once, good-night:-- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. LENNOX. Good-night; and better health Attend his majesty! LADY MACBETH. A kind good-night to all! [Exeunt all Lords and Atendants.] MACBETH. It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood: Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret'st man of blood.--What is the night? LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which. MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding? LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir? MACBETH. I hear it by the way; but I will send: There's not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow, (And betimes I will) to the weird sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Step't in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er: Strange things I have in head, that will to hand; Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. MACBETH. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use:-- We are yet but young in deed. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 3 SCENE 4 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared. [Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants.] MACBETH. You know your own degrees: sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome. LORDS. Thanks to your majesty. MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society, And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time, We will require her welcome. LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; For my heart speaks they are welcome. MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.-- Both sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst: [Enter first Murderer to the door.] Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure The table round.--There's blood upon thy face. MURDERER. 'Tis Banquo's then. MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within. Is he despatch'd? MURDERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him. MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats; yet he's good That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, Thou art the nonpareil. MURDERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is 'scap'd. MACBETH. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; Whole as the marble, founded as the rock; As broad and general as the casing air: But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe? MURDERER. Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature. MACBETH. Thanks for that: There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the present.--Get thee gone; to-morrow We'll hear, ourselves, again. [Exit Murderer.] LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making, 'Tis given with welcome; to feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!-- Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May't please your highness sit. [The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth's place.] MACBETH. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd, Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present; Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance! ROSS. His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness To grace us with your royal company? MACBETH. The table's full. LENNOX. Here is a place reserv'd, sir. MACBETH. Where? LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your highness? MACBETH. Which of you have done this? LORDS. What, my good lord? MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it: never shake Thy gory locks at me. ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his highness is not well. LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends:--my lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well: if much you note him, You shall offend him, and extend his passion: Feed, and regard him not.--Are you a man? MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil. LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,-- Impostors to true fear,--would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Pr'ythee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?-- Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.-- If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost disappears.] LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann'd in folly? MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him. LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame! MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, Ere humane statute purg'd the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools: this is more strange Than such a murder is. LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you. MACBETH. I do forget:-- Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I'll sit down.--Give me some wine, fill full.-- I drink to the general joy o' the whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst, And all to all. LORDS. Our duties, and the pledge. [Ghost rises again.] MACBETH. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with! LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom: 'tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. MACBETH. What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence! [Ghost disappears.] Why, so;--being gone, I am a man again.--Pray you, sit still. LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting, With most admir'd disorder. MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine are blanch'd with fear. ROSS. What sights, my lord? LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him: at once, good-night:-- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. LENNOX. Good-night; and better health Attend his majesty! LADY MACBETH. A kind good-night to all! [Exeunt all Lords and Atendants.] MACBETH. It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood: Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret'st man of blood.--What is the night? LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which. MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding? LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir? MACBETH. I hear it by the way; but I will send: There's not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow, (And betimes I will) to the weird sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Step't in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er: Strange things I have in head, that will to hand; Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. MACBETH. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use:-- We are yet but young in deed. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared. [Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants.] MACBETH. You know your own degrees: sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome. LORDS. Thanks to your majesty. MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society, And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time, We will require her welcome. LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; For my heart speaks they are welcome. MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.-- Both sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst: [Enter first Murderer to the door.] Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure The table round.--There's blood upon thy face. MURDERER. 'Tis Banquo's then. MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within. Is he despatch'd? MURDERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him. MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats; yet he's good That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, Thou art the nonpareil. MURDERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is 'scap'd. MACBETH. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; Whole as the marble, founded as the rock; As broad and general as the casing air: But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe? MURDERER. Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature. MACBETH. Thanks for that: There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the present.--Get thee gone; to-morrow We'll hear, ourselves, again. [Exit Murderer.] LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making, 'Tis given with welcome; to feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!-- Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May't please your highness sit. [The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth's place.] MACBETH. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd, Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present; Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance! ROSS. His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness To grace us with your royal company? MACBETH. The table's full. LENNOX. Here is a place reserv'd, sir. MACBETH. Where? LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your highness? MACBETH. Which of you have done this? LORDS. What, my good lord? MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it: never shake Thy gory locks at me. ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his highness is not well. LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends:--my lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well: if much you note him, You shall offend him, and extend his passion: Feed, and regard him not.--Are you a man? MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil. LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,-- Impostors to true fear,--would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Pr'ythee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?-- Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.-- If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost disappears.] LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann'd in folly? MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him. LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame! MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, Ere humane statute purg'd the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools: this is more strange Than such a murder is. LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you. MACBETH. I do forget:-- Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I'll sit down.--Give me some wine, fill full.-- I drink to the general joy o' the whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst, And all to all. LORDS. Our duties, and the pledge. [Ghost rises again.] MACBETH. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with! LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom: 'tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. MACBETH. What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence! [Ghost disappears.] Why, so;--being gone, I am a man again.--Pray you, sit still. LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting, With most admir'd disorder. MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine are blanch'd with fear. ROSS. What sights, my lord? LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him: at once, good-night:-- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. LENNOX. Good-night; and better health Attend his majesty! LADY MACBETH. A kind good-night to all! [Exeunt all Lords and Atendants.] MACBETH. It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood: Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret'st man of blood.--What is the night? LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which. MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding? LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir? MACBETH. I hear it by the way; but I will send: There's not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow, (And betimes I will) to the weird sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Step't in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er: Strange things I have in head, that will to hand; Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. MACBETH. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use:-- We are yet but young in deed. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared. [Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants.] MACBETH. You know your own degrees: sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome. LORDS. Thanks to your majesty. MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society, And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time, We will require her welcome. LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; For my heart speaks they are welcome. MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.-- Both sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst: [Enter first Murderer to the door.] Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure The table round.--There's blood upon thy face. MURDERER. 'Tis Banquo's then. MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within. Is he despatch'd? MURDERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him. MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats; yet he's good That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, Thou art the nonpareil. MURDERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is 'scap'd. MACBETH. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; Whole as the marble, founded as the rock; As broad and general as the casing air: But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe? MURDERER. Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature. MACBETH. Thanks for that: There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the present.--Get thee gone; to-morrow We'll hear, ourselves, again. [Exit Murderer.] LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making, 'Tis given with welcome; to feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!-- Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May't please your highness sit. [The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth's place.] MACBETH. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd, Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present; Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance! ROSS. His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness To grace us with your royal company? MACBETH. The table's full. LENNOX. Here is a place reserv'd, sir. MACBETH. Where? LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your highness? MACBETH. Which of you have done this? LORDS. What, my good lord? MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it: never shake Thy gory locks at me. ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his highness is not well. LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends:--my lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well: if much you note him, You shall offend him, and extend his passion: Feed, and regard him not.--Are you a man? MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil. LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,-- Impostors to true fear,--would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Pr'ythee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?-- Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.-- If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost disappears.] LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann'd in folly? MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him. LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame! MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, Ere humane statute purg'd the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools: this is more strange Than such a murder is. LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you. MACBETH. I do forget:-- Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I'll sit down.--Give me some wine, fill full.-- I drink to the general joy o' the whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst, And all to all. LORDS. Our duties, and the pledge. [Ghost rises again.] MACBETH. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with! LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom: 'tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. MACBETH. What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence! [Ghost disappears.] Why, so;--being gone, I am a man again.--Pray you, sit still. LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting, With most admir'd disorder. MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine are blanch'd with fear. ROSS. What sights, my lord? LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him: at once, good-night:-- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. LENNOX. Good-night; and better health Attend his majesty! LADY MACBETH. A kind good-night to all! [Exeunt all Lords and Atendants.] MACBETH. It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood: Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret'st man of blood.--What is the night? LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which. MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding? LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir? MACBETH. I hear it by the way; but I will send: There's not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow, (And betimes I will) to the weird sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Step't in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er: Strange things I have in head, that will to hand; Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. MACBETH. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use:-- We are yet but young in deed. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

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

The banquet has begun and Macbeth warmly invites his guests to sit down and partake of the food. One of the murderers enters the room and tells Macbeth that Banquo is dead but Fleance still lives. Macbeth becomes angry and afraid. He orders the murderer to come back tomorrow to discuss the capture and murder of Fleance. Lady Macbeth urges her husband to come back to the table and be a merry host so that no suspicion is aroused. Macbeth asks the assembly why Banquo is not present, and the noblemen reply that he has broken his promise to attend the feast. At this point, Banquo's ghost enters the room and sits in Macbeth's place. Macbeth turns pale after seeing this apparition and shouts at it to leave. Since only he can see the ghost, the rest of the assembly thinks that Macbeth has gone mad. Lady Macbeth tries to cover up the situation by saying that her husband occasionally has such fits of delirium. She whispers to Macbeth that he should stop shouting lest the noblemen begin to suspect him of the crime. Macbeth, however, is surprised that his wife cannot see the ghost and madly points and gestures at the seemingly empty seat. Banquo's ghost leaves the banquet, but not after creating utter chaos in the castle. Lady Macbeth scolds her husband for disrupting the mirth of the banquet with all of his screaming. Alone after all of his guests have departed, Macbeth tells his wife that he fears for his life now that Banquo's ghost roams the area. In addition, he is troubled that Macduff did not attend the feast. Macbeth has spies in every nobleman's household except that of Macduff. He decides to visit the weird sisters the next day to hear more of their prophecies, whether good or bad

----------ACT 3 SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared. [Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants.] MACBETH. You know your own degrees: sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome. LORDS. Thanks to your majesty. MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society, And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time, We will require her welcome. LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; For my heart speaks they are welcome. MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.-- Both sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst: [Enter first Murderer to the door.] Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure The table round.--There's blood upon thy face. MURDERER. 'Tis Banquo's then. MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within. Is he despatch'd? MURDERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him. MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats; yet he's good That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, Thou art the nonpareil. MURDERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is 'scap'd. MACBETH. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; Whole as the marble, founded as the rock; As broad and general as the casing air: But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe? MURDERER. Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature. MACBETH. Thanks for that: There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the present.--Get thee gone; to-morrow We'll hear, ourselves, again. [Exit Murderer.] LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making, 'Tis given with welcome; to feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!-- Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May't please your highness sit. [The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth's place.] MACBETH. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd, Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present; Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance! ROSS. His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness To grace us with your royal company? MACBETH. The table's full. LENNOX. Here is a place reserv'd, sir. MACBETH. Where? LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your highness? MACBETH. Which of you have done this? LORDS. What, my good lord? MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it: never shake Thy gory locks at me. ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his highness is not well. LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends:--my lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well: if much you note him, You shall offend him, and extend his passion: Feed, and regard him not.--Are you a man? MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil. LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,-- Impostors to true fear,--would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Pr'ythee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?-- Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.-- If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost disappears.] LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann'd in folly? MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him. LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame! MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, Ere humane statute purg'd the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools: this is more strange Than such a murder is. LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you. MACBETH. I do forget:-- Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I'll sit down.--Give me some wine, fill full.-- I drink to the general joy o' the whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst, And all to all. LORDS. Our duties, and the pledge. [Ghost rises again.] MACBETH. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with! LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom: 'tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. MACBETH. What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence! [Ghost disappears.] Why, so;--being gone, I am a man again.--Pray you, sit still. LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting, With most admir'd disorder. MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine are blanch'd with fear. ROSS. What sights, my lord? LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him: at once, good-night:-- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. LENNOX. Good-night; and better health Attend his majesty! LADY MACBETH. A kind good-night to all! [Exeunt all Lords and Atendants.] MACBETH. It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood: Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret'st man of blood.--What is the night? LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which. MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding? LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir? MACBETH. I hear it by the way; but I will send: There's not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow, (And betimes I will) to the weird sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Step't in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er: Strange things I have in head, that will to hand; Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. MACBETH. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use:-- We are yet but young in deed. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared. [Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants.] MACBETH. You know your own degrees: sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome. LORDS. Thanks to your majesty. MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society, And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time, We will require her welcome. LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; For my heart speaks they are welcome. MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks.-- Both sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst: [Enter first Murderer to the door.] Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure The table round.--There's blood upon thy face. MURDERER. 'Tis Banquo's then. MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within. Is he despatch'd? MURDERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him. MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats; yet he's good That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, Thou art the nonpareil. MURDERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is 'scap'd. MACBETH. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; Whole as the marble, founded as the rock; As broad and general as the casing air: But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo's safe? MURDERER. Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature. MACBETH. Thanks for that: There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the present.--Get thee gone; to-morrow We'll hear, ourselves, again. [Exit Murderer.] LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making, 'Tis given with welcome; to feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!-- Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May't please your highness sit. [The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth's place.] MACBETH. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd, Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present; Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance! ROSS. His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your highness To grace us with your royal company? MACBETH. The table's full. LENNOX. Here is a place reserv'd, sir. MACBETH. Where? LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your highness? MACBETH. Which of you have done this? LORDS. What, my good lord? MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it: never shake Thy gory locks at me. ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his highness is not well. LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends:--my lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well: if much you note him, You shall offend him, and extend his passion: Feed, and regard him not.--Are you a man? MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil. LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts,-- Impostors to true fear,--would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Pr'ythee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?-- Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.-- If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost disappears.] LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann'd in folly? MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him. LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame! MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, Ere humane statute purg'd the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools: this is more strange Than such a murder is. LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you. MACBETH. I do forget:-- Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I'll sit down.--Give me some wine, fill full.-- I drink to the general joy o' the whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst, And all to all. LORDS. Our duties, and the pledge. [Ghost rises again.] MACBETH. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with! LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom: 'tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. MACBETH. What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence! [Ghost disappears.] Why, so;--being gone, I am a man again.--Pray you, sit still. LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting, With most admir'd disorder. MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine are blanch'd with fear. ROSS. What sights, my lord? LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him: at once, good-night:-- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. LENNOX. Good-night; and better health Attend his majesty! LADY MACBETH. A kind good-night to all! [Exeunt all Lords and Atendants.] MACBETH. It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood: Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret'st man of blood.--What is the night? LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which. MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding? LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir? MACBETH. I hear it by the way; but I will send: There's not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant fee'd. I will to-morrow, (And betimes I will) to the weird sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Step't in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er: Strange things I have in head, that will to hand; Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. MACBETH. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use:-- We are yet but young in deed. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 3.scene 5

cliffnotes

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

The witches meet with their mistress, the powerful sorceress Hecate. Hecate is a figure from Greek mythology, the queen of the night and the protector of witches and enchanters. She is angry that the witches have not asked her for any help in their dealings with Macbeth. Hecate is also furious that the weird sisters have helped Macbeth become king, while he has been utterly ungrateful to them despite all of their assistance. After all, without the witches' prophecies, Macbeth would not be the King of Scotland. Hecate decides to make a potion that will lead Macbeth to his ruin

----------ACT 3, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. The heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.] FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly. HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i' the morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for the air; this night I'll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon: Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound; I'll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distill'd by magic sleights, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion: He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy. [Music and song within, "Come away, come away" &c.] Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. [Exit.] FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 3 SCENE 5 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE V. The heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.] FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly. HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i' the morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for the air; this night I'll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon: Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound; I'll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distill'd by magic sleights, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion: He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy. [Music and song within, "Come away, come away" &c.] Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. [Exit.] FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. The heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.] FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly. HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i' the morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for the air; this night I'll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon: Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound; I'll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distill'd by magic sleights, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion: He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy. [Music and song within, "Come away, come away" &c.] Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. [Exit.] FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. The heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.] FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly. HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i' the morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for the air; this night I'll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon: Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound; I'll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distill'd by magic sleights, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion: He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy. [Music and song within, "Come away, come away" &c.] Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. [Exit.] FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3 SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. The heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.] FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly. HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i' the morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for the air; this night I'll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon: Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound; I'll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distill'd by magic sleights, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion: He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy. [Music and song within, "Come away, come away" &c.] Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. [Exit.] FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. The heath. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.] FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly. HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i' the morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for the air; this night I'll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon: Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound; I'll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distill'd by magic sleights, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion: He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy. [Music and song within, "Come away, come away" &c.] Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. [Exit.] FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 3.scene 6

cliffnotes

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

This scene involves Lennox who is also suspicious of Macbeth. The other Lords present advise Lennox that Macduff has fled from Scotland and is with Malcolm in England. They have requested aid from King Edward the Confessor and they hope that with God's help they will be able to overthrow the tyrannical Macbeth, and that Scotland can return to stability.

----------ACT 3, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Lennox and another Lord.] LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret further: only, I say, Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth:--marry, he was dead:-- And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late; Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive, To hear the men deny't. So that, I say, He has borne all things well: and I do think, That had he Duncan's sons under his key,-- As, an't please heaven, he shall not,--they should find What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace!--for from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself? LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv'd Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect: thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward: That, by the help of these,--with Him above To ratify the work,--we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives; Do faithful homage, and receive free honours,-- All which we pine for now: and this report Hath so exasperate the king that he Prepares for some attempt of war. LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff? LORD. He did: and with an absolute "Sir, not I," The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time That clogs me with this answer." LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come; that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs'd! LORD. I'll send my prayers with him. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 3 SCENE 6 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Lennox and another Lord.] LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret further: only, I say, Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth:--marry, he was dead:-- And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late; Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive, To hear the men deny't. So that, I say, He has borne all things well: and I do think, That had he Duncan's sons under his key,-- As, an't please heaven, he shall not,--they should find What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace!--for from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself? LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv'd Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect: thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward: That, by the help of these,--with Him above To ratify the work,--we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives; Do faithful homage, and receive free honours,-- All which we pine for now: and this report Hath so exasperate the king that he Prepares for some attempt of war. LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff? LORD. He did: and with an absolute "Sir, not I," The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time That clogs me with this answer." LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come; that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs'd! LORD. I'll send my prayers with him. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Lennox and another Lord.] LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret further: only, I say, Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth:--marry, he was dead:-- And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late; Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive, To hear the men deny't. So that, I say, He has borne all things well: and I do think, That had he Duncan's sons under his key,-- As, an't please heaven, he shall not,--they should find What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace!--for from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself? LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv'd Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect: thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward: That, by the help of these,--with Him above To ratify the work,--we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives; Do faithful homage, and receive free honours,-- All which we pine for now: and this report Hath so exasperate the king that he Prepares for some attempt of war. LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff? LORD. He did: and with an absolute "Sir, not I," The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time That clogs me with this answer." LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come; that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs'd! LORD. I'll send my prayers with him. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Lennox and another Lord.] LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret further: only, I say, Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth:--marry, he was dead:-- And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late; Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive, To hear the men deny't. So that, I say, He has borne all things well: and I do think, That had he Duncan's sons under his key,-- As, an't please heaven, he shall not,--they should find What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace!--for from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself? LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv'd Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect: thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward: That, by the help of these,--with Him above To ratify the work,--we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives; Do faithful homage, and receive free honours,-- All which we pine for now: and this report Hath so exasperate the king that he Prepares for some attempt of war. LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff? LORD. He did: and with an absolute "Sir, not I," The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time That clogs me with this answer." LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come; that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs'd! LORD. I'll send my prayers with him. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3 SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Lennox and another Lord.] LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret further: only, I say, Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth:--marry, he was dead:-- And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late; Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive, To hear the men deny't. So that, I say, He has borne all things well: and I do think, That had he Duncan's sons under his key,-- As, an't please heaven, he shall not,--they should find What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace!--for from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself? LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv'd Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect: thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward: That, by the help of these,--with Him above To ratify the work,--we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives; Do faithful homage, and receive free honours,-- All which we pine for now: and this report Hath so exasperate the king that he Prepares for some attempt of war. LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff? LORD. He did: and with an absolute "Sir, not I," The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time That clogs me with this answer." LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come; that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs'd! LORD. I'll send my prayers with him. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. [Enter Lennox and another Lord.] LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret further: only, I say, Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth:--marry, he was dead:-- And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late; Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive, To hear the men deny't. So that, I say, He has borne all things well: and I do think, That had he Duncan's sons under his key,-- As, an't please heaven, he shall not,--they should find What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace!--for from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself? LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv'd Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect: thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward: That, by the help of these,--with Him above To ratify the work,--we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives; Do faithful homage, and receive free honours,-- All which we pine for now: and this report Hath so exasperate the king that he Prepares for some attempt of war. LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff? LORD. He did: and with an absolute "Sir, not I," The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time That clogs me with this answer." LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come; that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs'd! LORD. I'll send my prayers with him. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 4.scene 1

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act 4, scene 1|macbeth: summary & analysis act 4 scene 1 | cliffsnotes|scene 1

Macbeth returns to the Weird Sisters and boldly demands to be shown a series of apparitions that tell his future. The first apparition is the disembodied head of a warrior who seems to warn Macbeth of a bloody revenge at the hands of Macduff. The second is a blood-covered child who comforts Macbeth with the news that he cannot be killed by any man "of woman born." The third is a child wearing a crown, who promises that Macbeth cannot lose in battle until Birnam wood physically moves toward his stronghold at Dunsinane. Encouraged by the news of such impossibilities, Macbeth asks, "Shall Banquo's issue ever reign in this kingdom?" The Witches present an image of a ghostly procession of future kings, led by Banquo. All this serves only to enrage Macbeth, who, trusting in his own pride, reveals in an aside to the audience his determination to slaughter the family of Macduff.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron Boiling. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. SECOND WITCH. Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whin'd. THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries:--"tis time, 'tis time. FIRST WITCH. Round about the caldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw.-- Toad, that under cold stone, Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot! ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,-- For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangl'd babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,-- Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For the ingredients of our caldron. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. [Enter Hecate.] HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains; And everyone shall share i' the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Song. Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray; Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. [Exit Hecate.] SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes:-- Open, locks, whoever knocks! [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is't you do? ALL. A deed without a name. MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess,-- Howe'er you come to know it,--answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders' heads; Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature's germins tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken,--answer me To what I ask you. FIRST WITCH. Speak. SECOND WITCH. Demand. THIRD WITCH. We'll answer. FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters? MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em. FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet throw Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! [Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises.] MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power,-- FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught. APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife.--Dismiss me:--enough. [Descends.] MACBETH. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:--but one word more,-- FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded: here's another, More potent than the first. [Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises.] APPARITION.-- Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee. APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends.] MACBETH. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.--What is this, [Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.] That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty? ALL. Listen, but speak not to't. APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him. [Descends.] MACBETH. That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellion's head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom.--Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me,--if your art Can tell so much,--shall Banquo's issue ever Reign in this kingdom? ALL. Seek to know no more. MACBETH. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know:-- Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this? [Hautboys.] FIRST WITCH. Show! SECOND WITCH. Show! THIRD WITCH. Show! ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart! [Eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo following.] MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo; down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:--and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first;-- A third is like the former.--Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?--A fourth!--Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet!--A seventh!--I'll see no more:-- And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry: Horrible sight!--Now I see 'tis true; For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.--What! is this so? FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so:--but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?-- Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights; I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish.] MACBETH. Where are they? Gone?--Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-- Come in, without there! [Enter Lennox.] LENNOX. What's your grace's will? MACBETH. Saw you the weird sisters? LENNOX. No, my lord. MACBETH. Came they not by you? LENNOX. No indeed, my lord. MACBETH. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd all those that trust them!--I did hear The galloping of horse: who was't came by? LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England. MACBETH. Fled to England! LENNOX. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits: The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it: from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool: But no more sights!--Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 4 SCENE 1 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron Boiling. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. SECOND WITCH. Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whin'd. THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries:--"tis time, 'tis time. FIRST WITCH. Round about the caldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw.-- Toad, that under cold stone, Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot! ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,-- For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangl'd babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,-- Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For the ingredients of our caldron. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. [Enter Hecate.] HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains; And everyone shall share i' the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Song. Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray; Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. [Exit Hecate.] SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes:-- Open, locks, whoever knocks! [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is't you do? ALL. A deed without a name. MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess,-- Howe'er you come to know it,--answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders' heads; Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature's germins tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken,--answer me To what I ask you. FIRST WITCH. Speak. SECOND WITCH. Demand. THIRD WITCH. We'll answer. FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters? MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em. FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet throw Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! [Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises.] MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power,-- FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught. APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife.--Dismiss me:--enough. [Descends.] MACBETH. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:--but one word more,-- FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded: here's another, More potent than the first. [Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises.] APPARITION.-- Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee. APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends.] MACBETH. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.--What is this, [Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.] That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty? ALL. Listen, but speak not to't. APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him. [Descends.] MACBETH. That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellion's head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom.--Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me,--if your art Can tell so much,--shall Banquo's issue ever Reign in this kingdom? ALL. Seek to know no more. MACBETH. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know:-- Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this? [Hautboys.] FIRST WITCH. Show! SECOND WITCH. Show! THIRD WITCH. Show! ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart! [Eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo following.] MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo; down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:--and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first;-- A third is like the former.--Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?--A fourth!--Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet!--A seventh!--I'll see no more:-- And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry: Horrible sight!--Now I see 'tis true; For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.--What! is this so? FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so:--but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?-- Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights; I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish.] MACBETH. Where are they? Gone?--Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-- Come in, without there! [Enter Lennox.] LENNOX. What's your grace's will? MACBETH. Saw you the weird sisters? LENNOX. No, my lord. MACBETH. Came they not by you? LENNOX. No indeed, my lord. MACBETH. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd all those that trust them!--I did hear The galloping of horse: who was't came by? LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England. MACBETH. Fled to England! LENNOX. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits: The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it: from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool: But no more sights!--Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron Boiling. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. SECOND WITCH. Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whin'd. THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries:--"tis time, 'tis time. FIRST WITCH. Round about the caldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw.-- Toad, that under cold stone, Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot! ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,-- For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangl'd babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,-- Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For the ingredients of our caldron. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. [Enter Hecate.] HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains; And everyone shall share i' the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Song. Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray; Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. [Exit Hecate.] SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes:-- Open, locks, whoever knocks! [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is't you do? ALL. A deed without a name. MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess,-- Howe'er you come to know it,--answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders' heads; Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature's germins tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken,--answer me To what I ask you. FIRST WITCH. Speak. SECOND WITCH. Demand. THIRD WITCH. We'll answer. FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters? MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em. FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet throw Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! [Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises.] MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power,-- FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught. APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife.--Dismiss me:--enough. [Descends.] MACBETH. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:--but one word more,-- FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded: here's another, More potent than the first. [Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises.] APPARITION.-- Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee. APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends.] MACBETH. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.--What is this, [Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.] That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty? ALL. Listen, but speak not to't. APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him. [Descends.] MACBETH. That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellion's head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom.--Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me,--if your art Can tell so much,--shall Banquo's issue ever Reign in this kingdom? ALL. Seek to know no more. MACBETH. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know:-- Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this? [Hautboys.] FIRST WITCH. Show! SECOND WITCH. Show! THIRD WITCH. Show! ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart! [Eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo following.] MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo; down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:--and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first;-- A third is like the former.--Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?--A fourth!--Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet!--A seventh!--I'll see no more:-- And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry: Horrible sight!--Now I see 'tis true; For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.--What! is this so? FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so:--but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?-- Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights; I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish.] MACBETH. Where are they? Gone?--Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-- Come in, without there! [Enter Lennox.] LENNOX. What's your grace's will? MACBETH. Saw you the weird sisters? LENNOX. No, my lord. MACBETH. Came they not by you? LENNOX. No indeed, my lord. MACBETH. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd all those that trust them!--I did hear The galloping of horse: who was't came by? LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England. MACBETH. Fled to England! LENNOX. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits: The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it: from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool: But no more sights!--Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron Boiling. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. SECOND WITCH. Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whin'd. THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries:--"tis time, 'tis time. FIRST WITCH. Round about the caldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw.-- Toad, that under cold stone, Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot! ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,-- For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangl'd babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,-- Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For the ingredients of our caldron. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. [Enter Hecate.] HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains; And everyone shall share i' the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Song. Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray; Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. [Exit Hecate.] SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes:-- Open, locks, whoever knocks! [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is't you do? ALL. A deed without a name. MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess,-- Howe'er you come to know it,--answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders' heads; Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature's germins tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken,--answer me To what I ask you. FIRST WITCH. Speak. SECOND WITCH. Demand. THIRD WITCH. We'll answer. FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters? MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em. FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet throw Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! [Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises.] MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power,-- FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught. APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife.--Dismiss me:--enough. [Descends.] MACBETH. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:--but one word more,-- FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded: here's another, More potent than the first. [Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises.] APPARITION.-- Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee. APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends.] MACBETH. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.--What is this, [Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.] That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty? ALL. Listen, but speak not to't. APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him. [Descends.] MACBETH. That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellion's head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom.--Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me,--if your art Can tell so much,--shall Banquo's issue ever Reign in this kingdom? ALL. Seek to know no more. MACBETH. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know:-- Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this? [Hautboys.] FIRST WITCH. Show! SECOND WITCH. Show! THIRD WITCH. Show! ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart! [Eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo following.] MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo; down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:--and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first;-- A third is like the former.--Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?--A fourth!--Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet!--A seventh!--I'll see no more:-- And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry: Horrible sight!--Now I see 'tis true; For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.--What! is this so? FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so:--but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?-- Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights; I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish.] MACBETH. Where are they? Gone?--Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-- Come in, without there! [Enter Lennox.] LENNOX. What's your grace's will? MACBETH. Saw you the weird sisters? LENNOX. No, my lord. MACBETH. Came they not by you? LENNOX. No indeed, my lord. MACBETH. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd all those that trust them!--I did hear The galloping of horse: who was't came by? LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England. MACBETH. Fled to England! LENNOX. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits: The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it: from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool: But no more sights!--Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 4 scene 1 with the given context.

Shakespeare takes us back to the blasted heath where the three witches surround the cauldron into which they throw various ingredients. Fillet of fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake: Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing: For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble." With confidence, Macbeth greets the weird sisters ordering them to give him more details concerning his future. The witches conjure up an apparition of a disembodied head, which clearly belonged to a warrior. It warns Macbeth that Duncan's son, Malcolm, will seek a bloody revenge. A second apparition appears in the form of a child covered in blood, and it speaks to Macbeth saying that he cannot be killed by any man "of woman born". A further apparition appears, again in the form of a child wearing a crown. The child tells Macbeth that he will be invincible in battle until Birnam Wood moves towards Dunsinane. This fills Macbeth with new confidence, as these happenings appear impossible. He then asks whether Banquo's heirs will reign in Scotland. The witches summon up a vision showing the future Kings of Scotland being led by Banquo. This enrages Macbeth. Macbeth is determined to wreak revenge on the family of Macduff who has fled to England.

----------ACT 4 SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron Boiling. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. SECOND WITCH. Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whin'd. THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries:--"tis time, 'tis time. FIRST WITCH. Round about the caldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw.-- Toad, that under cold stone, Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot! ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,-- For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangl'd babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,-- Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For the ingredients of our caldron. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. [Enter Hecate.] HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains; And everyone shall share i' the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Song. Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray; Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. [Exit Hecate.] SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes:-- Open, locks, whoever knocks! [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is't you do? ALL. A deed without a name. MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess,-- Howe'er you come to know it,--answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders' heads; Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature's germins tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken,--answer me To what I ask you. FIRST WITCH. Speak. SECOND WITCH. Demand. THIRD WITCH. We'll answer. FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters? MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em. FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet throw Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! [Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises.] MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power,-- FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught. APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife.--Dismiss me:--enough. [Descends.] MACBETH. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:--but one word more,-- FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded: here's another, More potent than the first. [Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises.] APPARITION.-- Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee. APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends.] MACBETH. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.--What is this, [Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.] That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty? ALL. Listen, but speak not to't. APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him. [Descends.] MACBETH. That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellion's head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom.--Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me,--if your art Can tell so much,--shall Banquo's issue ever Reign in this kingdom? ALL. Seek to know no more. MACBETH. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know:-- Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this? [Hautboys.] FIRST WITCH. Show! SECOND WITCH. Show! THIRD WITCH. Show! ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart! [Eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo following.] MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo; down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:--and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first;-- A third is like the former.--Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?--A fourth!--Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet!--A seventh!--I'll see no more:-- And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry: Horrible sight!--Now I see 'tis true; For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.--What! is this so? FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so:--but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?-- Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights; I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish.] MACBETH. Where are they? Gone?--Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-- Come in, without there! [Enter Lennox.] LENNOX. What's your grace's will? MACBETH. Saw you the weird sisters? LENNOX. No, my lord. MACBETH. Came they not by you? LENNOX. No indeed, my lord. MACBETH. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd all those that trust them!--I did hear The galloping of horse: who was't came by? LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England. MACBETH. Fled to England! LENNOX. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits: The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it: from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool: But no more sights!--Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron Boiling. [Thunder. Enter the three Witches.] FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. SECOND WITCH. Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whin'd. THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries:--"tis time, 'tis time. FIRST WITCH. Round about the caldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw.-- Toad, that under cold stone, Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot! ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and howlet's wing,-- For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangl'd babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,-- Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For the ingredients of our caldron. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and caldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. [Enter Hecate.] HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains; And everyone shall share i' the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Song. Black spirits and white, red spirits and gray; Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. [Exit Hecate.] SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes:-- Open, locks, whoever knocks! [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is't you do? ALL. A deed without a name. MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess,-- Howe'er you come to know it,--answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg'd, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders' heads; Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature's germins tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken,--answer me To what I ask you. FIRST WITCH. Speak. SECOND WITCH. Demand. THIRD WITCH. We'll answer. FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters? MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em. FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murderer's gibbet throw Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! [Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises.] MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power,-- FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught. APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife.--Dismiss me:--enough. [Descends.] MACBETH. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:--but one word more,-- FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded: here's another, More potent than the first. [Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises.] APPARITION.-- Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee. APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends.] MACBETH. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.--What is this, [Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises.] That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty? ALL. Listen, but speak not to't. APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him. [Descends.] MACBETH. That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellion's head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom.--Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me,--if your art Can tell so much,--shall Banquo's issue ever Reign in this kingdom? ALL. Seek to know no more. MACBETH. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know:-- Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this? [Hautboys.] FIRST WITCH. Show! SECOND WITCH. Show! THIRD WITCH. Show! ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart! [Eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo following.] MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo; down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:--and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first;-- A third is like the former.--Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?--A fourth!--Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet!--A seventh!--I'll see no more:-- And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry: Horrible sight!--Now I see 'tis true; For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.--What! is this so? FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so:--but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?-- Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights; I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish.] MACBETH. Where are they? Gone?--Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!-- Come in, without there! [Enter Lennox.] LENNOX. What's your grace's will? MACBETH. Saw you the weird sisters? LENNOX. No, my lord. MACBETH. Came they not by you? LENNOX. No indeed, my lord. MACBETH. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn'd all those that trust them!--I did hear The galloping of horse: who was't came by? LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England. MACBETH. Fled to England! LENNOX. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits: The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it: from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool: But no more sights!--Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 4.scene 2

cliffnotes

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

This scene takes place at Macduff's castle in Fife. Lady Macduff, with her young son at her side, is conversing with noble Ross about her husband's having fled the country. She is understandably upset, feels deserted, fears for his life, and thinks "his flight was madness. " She openly calls him a traitor who acted out of fear. Ross tries to convince her that he acted from wisdom, not fear. Lady Macduff scoffs and says, "Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes... he loves us not." Ross assures her that her husband is noble and wise, and only the times are traitorous. Almost overcome with emotion, Ross leaves, and the mother turns her attention to her child, saying to him that she fears his father is dead. The son refuses to believe it, but he does ask if his father was a traitor. His mother answers that anyone who lies is a traitor and should be hanged by honest men. With a child's vision, her son answers that " there are liars enow to beat the honest men and hang them up." Lady Macduff laughs at his grown up thoughts, but the laughter is interrupted by an unknown messenger who has come to warn Lady Macduff that "some danger does approach you nearly." He advises her to take the children and flee from Fife. Then he is off. Lady Macduff is too melancholy and astonished to react. She asks herself, "Whither should I fly?... I have done no harm." In truth, there is not time for escape. The murderers enter and stab the young boy who calls out a warning. "He has killed me, mother; run away, I pray you." Lady Macduff, screaming "murder," runs out, pursued by the murderers who are certain to kill her as well.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff's Castle. [Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross.] LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land? ROSS. You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF. He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason. ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband, He is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move.--I take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I'll be here again: Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.--My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! LADY MACDUFF. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father's dead; And what will you do now? How will you live? SON. As birds do, mother. LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies? SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! thou'dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin. SON. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for father? SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband? LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. SON. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet, i' faith, With wit enough for thee. SON. Was my father a traitor, mother? LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was. SON. What is a traitor? LADY MACDUFF. Why, one that swears and lies. SON. And be all traitors that do so? LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? LADY MACDUFF. Every one. SON. Who must hang them? LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men. SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them. LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st! [Enter a Messenger.] MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honor I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where to do harm Is often laudable; to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm?--What are these faces? [Enter Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. FIRST MURDERER. He's a traitor. SON. Thou liest, thou shag-haar'd villain! FIRST MURDERER. What, you egg! [Stabbing him.] Young fry of treachery! SON. He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you! [Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying Murder, and pursued by the Murderers.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 4 SCENE 2 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff's Castle. [Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross.] LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land? ROSS. You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF. He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason. ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband, He is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move.--I take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I'll be here again: Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.--My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! LADY MACDUFF. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father's dead; And what will you do now? How will you live? SON. As birds do, mother. LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies? SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! thou'dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin. SON. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for father? SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband? LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. SON. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet, i' faith, With wit enough for thee. SON. Was my father a traitor, mother? LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was. SON. What is a traitor? LADY MACDUFF. Why, one that swears and lies. SON. And be all traitors that do so? LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? LADY MACDUFF. Every one. SON. Who must hang them? LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men. SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them. LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st! [Enter a Messenger.] MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honor I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where to do harm Is often laudable; to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm?--What are these faces? [Enter Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. FIRST MURDERER. He's a traitor. SON. Thou liest, thou shag-haar'd villain! FIRST MURDERER. What, you egg! [Stabbing him.] Young fry of treachery! SON. He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you! [Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying Murder, and pursued by the Murderers.] ----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff's Castle. [Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross.] LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land? ROSS. You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF. He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason. ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband, He is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move.--I take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I'll be here again: Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.--My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! LADY MACDUFF. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father's dead; And what will you do now? How will you live? SON. As birds do, mother. LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies? SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! thou'dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin. SON. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for father? SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband? LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. SON. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet, i' faith, With wit enough for thee. SON. Was my father a traitor, mother? LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was. SON. What is a traitor? LADY MACDUFF. Why, one that swears and lies. SON. And be all traitors that do so? LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? LADY MACDUFF. Every one. SON. Who must hang them? LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men. SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them. LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st! [Enter a Messenger.] MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honor I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where to do harm Is often laudable; to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm?--What are these faces? [Enter Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. FIRST MURDERER. He's a traitor. SON. Thou liest, thou shag-haar'd villain! FIRST MURDERER. What, you egg! [Stabbing him.] Young fry of treachery! SON. He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you! [Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying Murder, and pursued by the Murderers.] ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff's Castle. [Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross.] LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land? ROSS. You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF. He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason. ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband, He is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move.--I take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I'll be here again: Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.--My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! LADY MACDUFF. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father's dead; And what will you do now? How will you live? SON. As birds do, mother. LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies? SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! thou'dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin. SON. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for father? SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband? LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. SON. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet, i' faith, With wit enough for thee. SON. Was my father a traitor, mother? LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was. SON. What is a traitor? LADY MACDUFF. Why, one that swears and lies. SON. And be all traitors that do so? LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? LADY MACDUFF. Every one. SON. Who must hang them? LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men. SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them. LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st! [Enter a Messenger.] MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honor I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where to do harm Is often laudable; to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm?--What are these faces? [Enter Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. FIRST MURDERER. He's a traitor. SON. Thou liest, thou shag-haar'd villain! FIRST MURDERER. What, you egg! [Stabbing him.] Young fry of treachery! SON. He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you! [Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying Murder, and pursued by the Murderers.] ----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff's Castle. [Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross.] LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land? ROSS. You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF. He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason. ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband, He is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move.--I take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I'll be here again: Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.--My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! LADY MACDUFF. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father's dead; And what will you do now? How will you live? SON. As birds do, mother. LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies? SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! thou'dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin. SON. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for father? SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband? LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. SON. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak'st with all thy wit; and yet, i' faith, With wit enough for thee. SON. Was my father a traitor, mother? LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was. SON. What is a traitor? LADY MACDUFF. Why, one that swears and lies. SON. And be all traitors that do so? LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? LADY MACDUFF. Every one. SON. Who must hang them? LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men. SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them. LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st! [Enter a Messenger.] MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honor I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. [Exit.] LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where to do harm Is often laudable; to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm?--What are these faces? [Enter Murderers.] FIRST MURDERER. Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. FIRST MURDERER. He's a traitor. SON. Thou liest, thou shag-haar'd villain! FIRST MURDERER. What, you egg! [Stabbing him.] Young fry of treachery! SON. He has kill'd me, mother: Run away, I pray you! [Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying Murder, and pursued by the Murderers.]

Macbeth.act 4.scene 3

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of macbeth: summary & analysis act 4 scene 3 | cliffsnotes, utilizing the provided context.

act 4, scene 3|macbeth: summary & analysis act 4 scene 3 | cliffsnotes

In England, Duncan's son Malcolm tests the loyalty of his newest recruit, Macduff. By demeaning his own nobility and professing himself to be a greater tyrant than Macbeth, Malcolm hopes to goad Macduff into an open display of his loyalties. This attempt at reverse psychology has its desired effect. Macduff is thrown into a fit of anger against the "untitled tyrant" Macbeth, and Malcolm enlists his help in the struggle. When Ross appears with news of the slaughter of Macduff's family, Macduff is finally convinced not only to engage in the rebel army but also to take personal revenge upon Macbeth. This scene also includes a passage in which it is reported that England's king, Edward the Confessor, has provided more than political aid to Malcolm; he has been healing the sick by supernatural means.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. England. Before the King's Palace. [Enter Malcolm and Macduff.] MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. MACDUFF. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new morn New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like syllable of dolour. MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well; He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god. MACDUFF. I am not treacherous. MALCOLM. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose; Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so. MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes. MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child,-- Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,-- Without leave-taking?--I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonors, But mine own safeties:--you may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think. MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs, The title is affeer'd.--Fare thee well, lord: I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp And the rich East to boot. MALCOLM. Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think, withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before; More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed. MACDUFF. What should he be? MALCOLM. It is myself I mean: in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd With my confineless harms. MACDUFF. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd In evils to top Macbeth. MALCOLM. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there's no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up The cistern of my lust; and my desire All continent impediments would o'erbear, That did oppose my will: better Macbeth Than such an one to reign. MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclin'd. MALCOLM. With this there grows, In my most ill-compos'd affection, such A stanchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands; Desire his jewels, and this other's house: And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more; that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth. MACDUFF. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foysons to fill up your will, Of your mere own: all these are portable, With other graces weigh'd. MALCOLM. But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them; but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland! MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken. MACDUFF. Fit to govern! No, not to live!--O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accurs'd And does blaspheme his breed?--Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee, Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare-thee-well! These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself Have banish'd me from Scotland.--O my breast, Thy hope ends here! MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power; and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; At no time broke my faith; would not betray The devil to his fellow; and delight No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself:--what I am truly, Is thine and my poor country's to command: Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men Already at a point, was setting forth: Now we'll together; and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent? MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile. [Enter a Doctor.] MALCOLM. Well; more anon.--Comes the king forth, I pray you? DOCTOR. Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but, at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend. MALCOLM. I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor.] MACDUFF. What's the disease he means? MALCOLM. 'Tis call'd the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace. MACDUFF. See, who comes here? MALCOLM. My countryman; but yet I know him not. [Enter Ross.] MACDUFF. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. MALCOLM. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers! ROSS. Sir, amen. MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did? ROSS. Alas, poor country,-- Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air, Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken. MACDUFF. O, relation Too nice, and yet too true! MALCOLM. What's the newest grief? ROSS. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. MACDUFF. How does my wife? ROSS. Why, well. MACDUFF. And all my children? ROSS. Well too. MACDUFF. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? ROSS. No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes't? ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out; Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot: Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses. MALCOLM. Be't their comfort We are coming thither: gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a better soldier none That Christendom gives out. ROSS. Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howl'd out in the desert air, Where hearing should not latch them. MACDUFF. What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast? ROSS. No mind that's honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you alone. MACDUFF. If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it. ROSS. Your castle is surpris'd; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, To add the death of you. MALCOLM. Merciful heaven!-- What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. MACDUFF. My children too? ROSS. Wife, children, servants, all That could be found. MACDUFF. And I must be from thence! My wife kill'd too? ROSS. I have said. MALCOLM. Be comforted: Let's make us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief. MACDUFF. He has no children.--All my pretty ones? Did you say all?--O hell-kite!--All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? MALCOLM. Dispute it like a man. MACDUFF. I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.--Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls: heaven rest them now! MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eye, And braggart with my tongue!--But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, Heaven forgive him too! MALCOLM. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may; The night is long that never finds the day. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 4 SCENE 3 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE III. England. Before the King's Palace. [Enter Malcolm and Macduff.] MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. MACDUFF. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new morn New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like syllable of dolour. MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well; He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god. MACDUFF. I am not treacherous. MALCOLM. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose; Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so. MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes. MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child,-- Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,-- Without leave-taking?--I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonors, But mine own safeties:--you may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think. MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs, The title is affeer'd.--Fare thee well, lord: I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp And the rich East to boot. MALCOLM. Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think, withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before; More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed. MACDUFF. What should he be? MALCOLM. It is myself I mean: in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd With my confineless harms. MACDUFF. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd In evils to top Macbeth. MALCOLM. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there's no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up The cistern of my lust; and my desire All continent impediments would o'erbear, That did oppose my will: better Macbeth Than such an one to reign. MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclin'd. MALCOLM. With this there grows, In my most ill-compos'd affection, such A stanchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands; Desire his jewels, and this other's house: And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more; that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth. MACDUFF. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foysons to fill up your will, Of your mere own: all these are portable, With other graces weigh'd. MALCOLM. But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them; but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland! MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken. MACDUFF. Fit to govern! No, not to live!--O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accurs'd And does blaspheme his breed?--Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee, Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare-thee-well! These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself Have banish'd me from Scotland.--O my breast, Thy hope ends here! MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power; and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; At no time broke my faith; would not betray The devil to his fellow; and delight No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself:--what I am truly, Is thine and my poor country's to command: Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men Already at a point, was setting forth: Now we'll together; and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent? MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile. [Enter a Doctor.] MALCOLM. Well; more anon.--Comes the king forth, I pray you? DOCTOR. Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but, at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend. MALCOLM. I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor.] MACDUFF. What's the disease he means? MALCOLM. 'Tis call'd the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace. MACDUFF. See, who comes here? MALCOLM. My countryman; but yet I know him not. [Enter Ross.] MACDUFF. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. MALCOLM. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers! ROSS. Sir, amen. MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did? ROSS. Alas, poor country,-- Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air, Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken. MACDUFF. O, relation Too nice, and yet too true! MALCOLM. What's the newest grief? ROSS. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. MACDUFF. How does my wife? ROSS. Why, well. MACDUFF. And all my children? ROSS. Well too. MACDUFF. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? ROSS. No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes't? ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out; Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot: Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses. MALCOLM. Be't their comfort We are coming thither: gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a better soldier none That Christendom gives out. ROSS. Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howl'd out in the desert air, Where hearing should not latch them. MACDUFF. What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast? ROSS. No mind that's honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you alone. MACDUFF. If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it. ROSS. Your castle is surpris'd; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, To add the death of you. MALCOLM. Merciful heaven!-- What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. MACDUFF. My children too? ROSS. Wife, children, servants, all That could be found. MACDUFF. And I must be from thence! My wife kill'd too? ROSS. I have said. MALCOLM. Be comforted: Let's make us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief. MACDUFF. He has no children.--All my pretty ones? Did you say all?--O hell-kite!--All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? MALCOLM. Dispute it like a man. MACDUFF. I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.--Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls: heaven rest them now! MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eye, And braggart with my tongue!--But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, Heaven forgive him too! MALCOLM. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may; The night is long that never finds the day. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 4, scene 3 with the given context.

act 4, scene 3|scene 3

Outside King Edward's palace, Malcolm speaks with Macduff, telling him that he does not trust him since he has left his family in Scotland and may be secretly working for Macbeth. To determine whether Macduff is trustworthy, Malcolm rambles on about his own vices. He admits that he wonders whether he is fit to be king, since he claims to be lustful, greedy, and violent. At first, Macduff politely disagrees with his future king, but eventually Macduff cannot keep himself from crying out, "O Scotland, Scotland. Macduff's loyalty to Scotland leads him to agree that Malcolm is not fit to govern Scotland and perhaps not even to live. In giving voice to his disparagement, Macduff has passed Malcolm's test of loyalty. Malcolm then retracts the lies he has put forth about his supposed shortcomings and embraces Macduff as an ally. A doctor appears briefly and mentions that a "crew of wretched souls" waits for King Edward so they may be cured. When the doctor leaves, Malcolm explains to Macduff that King Edward has a miraculous power to cure disease. Ross enters. He has just arrived from Scotland, and tells Macduff that his wife and children are well. He urges Malcolm to return to his country, listing the woes that have befallen Scotland since Macbeth took the crown. Malcolm says that he will return with ten thousand soldiers lent him by the English king. Then, breaking down, Ross confesses to Macduff that Macbeth has murdered his wife and children. Macduff is crushed with grief. Malcolm urges him to turn his grief to anger, and Macduff assures him that he will inflict revenge upon Macbeth

----------ACT 4, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. England. Before the King's Palace. [Enter Malcolm and Macduff.] MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. MACDUFF. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new morn New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like syllable of dolour. MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well; He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god. MACDUFF. I am not treacherous. MALCOLM. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose; Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so. MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes. MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child,-- Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,-- Without leave-taking?--I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonors, But mine own safeties:--you may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think. MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs, The title is affeer'd.--Fare thee well, lord: I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp And the rich East to boot. MALCOLM. Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think, withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before; More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed. MACDUFF. What should he be? MALCOLM. It is myself I mean: in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd With my confineless harms. MACDUFF. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd In evils to top Macbeth. MALCOLM. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there's no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up The cistern of my lust; and my desire All continent impediments would o'erbear, That did oppose my will: better Macbeth Than such an one to reign. MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclin'd. MALCOLM. With this there grows, In my most ill-compos'd affection, such A stanchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands; Desire his jewels, and this other's house: And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more; that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth. MACDUFF. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foysons to fill up your will, Of your mere own: all these are portable, With other graces weigh'd. MALCOLM. But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them; but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland! MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken. MACDUFF. Fit to govern! No, not to live!--O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accurs'd And does blaspheme his breed?--Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee, Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare-thee-well! These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself Have banish'd me from Scotland.--O my breast, Thy hope ends here! MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power; and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; At no time broke my faith; would not betray The devil to his fellow; and delight No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself:--what I am truly, Is thine and my poor country's to command: Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men Already at a point, was setting forth: Now we'll together; and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent? MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile. [Enter a Doctor.] MALCOLM. Well; more anon.--Comes the king forth, I pray you? DOCTOR. Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but, at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend. MALCOLM. I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor.] MACDUFF. What's the disease he means? MALCOLM. 'Tis call'd the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace. MACDUFF. See, who comes here? MALCOLM. My countryman; but yet I know him not. [Enter Ross.] MACDUFF. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. MALCOLM. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers! ROSS. Sir, amen. MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did? ROSS. Alas, poor country,-- Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air, Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken. MACDUFF. O, relation Too nice, and yet too true! MALCOLM. What's the newest grief? ROSS. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. MACDUFF. How does my wife? ROSS. Why, well. MACDUFF. And all my children? ROSS. Well too. MACDUFF. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? ROSS. No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes't? ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out; Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot: Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses. MALCOLM. Be't their comfort We are coming thither: gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a better soldier none That Christendom gives out. ROSS. Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howl'd out in the desert air, Where hearing should not latch them. MACDUFF. What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast? ROSS. No mind that's honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you alone. MACDUFF. If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it. ROSS. Your castle is surpris'd; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, To add the death of you. MALCOLM. Merciful heaven!-- What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. MACDUFF. My children too? ROSS. Wife, children, servants, all That could be found. MACDUFF. And I must be from thence! My wife kill'd too? ROSS. I have said. MALCOLM. Be comforted: Let's make us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief. MACDUFF. He has no children.--All my pretty ones? Did you say all?--O hell-kite!--All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? MALCOLM. Dispute it like a man. MACDUFF. I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.--Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls: heaven rest them now! MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eye, And braggart with my tongue!--But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, Heaven forgive him too! MALCOLM. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may; The night is long that never finds the day. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. England. Before the King's Palace. [Enter Malcolm and Macduff.] MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. MACDUFF. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, Bestride our down-fall'n birthdom: each new morn New widows howl; new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd out Like syllable of dolour. MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well; He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god. MACDUFF. I am not treacherous. MALCOLM. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose; Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so. MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes. MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child,-- Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,-- Without leave-taking?--I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonors, But mine own safeties:--you may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think. MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs, The title is affeer'd.--Fare thee well, lord: I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp And the rich East to boot. MALCOLM. Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think, withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before; More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed. MACDUFF. What should he be? MALCOLM. It is myself I mean: in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compar'd With my confineless harms. MACDUFF. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd In evils to top Macbeth. MALCOLM. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there's no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up The cistern of my lust; and my desire All continent impediments would o'erbear, That did oppose my will: better Macbeth Than such an one to reign. MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclin'd. MALCOLM. With this there grows, In my most ill-compos'd affection, such A stanchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands; Desire his jewels, and this other's house: And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more; that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth. MACDUFF. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foysons to fill up your will, Of your mere own: all these are portable, With other graces weigh'd. MALCOLM. But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them; but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland! MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken. MACDUFF. Fit to govern! No, not to live!--O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accurs'd And does blaspheme his breed?--Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee, Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare-thee-well! These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself Have banish'd me from Scotland.--O my breast, Thy hope ends here! MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power; and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; At no time broke my faith; would not betray The devil to his fellow; and delight No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself:--what I am truly, Is thine and my poor country's to command: Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men Already at a point, was setting forth: Now we'll together; and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent? MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile. [Enter a Doctor.] MALCOLM. Well; more anon.--Comes the king forth, I pray you? DOCTOR. Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but, at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend. MALCOLM. I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor.] MACDUFF. What's the disease he means? MALCOLM. 'Tis call'd the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace. MACDUFF. See, who comes here? MALCOLM. My countryman; but yet I know him not. [Enter Ross.] MACDUFF. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. MALCOLM. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers! ROSS. Sir, amen. MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did? ROSS. Alas, poor country,-- Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our grave: where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air, Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken. MACDUFF. O, relation Too nice, and yet too true! MALCOLM. What's the newest grief? ROSS. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. MACDUFF. How does my wife? ROSS. Why, well. MACDUFF. And all my children? ROSS. Well too. MACDUFF. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? ROSS. No; they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes't? ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out; Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot: Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses. MALCOLM. Be't their comfort We are coming thither: gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a better soldier none That Christendom gives out. ROSS. Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howl'd out in the desert air, Where hearing should not latch them. MACDUFF. What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast? ROSS. No mind that's honest But in it shares some woe; though the main part Pertains to you alone. MACDUFF. If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it. ROSS. Your castle is surpris'd; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, To add the death of you. MALCOLM. Merciful heaven!-- What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. MACDUFF. My children too? ROSS. Wife, children, servants, all That could be found. MACDUFF. And I must be from thence! My wife kill'd too? ROSS. I have said. MALCOLM. Be comforted: Let's make us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief. MACDUFF. He has no children.--All my pretty ones? Did you say all?--O hell-kite!--All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? MALCOLM. Dispute it like a man. MACDUFF. I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.--Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls: heaven rest them now! MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eye, And braggart with my tongue!--But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, Heaven forgive him too! MALCOLM. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the king; our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may; The night is long that never finds the day. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 5.scene 1

cliffnotes

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

At Macbeth's castle, a gentlewoman speaks to a doctor about Lady Macbeth's strange somnambulatory behavior. While the two are talking, they suddenly observe Lady Macbeth sleepwalking. She vigorously rubs her hands, as if trying to wash away a stain of some sort. Lady Macbeth sighs, weeps and mutters about the Thane of Fife and Banquo. The doctor and the gentlewoman are shocked-Lady Macbeth has inadvertently revealed the source of her distress. Again, lady Macbeth sleepwalks and has nightmares because Macbeth has "murdered sleep

----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.] DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? GENTLEWOMAN. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature,--to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching-- In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her. DOCTOR. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. Lo you, here she comes! [Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.] This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DOCTOR. How came she by that light? GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command. DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open. GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut. DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot. DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! out, I say!-- One; two; why, then 'tis time to do't ;--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? DOCTOR. Do you mark that? LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?--What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting. DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not. GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. DOCTOR. Well, well, well,-- GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir. DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave. DOCTOR. Even so? LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit.] DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed? GENTLEWOMAN. Directly. DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician.-- God, God, forgive us all!--Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her:--so, good-night: My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight: I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good-night, good doctor. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 5 SCENE 1 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.] DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? GENTLEWOMAN. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature,--to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching-- In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her. DOCTOR. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. Lo you, here she comes! [Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.] This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DOCTOR. How came she by that light? GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command. DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open. GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut. DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot. DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! out, I say!-- One; two; why, then 'tis time to do't ;--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? DOCTOR. Do you mark that? LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?--What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting. DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not. GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. DOCTOR. Well, well, well,-- GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir. DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave. DOCTOR. Even so? LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit.] DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed? GENTLEWOMAN. Directly. DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician.-- God, God, forgive us all!--Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her:--so, good-night: My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight: I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good-night, good doctor. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.] DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? GENTLEWOMAN. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature,--to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching-- In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her. DOCTOR. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. Lo you, here she comes! [Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.] This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DOCTOR. How came she by that light? GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command. DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open. GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut. DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot. DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! out, I say!-- One; two; why, then 'tis time to do't ;--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? DOCTOR. Do you mark that? LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?--What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting. DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not. GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. DOCTOR. Well, well, well,-- GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir. DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave. DOCTOR. Even so? LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit.] DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed? GENTLEWOMAN. Directly. DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician.-- God, God, forgive us all!--Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her:--so, good-night: My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight: I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good-night, good doctor. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.] DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? GENTLEWOMAN. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature,--to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching-- In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her. DOCTOR. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. Lo you, here she comes! [Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.] This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DOCTOR. How came she by that light? GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command. DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open. GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut. DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot. DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! out, I say!-- One; two; why, then 'tis time to do't ;--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? DOCTOR. Do you mark that? LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?--What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting. DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not. GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. DOCTOR. Well, well, well,-- GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir. DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave. DOCTOR. Even so? LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit.] DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed? GENTLEWOMAN. Directly. DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician.-- God, God, forgive us all!--Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her:--so, good-night: My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight: I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good-night, good doctor. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5 SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.] DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? GENTLEWOMAN. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature,--to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching-- In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her. DOCTOR. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. Lo you, here she comes! [Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.] This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DOCTOR. How came she by that light? GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command. DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open. GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut. DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot. DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! out, I say!-- One; two; why, then 'tis time to do't ;--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? DOCTOR. Do you mark that? LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?--What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting. DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not. GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. DOCTOR. Well, well, well,-- GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir. DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave. DOCTOR. Even so? LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit.] DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed? GENTLEWOMAN. Directly. DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician.-- God, God, forgive us all!--Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her:--so, good-night: My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight: I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good-night, good doctor. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.] DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? GENTLEWOMAN. Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature,--to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching-- In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her. DOCTOR. You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech. Lo you, here she comes! [Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.] This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DOCTOR. How came she by that light? GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 'tis her command. DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open. GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut. DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot. DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! out, I say!-- One; two; why, then 'tis time to do't ;--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?--Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? DOCTOR. Do you mark that? LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now?--What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting. DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not. GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. DOCTOR. Well, well, well,-- GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir. DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale:--I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave. DOCTOR. Even so? LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed. [Exit.] DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed? GENTLEWOMAN. Directly. DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician.-- God, God, forgive us all!--Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her:--so, good-night: My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight: I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good-night, good doctor. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 5.scene 2

cliffnotes

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

This brief scene takes place in the open country near Dunsinane and is a picture of impending battle. Drums are beating, flags are flying, and the Scottish soldiers have gathered to prepare for their attack against Macbeth. The English army, led by Malcolm, Macduff, and Siward is nearby. Angus, one of the Scottish lords, says, "Near Birnam Wood shall we meet them," recalling the last prophecy of the three witches. From the conversation amongst the gentlemen in this scene, the audience learns that Donaldbain has not yet jointed his brother Malcolm. The lords also discuss Macbeth. Although the king has fortified his castle, he has no real supporters. Everyone knows he has lost self-control, and most think he has gone mad. Talk then turns to the battle and purging Scotland of its sickness. They are all eager to fight, "to give obedience where 'tis truly owed." As the scene closes, they are off to Birnam Wood for the fulfillment of the prophecy.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane. [Enter. with drum and colours, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers.] MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man. ANGUS. Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming. CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother? LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward's son And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood. MENTEITH. What does the tyrant? CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies: Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule. ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands; Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love: now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe Upon a dwarfish thief. MENTEITH. Who, then, shall blame His pester'd senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there? CAITHNESS. Well, march we on, To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd: Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country's purge, Each drop of us. LENNOX. Or so much as it needs, To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 5 SCENE 2 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane. [Enter. with drum and colours, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers.] MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man. ANGUS. Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming. CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother? LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward's son And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood. MENTEITH. What does the tyrant? CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies: Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule. ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands; Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love: now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe Upon a dwarfish thief. MENTEITH. Who, then, shall blame His pester'd senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there? CAITHNESS. Well, march we on, To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd: Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country's purge, Each drop of us. LENNOX. Or so much as it needs, To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane. [Enter. with drum and colours, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers.] MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man. ANGUS. Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming. CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother? LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward's son And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood. MENTEITH. What does the tyrant? CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies: Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule. ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands; Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love: now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe Upon a dwarfish thief. MENTEITH. Who, then, shall blame His pester'd senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there? CAITHNESS. Well, march we on, To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd: Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country's purge, Each drop of us. LENNOX. Or so much as it needs, To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane. [Enter. with drum and colours, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers.] MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man. ANGUS. Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming. CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother? LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward's son And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood. MENTEITH. What does the tyrant? CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies: Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule. ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands; Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love: now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe Upon a dwarfish thief. MENTEITH. Who, then, shall blame His pester'd senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there? CAITHNESS. Well, march we on, To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd: Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country's purge, Each drop of us. LENNOX. Or so much as it needs, To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------ACT 5 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane. [Enter. with drum and colours, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers.] MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man. ANGUS. Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming. CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother? LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward's son And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood. MENTEITH. What does the tyrant? CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies: Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule. ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands; Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love: now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe Upon a dwarfish thief. MENTEITH. Who, then, shall blame His pester'd senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there? CAITHNESS. Well, march we on, To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd: Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country's purge, Each drop of us. LENNOX. Or so much as it needs, To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane. [Enter. with drum and colours, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers.] MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man. ANGUS. Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming. CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother? LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward's son And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood. MENTEITH. What does the tyrant? CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies: Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule. ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands; Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love: now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe Upon a dwarfish thief. MENTEITH. Who, then, shall blame His pester'd senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there? CAITHNESS. Well, march we on, To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd: Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country's purge, Each drop of us. LENNOX. Or so much as it needs, To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. [Exeunt, marching.]

Macbeth.act 5.scene 3

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for macbeth: summary & analysis act 5 scene 3 | cliffsnotes based on the provided context.

Macbeth dismisses reports of invasion by trusting to the prophecies of the apparitions, which seemed to promise him invincibility in battle. When a servant enters to announce the approach of a huge army, Macbeth appears momentarily to lose courage and then angrily spurns his servant and orders his armor to be put on. The Doctor, whose news concerning Lady Macbeth is just as grim, is treated with similar contempt.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc'd me thus,-- "Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman Shall e'er have power upon thee."--Then fly, false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures: The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. [Enter a Servant.] The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! Where gott'st thou that goose look? SERVANT. There is ten thousand-- MACBETH. Geese, villain? SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face? SERVANT. The English force, so please you. MACBETH. Take thy face hence. [Exit Servant.] Seyton!--I am sick at heart, When I behold--Seyton, I say!- This push Will chair me ever or disseat me now. I have liv'd long enough: my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!-- [Enter Seyton.] SEYTON. What's your gracious pleasure? MACBETH. What news more? SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. MACBETH. I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. Give me my armour. SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet. MACBETH. I'll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.--Give me mine armour.-- How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. MACBETH. Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs,--I'll none of it.-- Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:-- Seyton, send out.--Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.-- Come, sir, despatch.--If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.--Pull't off, I say.-- What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them? DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something. MACBETH. Bring it after me.-- I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. [Exeunt all except Doctor.] DOCTOR. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. [Exit.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 5 SCENE 3 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc'd me thus,-- "Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman Shall e'er have power upon thee."--Then fly, false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures: The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. [Enter a Servant.] The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! Where gott'st thou that goose look? SERVANT. There is ten thousand-- MACBETH. Geese, villain? SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face? SERVANT. The English force, so please you. MACBETH. Take thy face hence. [Exit Servant.] Seyton!--I am sick at heart, When I behold--Seyton, I say!- This push Will chair me ever or disseat me now. I have liv'd long enough: my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!-- [Enter Seyton.] SEYTON. What's your gracious pleasure? MACBETH. What news more? SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. MACBETH. I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. Give me my armour. SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet. MACBETH. I'll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.--Give me mine armour.-- How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. MACBETH. Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs,--I'll none of it.-- Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:-- Seyton, send out.--Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.-- Come, sir, despatch.--If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.--Pull't off, I say.-- What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them? DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something. MACBETH. Bring it after me.-- I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. [Exeunt all except Doctor.] DOCTOR. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. [Exit.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc'd me thus,-- "Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman Shall e'er have power upon thee."--Then fly, false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures: The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. [Enter a Servant.] The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! Where gott'st thou that goose look? SERVANT. There is ten thousand-- MACBETH. Geese, villain? SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face? SERVANT. The English force, so please you. MACBETH. Take thy face hence. [Exit Servant.] Seyton!--I am sick at heart, When I behold--Seyton, I say!- This push Will chair me ever or disseat me now. I have liv'd long enough: my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!-- [Enter Seyton.] SEYTON. What's your gracious pleasure? MACBETH. What news more? SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. MACBETH. I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. Give me my armour. SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet. MACBETH. I'll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.--Give me mine armour.-- How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. MACBETH. Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs,--I'll none of it.-- Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:-- Seyton, send out.--Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.-- Come, sir, despatch.--If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.--Pull't off, I say.-- What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them? DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something. MACBETH. Bring it after me.-- I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. [Exeunt all except Doctor.] DOCTOR. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. [Exit.] ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc'd me thus,-- "Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman Shall e'er have power upon thee."--Then fly, false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures: The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. [Enter a Servant.] The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! Where gott'st thou that goose look? SERVANT. There is ten thousand-- MACBETH. Geese, villain? SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face? SERVANT. The English force, so please you. MACBETH. Take thy face hence. [Exit Servant.] Seyton!--I am sick at heart, When I behold--Seyton, I say!- This push Will chair me ever or disseat me now. I have liv'd long enough: my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!-- [Enter Seyton.] SEYTON. What's your gracious pleasure? MACBETH. What news more? SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. MACBETH. I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. Give me my armour. SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet. MACBETH. I'll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.--Give me mine armour.-- How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. MACBETH. Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs,--I'll none of it.-- Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:-- Seyton, send out.--Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.-- Come, sir, despatch.--If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.--Pull't off, I say.-- What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them? DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something. MACBETH. Bring it after me.-- I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. [Exeunt all except Doctor.] DOCTOR. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. [Exit.] ----------ACT 5 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc'd me thus,-- "Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman Shall e'er have power upon thee."--Then fly, false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures: The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. [Enter a Servant.] The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! Where gott'st thou that goose look? SERVANT. There is ten thousand-- MACBETH. Geese, villain? SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face? SERVANT. The English force, so please you. MACBETH. Take thy face hence. [Exit Servant.] Seyton!--I am sick at heart, When I behold--Seyton, I say!- This push Will chair me ever or disseat me now. I have liv'd long enough: my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!-- [Enter Seyton.] SEYTON. What's your gracious pleasure? MACBETH. What news more? SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. MACBETH. I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. Give me my armour. SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet. MACBETH. I'll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.--Give me mine armour.-- How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. MACBETH. Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs,--I'll none of it.-- Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:-- Seyton, send out.--Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.-- Come, sir, despatch.--If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.--Pull't off, I say.-- What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them? DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something. MACBETH. Bring it after me.-- I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. [Exeunt all except Doctor.] DOCTOR. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. [Exit.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. [Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.] MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc'd me thus,-- "Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman Shall e'er have power upon thee."--Then fly, false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures: The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. [Enter a Servant.] The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon! Where gott'st thou that goose look? SERVANT. There is ten thousand-- MACBETH. Geese, villain? SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face? SERVANT. The English force, so please you. MACBETH. Take thy face hence. [Exit Servant.] Seyton!--I am sick at heart, When I behold--Seyton, I say!- This push Will chair me ever or disseat me now. I have liv'd long enough: my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!-- [Enter Seyton.] SEYTON. What's your gracious pleasure? MACBETH. What news more? SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. MACBETH. I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. Give me my armour. SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet. MACBETH. I'll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear.--Give me mine armour.-- How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. MACBETH. Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd; Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; Raze out the written troubles of the brain; And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs,--I'll none of it.-- Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff:-- Seyton, send out.--Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.-- Come, sir, despatch.--If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.--Pull't off, I say.-- What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear'st thou of them? DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation Makes us hear something. MACBETH. Bring it after me.-- I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. [Exeunt all except Doctor.] DOCTOR. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. [Exit.]

Macbeth.act 5.scene 4

cliffnotes

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

Back at Birnam Wood Malcolm orders his troops to cut branches and carry them in front so as to camouflage the army, so that Macbeth will not be able to see how many soldiers they have.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Country nearDunsinane: a Wood in view. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching.] MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe. MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing. SIWARD. What wood is this before us? MENTEITH. The wood of Birnam. MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. SOLDIERS. It shall be done. SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure Our setting down before't. MALCOLM. 'Tis his main hope: For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt; And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too. MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership. SIWARD. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate; But certain issue strokes must arbitrate: Towards which advance the war. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 5 SCENE 4 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE IV. Country nearDunsinane: a Wood in view. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching.] MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe. MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing. SIWARD. What wood is this before us? MENTEITH. The wood of Birnam. MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. SOLDIERS. It shall be done. SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure Our setting down before't. MALCOLM. 'Tis his main hope: For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt; And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too. MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership. SIWARD. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate; But certain issue strokes must arbitrate: Towards which advance the war. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Country nearDunsinane: a Wood in view. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching.] MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe. MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing. SIWARD. What wood is this before us? MENTEITH. The wood of Birnam. MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. SOLDIERS. It shall be done. SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure Our setting down before't. MALCOLM. 'Tis his main hope: For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt; And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too. MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership. SIWARD. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate; But certain issue strokes must arbitrate: Towards which advance the war. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Country nearDunsinane: a Wood in view. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching.] MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe. MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing. SIWARD. What wood is this before us? MENTEITH. The wood of Birnam. MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. SOLDIERS. It shall be done. SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure Our setting down before't. MALCOLM. 'Tis his main hope: For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt; And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too. MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership. SIWARD. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate; But certain issue strokes must arbitrate: Towards which advance the war. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------ACT 5 SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Country nearDunsinane: a Wood in view. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching.] MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe. MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing. SIWARD. What wood is this before us? MENTEITH. The wood of Birnam. MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. SOLDIERS. It shall be done. SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure Our setting down before't. MALCOLM. 'Tis his main hope: For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt; And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too. MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership. SIWARD. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate; But certain issue strokes must arbitrate: Towards which advance the war. [Exeunt, marching.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Country nearDunsinane: a Wood in view. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching.] MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe. MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing. SIWARD. What wood is this before us? MENTEITH. The wood of Birnam. MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. SOLDIERS. It shall be done. SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure Our setting down before't. MALCOLM. 'Tis his main hope: For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt; And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too. MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership. SIWARD. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate; But certain issue strokes must arbitrate: Towards which advance the war. [Exeunt, marching.]

Macbeth.act 5.scene 5

cliffnotes

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

This scene again take place in the court of the palace at Dunsinane with Macbeth talking to Seton and his soldiers. He is still lying to himself as the tells the others, "Our castle's strength will laugh a siege to scorn. " His vain words are interrupted by the wailing of women. Macbeth admits he is unaffected by the sounds since he is so used to "slaughterhouse thoughts." He does, however, ask Seton why they are crying. The officer replies that the queen is dead. Macbeth responds with words that reflect not grief, but the total emptiness of life that he feels: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more; it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. A messenger interrupts the king's thoughts and tells him that as he stood watch on the hill, "I looked toward Birnam, and anon, me thought the wood began to move." Macbeth immediately thinks of the prophecy and curses "the fiend that lies like truth." He knows that if the woods are moving towards his castle, his days are numbered. He ends the scene by again stating a death wish: "I 'gin to be aweary of the sun, and wish th'estate i' the' world were undone." He says, however, he will die in armor like a man.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. [Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers.] MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. [A cry of women within.] What is that noise? SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. [Exit.] MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, Cannot once start me. [Re-enter Seyton.] Wherefore was that cry? SEYTON. The queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word.-- To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. [Enter a Messenger.] Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MESSENGER. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. MACBETH. Well, say, sir. MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. MACBETH. Liar, and slave! [Strikimg him.] MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. MACBETH. If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.-- I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;" and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.--Arm, arm, and out!-- If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun, And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.-- Ring the alarum bell!--Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 5 SCENE 5 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. [Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers.] MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. [A cry of women within.] What is that noise? SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. [Exit.] MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, Cannot once start me. [Re-enter Seyton.] Wherefore was that cry? SEYTON. The queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word.-- To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. [Enter a Messenger.] Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MESSENGER. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. MACBETH. Well, say, sir. MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. MACBETH. Liar, and slave! [Strikimg him.] MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. MACBETH. If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.-- I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;" and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.--Arm, arm, and out!-- If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun, And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.-- Ring the alarum bell!--Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. [Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers.] MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. [A cry of women within.] What is that noise? SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. [Exit.] MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, Cannot once start me. [Re-enter Seyton.] Wherefore was that cry? SEYTON. The queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word.-- To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. [Enter a Messenger.] Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MESSENGER. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. MACBETH. Well, say, sir. MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. MACBETH. Liar, and slave! [Strikimg him.] MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. MACBETH. If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.-- I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;" and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.--Arm, arm, and out!-- If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun, And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.-- Ring the alarum bell!--Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. [Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers.] MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. [A cry of women within.] What is that noise? SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. [Exit.] MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, Cannot once start me. [Re-enter Seyton.] Wherefore was that cry? SEYTON. The queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word.-- To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. [Enter a Messenger.] Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MESSENGER. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. MACBETH. Well, say, sir. MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. MACBETH. Liar, and slave! [Strikimg him.] MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. MACBETH. If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.-- I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;" and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.--Arm, arm, and out!-- If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun, And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.-- Ring the alarum bell!--Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5 SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. [Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers.] MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. [A cry of women within.] What is that noise? SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. [Exit.] MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, Cannot once start me. [Re-enter Seyton.] Wherefore was that cry? SEYTON. The queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word.-- To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. [Enter a Messenger.] Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MESSENGER. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. MACBETH. Well, say, sir. MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. MACBETH. Liar, and slave! [Strikimg him.] MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. MACBETH. If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.-- I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;" and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.--Arm, arm, and out!-- If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun, And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.-- Ring the alarum bell!--Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. [Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers.] MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up: Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. [A cry of women within.] What is that noise? SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. [Exit.] MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in't: I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, Cannot once start me. [Re-enter Seyton.] Wherefore was that cry? SEYTON. The queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word.-- To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. [Enter a Messenger.] Thou com'st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MESSENGER. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. MACBETH. Well, say, sir. MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. MACBETH. Liar, and slave! [Strikimg him.] MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. MACBETH. If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.-- I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;" and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.--Arm, arm, and out!-- If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun, And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.-- Ring the alarum bell!--Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 5.scene 6

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Produce a brief summary for act 5, scene 6 based on the provided context.

The rebel army has reached Macbeth's castle at Dunsinane. Malcolm orders Siward and his son to lead the men into the castle. Malcolm and Macduff will remain behind to finish off everyone else

----------ACT 5, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, &c., and their Army, with boughs.] MALCOLM. Now near enough; your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are.--You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right-noble son, Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon's what else remains to do, According to our order. SIWARD. Fare you well.-- Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. [Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 5 SCENE 6 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, &c., and their Army, with boughs.] MALCOLM. Now near enough; your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are.--You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right-noble son, Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon's what else remains to do, According to our order. SIWARD. Fare you well.-- Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, &c., and their Army, with boughs.] MALCOLM. Now near enough; your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are.--You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right-noble son, Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon's what else remains to do, According to our order. SIWARD. Fare you well.-- Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, &c., and their Army, with boughs.] MALCOLM. Now near enough; your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are.--You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right-noble son, Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon's what else remains to do, According to our order. SIWARD. Fare you well.-- Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5 SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, &c., and their Army, with boughs.] MALCOLM. Now near enough; your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are.--You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right-noble son, Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon's what else remains to do, According to our order. SIWARD. Fare you well.-- Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. [Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, &c., and their Army, with boughs.] MALCOLM. Now near enough; your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are.--You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right-noble son, Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon's what else remains to do, According to our order. SIWARD. Fare you well.-- Do we but find the tyrant's power to-night, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. [Exeunt.]

Macbeth.act 5.scene 7

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Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 5, scene 7, utilizing the provided context.

Macbeth has been captured by the soldiers and tied to a stake. Siward's young son approaches Macbeth and tries to duel with him. Macbeth promptly kills him. Macduff then enters the castle, followed by Siward. Macduff wants to find and kill Macbeth so that his wife and children's ghosts will not haunt him. The two roam the hallways, looking for the escapee Macbeth

----------ACT 5, SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. [Alarums. Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course.--What's he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none. [Enter young Siward.] YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name? MACBETH. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. YOUNG SIWARD. No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell. MACBETH. My name's Macbeth. YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. MACBETH. No, nor more fearful. YOUNG SIWARD. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st. [They fight, and young Seward is slain.] MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman.-- But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. [Exit.] [Alarums. Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. That way the noise is.--Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves; either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune! And more I beg not. [Exit. Alarums.] [Enter Malcolm and old Siward.] SIWARD. This way, my lord;--the castle's gently render'd: The tyrant's people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war; The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do. MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us. SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle. [Exeunt. Alarums.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 5 SCENE 7 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. [Alarums. Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course.--What's he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none. [Enter young Siward.] YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name? MACBETH. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. YOUNG SIWARD. No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell. MACBETH. My name's Macbeth. YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. MACBETH. No, nor more fearful. YOUNG SIWARD. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st. [They fight, and young Seward is slain.] MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman.-- But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. [Exit.] [Alarums. Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. That way the noise is.--Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves; either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune! And more I beg not. [Exit. Alarums.] [Enter Malcolm and old Siward.] SIWARD. This way, my lord;--the castle's gently render'd: The tyrant's people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war; The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do. MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us. SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle. [Exeunt. Alarums.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. [Alarums. Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course.--What's he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none. [Enter young Siward.] YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name? MACBETH. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. YOUNG SIWARD. No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell. MACBETH. My name's Macbeth. YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. MACBETH. No, nor more fearful. YOUNG SIWARD. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st. [They fight, and young Seward is slain.] MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman.-- But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. [Exit.] [Alarums. Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. That way the noise is.--Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves; either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune! And more I beg not. [Exit. Alarums.] [Enter Malcolm and old Siward.] SIWARD. This way, my lord;--the castle's gently render'd: The tyrant's people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war; The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do. MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us. SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle. [Exeunt. Alarums.] ----------SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. [Alarums. Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course.--What's he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none. [Enter young Siward.] YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name? MACBETH. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. YOUNG SIWARD. No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell. MACBETH. My name's Macbeth. YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. MACBETH. No, nor more fearful. YOUNG SIWARD. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st. [They fight, and young Seward is slain.] MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman.-- But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. [Exit.] [Alarums. Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. That way the noise is.--Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves; either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune! And more I beg not. [Exit. Alarums.] [Enter Malcolm and old Siward.] SIWARD. This way, my lord;--the castle's gently render'd: The tyrant's people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war; The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do. MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us. SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle. [Exeunt. Alarums.] ----------ACT 5 SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. [Alarums. Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course.--What's he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none. [Enter young Siward.] YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name? MACBETH. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. YOUNG SIWARD. No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell. MACBETH. My name's Macbeth. YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. MACBETH. No, nor more fearful. YOUNG SIWARD. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st. [They fight, and young Seward is slain.] MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman.-- But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. [Exit.] [Alarums. Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. That way the noise is.--Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves; either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune! And more I beg not. [Exit. Alarums.] [Enter Malcolm and old Siward.] SIWARD. This way, my lord;--the castle's gently render'd: The tyrant's people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war; The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do. MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us. SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle. [Exeunt. Alarums.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 7--------- SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. [Alarums. Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course.--What's he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none. [Enter young Siward.] YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name? MACBETH. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. YOUNG SIWARD. No; though thou call'st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell. MACBETH. My name's Macbeth. YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. MACBETH. No, nor more fearful. YOUNG SIWARD. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st. [They fight, and young Seward is slain.] MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman.-- But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. [Exit.] [Alarums. Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. That way the noise is.--Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be'st slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves; either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune! And more I beg not. [Exit. Alarums.] [Enter Malcolm and old Siward.] SIWARD. This way, my lord;--the castle's gently render'd: The tyrant's people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war; The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do. MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us. SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle. [Exeunt. Alarums.]

Macbeth.act 5.scene 8

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Create a compact summary that covers the main points of macbeth: summary & analysis act 5 scene 8 | cliffsnotes, utilizing the provided context.

On another part of the battlefield, Macbeth and Macduff finally come face to face. Words, then sword thrusts are exchanged, and Macbeth, the bloody and tyrannical usurper of the throne of Scotland, meets his predestined end.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 8--------- SCENE VIII. The same. Another part of the field. [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them. [Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. Turn, hell-hound, turn! MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charg'd With blood of thine already. MACDUFF. I have no words,-- My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! [They fight.] MACBETH. Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born. MACDUFF. Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast serv'd Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd. MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow'd my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope!--I'll not fight with thee. MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o' the time: We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, "Here may you see the tyrant." MACBETH. I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, And to be baited with the rabble's curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!" [Exeunt fighting.] [Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, Lennox, Angus, Caithness, Menteith, and Soldiers. MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd. SIWARD. Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought. MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. ROSS. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt: He only liv'd but till he was a man; The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd In the unshrinking station where he fought, But like a man he died. SIWARD. Then he is dead? FLEANCE. Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then It hath no end. SIWARD. Had he his hurts before? ROSS. Ay, on the front. SIWARD. Why then, God's soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And, so his knell is knoll'd. MALCOLM. He's worth more sorrow, And that I'll spend for him. SIWARD. He's worth no more: They say he parted well, and paid his score: And so, God be with him!--Here comes newer comfort. [Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.] MACDUFF. Hail, king, for so thou art: behold, where stands The usurper's cursed head: the time is free: I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl That speak my salutation in their minds; Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,-- Hail, King of Scotland! ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! [Flourish.] MALCOLM. We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honour nam'd. What's more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time,-- As calling home our exil'd friends abroad, That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; Producing forth the cruel ministers Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen,-- Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life;--this, and what needful else That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, We will perform in measure, time, and place: So, thanks to all at once, and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone. [Flourish. Exeunt.] ----------MACBETH: SUMMARY & ANALYSIS ACT 5 SCENE 8 | CLIFFSNOTES--------- SCENE VIII. The same. Another part of the field. [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them. [Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. Turn, hell-hound, turn! MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charg'd With blood of thine already. MACDUFF. I have no words,-- My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! [They fight.] MACBETH. Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born. MACDUFF. Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast serv'd Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd. MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow'd my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope!--I'll not fight with thee. MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o' the time: We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, "Here may you see the tyrant." MACBETH. I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, And to be baited with the rabble's curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!" [Exeunt fighting.] [Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, Lennox, Angus, Caithness, Menteith, and Soldiers. MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd. SIWARD. Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought. MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. ROSS. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt: He only liv'd but till he was a man; The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd In the unshrinking station where he fought, But like a man he died. SIWARD. Then he is dead? FLEANCE. Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then It hath no end. SIWARD. Had he his hurts before? ROSS. Ay, on the front. SIWARD. Why then, God's soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And, so his knell is knoll'd. MALCOLM. He's worth more sorrow, And that I'll spend for him. SIWARD. He's worth no more: They say he parted well, and paid his score: And so, God be with him!--Here comes newer comfort. [Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.] MACDUFF. Hail, king, for so thou art: behold, where stands The usurper's cursed head: the time is free: I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl That speak my salutation in their minds; Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,-- Hail, King of Scotland! ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! [Flourish.] MALCOLM. We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honour nam'd. What's more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time,-- As calling home our exil'd friends abroad, That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; Producing forth the cruel ministers Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen,-- Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life;--this, and what needful else That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, We will perform in measure, time, and place: So, thanks to all at once, and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone. [Flourish. Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 8--------- SCENE VIII. The same. Another part of the field. [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them. [Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. Turn, hell-hound, turn! MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charg'd With blood of thine already. MACDUFF. I have no words,-- My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! [They fight.] MACBETH. Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born. MACDUFF. Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast serv'd Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd. MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow'd my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope!--I'll not fight with thee. MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o' the time: We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, "Here may you see the tyrant." MACBETH. I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, And to be baited with the rabble's curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!" [Exeunt fighting.] [Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, Lennox, Angus, Caithness, Menteith, and Soldiers. MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd. SIWARD. Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought. MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. ROSS. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt: He only liv'd but till he was a man; The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd In the unshrinking station where he fought, But like a man he died. SIWARD. Then he is dead? FLEANCE. Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then It hath no end. SIWARD. Had he his hurts before? ROSS. Ay, on the front. SIWARD. Why then, God's soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And, so his knell is knoll'd. MALCOLM. He's worth more sorrow, And that I'll spend for him. SIWARD. He's worth no more: They say he parted well, and paid his score: And so, God be with him!--Here comes newer comfort. [Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.] MACDUFF. Hail, king, for so thou art: behold, where stands The usurper's cursed head: the time is free: I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl That speak my salutation in their minds; Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,-- Hail, King of Scotland! ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! [Flourish.] MALCOLM. We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honour nam'd. What's more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time,-- As calling home our exil'd friends abroad, That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; Producing forth the cruel ministers Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen,-- Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life;--this, and what needful else That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, We will perform in measure, time, and place: So, thanks to all at once, and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone. [Flourish. Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5, SCENE 8--------- SCENE VIII. The same. Another part of the field. [Enter Macbeth.] MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them. [Enter Macduff.] MACDUFF. Turn, hell-hound, turn! MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charg'd With blood of thine already. MACDUFF. I have no words,-- My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! [They fight.] MACBETH. Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born. MACDUFF. Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast serv'd Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd. MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow'd my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope!--I'll not fight with thee. MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o' the time: We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, "Here may you see the tyrant." MACBETH. I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, And to be baited with the rabble's curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou oppos'd, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!" [Exeunt fighting.] [Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, Lennox, Angus, Caithness, Menteith, and Soldiers. MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd. SIWARD. Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought. MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. ROSS. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt: He only liv'd but till he was a man; The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd In the unshrinking station where he fought, But like a man he died. SIWARD. Then he is dead? FLEANCE. Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then It hath no end. SIWARD. Had he his hurts before? ROSS. Ay, on the front. SIWARD. Why then, God's soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And, so his knell is knoll'd. MALCOLM. He's worth more sorrow, And that I'll spend for him. SIWARD. He's worth no more: They say he parted well, and paid his score: And so, God be with him!--Here comes newer comfort. [Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head.] MACDUFF. Hail, king, for so thou art: behold, where stands The usurper's cursed head: the time is free: I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl That speak my salutation in their minds; Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,-- Hail, King of Scotland! ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! [Flourish.] MALCOLM. We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honour nam'd. What's more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time,-- As calling home our exil'd friends abroad, That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; Producing forth the cruel ministers Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen,-- Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life;--this, and what needful else That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, We will perform in measure, time, and place: So, thanks to all at once, and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone. [Flourish. Exeunt.]

Madame Bovary.part 1.chap

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for part 1, chapter 5 with the given context.

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

Next, we get a brief tour of Charles and Emma's house. It sounds pretty decent - nothing impressive, but a nice enough home for a country doctor and his wife. There's a little garden, an office for Charles , and generally everything a typical village housewife might need. Emma, however, is not your typical village housewife. First of all, she notices the former Madame Bovary's bridal bouquet preserved in the bedroom - this totally doesn't fly. This relic of wife #1 is relegated to exile in the attic. After this change, Emma goes on a total renovation rampage, making changes to every aspect of the little house's decor. Charles is in heaven. He gives in to all of Emma's whims, and buys everything she wants. He's totally head over heels in love with her, and is infatuated by her beauty. Everything is perfect, as far as he's concerned, and he can't remember ever being happier. The whole world is wrapped up in Emma. Emma, however, isn't sure that she's so happy. She had thought herself in love before the marriage, but now conjugal life doesn't seem so blissful. She wonders if the words she's read about in books - passion, rapture, bliss - can apply to her life.

----------PART 1, CHAPTER 3--------- One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting his leg--seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. He had heard of his loss, and consoled him as well as he could. "I know what it is," said he, clapping him on the shoulder; "I've been through it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into the fields to be quite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree; I cried; I called on God; I talked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw on the branches, their insides swarming with worms, dead, and an end of it. And when I thought that there were others at that very moment with their nice little wives holding them in their embrace, I struck great blows on the earth with my stick. I was pretty well mad with not eating; the very idea of going to a cafe disgusted me--you wouldn't believe it. Well, quite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter, and an autumn after a summer, this wore away, piece by piece, crumb by crumb; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something always remains at the bottom as one would say--a weight here, at one's heart. But since it is the lot of all of us, one must not give way altogether, and, because others have died, want to die too. You must pull yourself together, Monsieur Bovary. It will pass away. Come to see us; my daughter thinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says you are forgetting her. Spring will soon be here. We'll have some rabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit." Charles followed his advice. He went back to the Bertaux. He found all as he had left it, that is to say, as it was five months ago. The pear trees were already in blossom, and Farmer Rouault, on his legs again, came and went, making the farm more full of life. Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the doctor because of his sad position, he begged him not to take his hat off, spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, and even pretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for him than for the others, such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears. He told stories. Charles found himself laughing, but the remembrance of his wife suddenly coming back to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in; he thought no more about her. He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone. The new delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable. He could now change his meal-times, go in or out without explanation, and when he was very tired stretch himself at full length on his bed. So he nursed and coddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him. On the other hand, the death of his wife had not served him ill in his business, since for a month people had been saying, "The poor young man! what a loss!" His name had been talked about, his practice had increased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked. He had an aimless hope, and was vaguely happy; he thought himself better looking as he brushed his whiskers before the looking-glass. One day he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the fields. He went into the kitchen, but did not at once catch sight of Emma; the outside shutters were closed. Through the chinks of the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays that were broken at the corners of the furniture and trembled along the ceiling. Some flies on the table were crawling up the glasses that had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the dregs of the cider. The daylight that came in by the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and touched with blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of perspiration on her bare shoulders. After the fashion of country folks she asked him to have something to drink. He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him. So she went to fetch a bottle of curacao from the cupboard, reached down two small glasses, filled one to the brim, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked glasses, carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent back to drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on the strain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tip of her tongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop by drop the bottom of her glass. She sat down again and took up her work, a white cotton stocking she was darning. She worked with her head bent down; she did not speak, nor did Charles. The air coming in under the door blew a little dust over the flags; he watched it drift along, and heard nothing but the throbbing in his head and the faint clucking of a hen that had laid an egg in the yard. Emma from time to time cooled her cheeks with the palms of her hands, and cooled these again on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs. She complained of suffering since the beginning of the season from giddiness; she asked if sea-baths would do her any good; she began talking of her convent, Charles of his school; words came to them. They went up into her bedroom. She showed him her old music-books, the little prizes she had won, and the oak-leaf crowns, left at the bottom of a cupboard. She spoke to him, too, of her mother, of the country, and even showed him the bed in the garden where, on the first Friday of every month, she gathered flowers to put on her mother's tomb. But the gardener they had never knew anything about it; servants are so stupid! She would have dearly liked, if only for the winter, to live in town, although the length of the fine days made the country perhaps even more wearisome in the summer. And, according to what she was saying, her voice was clear, sharp, or, on a sudden all languor, drawn out in modulations that ended almost in murmurs as she spoke to herself, now joyous, opening big naive eyes, then with her eyelids half closed, her look full of boredom, her thoughts wandering. Going home at night, Charles went over her words one by one, trying to recall them, to fill out their sense, that he might piece out the life she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her in his thoughts other than he had seen her the first time, or as he had just left her. Then he asked himself what would become of her--if she would be married, and to whom! Alas! Old Rouault was rich, and she!--so beautiful! But Emma's face always rose before his eyes, and a monotone, like the humming of a top, sounded in his ears, "If you should marry after all! If you should marry!" At night he could not sleep; his throat was parched; he was athirst. He got up to drink from the water-bottle and opened the window. The night was covered with stars, a warm wind blowing in the distance; the dogs were barking. He turned his head towards the Bertaux. Thinking that, after all, he should lose nothing, Charles promised himself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasion offered, but each time such occasion did offer the fear of not finding the right words sealed his lips. Old Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his daughter, who was of no use to him in the house. In his heart he excused her, thinking her too clever for farming, a calling under the ban of Heaven, since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far from having made a fortune by it, the good man was losing every year; for if he was good in bargaining, in which he enjoyed the dodges of the trade, on the other hand, agriculture properly so called, and the internal management of the farm, suited him less than most people. He did not willingly take his hands out of his pockets, and did not spare expense in all that concerned himself, liking to eat well, to have good fires, and to sleep well. He liked old cider, underdone legs of mutton, glorias* well beaten up. He took his meals in the kitchen alone, opposite the fire, on a little table brought to him all ready laid as on the stage. *A mixture of coffee and spirits. When, therefore, he perceived that Charles's cheeks grew red if near his daughter, which meant that he would propose for her one of these days, he chewed the cud of the matter beforehand. He certainly thought him a little meagre, and not quite the son-in-law he would have liked, but he was said to be well brought-up, economical, very learned, and no doubt would not make too many difficulties about the dowry. Now, as old Rouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of "his property," as he owed a good deal to the mason, to the harness-maker, and as the shaft of the cider-press wanted renewing, "If he asks for her," he said to himself, "I'll give her to him." At Michaelmas Charles went to spend three days at the Bertaux. The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from hour to hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were walking along the road full of ruts; they were about to part. This was the time. Charles gave himself as far as to the corner of the hedge, and at last, when past it-- "Monsieur Rouault," he murmured, "I should like to say something to you." They stopped. Charles was silent. "Well, tell me your story. Don't I know all about it?" said old Rouault, laughing softly. "Monsieur Rouault--Monsieur Rouault," stammered Charles. "I ask nothing better", the farmer went on. "Although, no doubt, the little one is of my mind, still we must ask her opinion. So you get off--I'll go back home. If it is 'yes', you needn't return because of all the people about, and besides it would upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be eating your heart, I'll open wide the outer shutter of the window against the wall; you can see it from the back by leaning over the hedge." And he went off. Charles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road and waited. Half an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes by his watch. Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall; the shutter had been thrown back; the hook was still swinging. The next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as he entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself in countenance. Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. The discussion of money matters was put off; moreover, there was plenty of time before them, as the marriage could not decently take place till Charles was out of mourning, that is to say, about the spring of the next year. The winter passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that she borrowed. When Charles visited the farmer, the preparations for the wedding were talked over; they wondered in what room they should have dinner; they dreamed of the number of dishes that would be wanted, and what should be entrees. Emma would, on the contrary, have preferred to have a midnight wedding with torches, but old Rouault could not understand such an idea. So there was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present, at which they remained sixteen hours at table, began again the next day, and to some extent on the days following. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 4--------- The guests arrived early in carriages, in one-horse chaises, two-wheeled cars, old open gigs, waggonettes with leather hoods, and the young people from the nearer villages in carts, in which they stood up in rows, holding on to the sides so as not to fall, going at a trot and well shaken up. Some came from a distance of thirty miles, from Goderville, from Normanville, and from Cany. All the relatives of both families had been invited, quarrels between friends arranged, acquaintances long since lost sight of written to. From time to time one heard the crack of a whip behind the hedge; then the gates opened, a chaise entered. Galloping up to the foot of the steps, it stopped short and emptied its load. They got down from all sides, rubbing knees and stretching arms. The ladies, wearing bonnets, had on dresses in the town fashion, gold watch chains, pelerines with the ends tucked into belts, or little coloured fichus fastened down behind with a pin, and that left the back of the neck bare. The lads, dressed like their papas, seemed uncomfortable in their new clothes (many that day hand-sewed their first pair of boots), and by their sides, speaking never a work, wearing the white dress of their first communion lengthened for the occasion were some big girls of fourteen or sixteen, cousins or elder sisters no doubt, rubicund, bewildered, their hair greasy with rose pomade, and very much afraid of dirtying their gloves. As there were not enough stable-boys to unharness all the carriages, the gentlemen turned up their sleeves and set about it themselves. According to their different social positions they wore tail-coats, overcoats, shooting jackets, cutaway-coats; fine tail-coats, redolent of family respectability, that only came out of the wardrobe on state occasions; overcoats with long tails flapping in the wind and round capes and pockets like sacks; shooting jackets of coarse cloth, generally worn with a cap with a brass-bound peak; very short cutaway-coats with two small buttons in the back, close together like a pair of eyes, and the tails of which seemed cut out of one piece by a carpenter's hatchet. Some, too (but these, you may be sure, would sit at the bottom of the table), wore their best blouses--that is to say, with collars turned down to the shoulders, the back gathered into small plaits and the waist fastened very low down with a worked belt. And the shirts stood out from the chests like cuirasses! Everyone had just had his hair cut; ears stood out from the heads; they had been close-shaved; a few, even, who had had to get up before daybreak, and not been able to see to shave, had diagonal gashes under their noses or cuts the size of a three-franc piece along the jaws, which the fresh air en route had enflamed, so that the great white beaming faces were mottled here and there with red dabs. The mairie was a mile and a half from the farm, and they went thither on foot, returning in the same way after the ceremony in the church. The procession, first united like one long coloured scarf that undulated across the fields, along the narrow path winding amid the green corn, soon lengthened out, and broke up into different groups that loitered to talk. The fiddler walked in front with his violin, gay with ribbons at its pegs. Then came the married pair, the relations, the friends, all following pell-mell; the children stayed behind amusing themselves plucking the bell-flowers from oat-ears, or playing amongst themselves unseen. Emma's dress, too long, trailed a little on the ground; from time to time she stopped to pull it up, and then delicately, with her gloved hands, she picked off the coarse grass and the thistledowns, while Charles, empty handed, waited till she had finished. Old Rouault, with a new silk hat and the cuffs of his black coat covering his hands up to the nails, gave his arm to Madame Bovary senior. As to Monsieur Bovary senior, who, heartily despising all these folk, had come simply in a frock-coat of military cut with one row of buttons--he was passing compliments of the bar to a fair young peasant. She bowed, blushed, and did not know what to say. The other wedding guests talked of their business or played tricks behind each other's backs, egging one another on in advance to be jolly. Those who listened could always catch the squeaking of the fiddler, who went on playing across the fields. When he saw that the rest were far behind he stopped to take breath, slowly rosined his bow, so that the strings should sound more shrilly, then set off again, by turns lowering and raising his neck, the better to mark time for himself. The noise of the instrument drove away the little birds from afar. The table was laid under the cart-shed. On it were four sirloins, six chicken fricassees, stewed veal, three legs of mutton, and in the middle a fine roast suckling pig, flanked by four chitterlings with sorrel. At the corners were decanters of brandy. Sweet bottled-cider frothed round the corks, and all the glasses had been filled to the brim with wine beforehand. Large dishes of yellow cream, that trembled with the least shake of the table, had designed on their smooth surface the initials of the newly wedded pair in nonpareil arabesques. A confectioner of Yvetot had been intrusted with the tarts and sweets. As he had only just set up on the place, he had taken a lot of trouble, and at dessert he himself brought in a set dish that evoked loud cries of wonderment. To begin with, at its base there was a square of blue cardboard, representing a temple with porticoes, colonnades, and stucco statuettes all round, and in the niches constellations of gilt paper stars; then on the second stage was a dungeon of Savoy cake, surrounded by many fortifications in candied angelica, almonds, raisins, and quarters of oranges; and finally, on the upper platform a green field with rocks set in lakes of jam, nutshell boats, and a small Cupid balancing himself in a chocolate swing whose two uprights ended in real roses for balls at the top. Until night they ate. When any of them were too tired of sitting, they went out for a stroll in the yard, or for a game with corks in the granary, and then returned to table. Some towards the finish went to sleep and snored. But with the coffee everyone woke up. Then they began songs, showed off tricks, raised heavy weights, performed feats with their fingers, then tried lifting carts on their shoulders, made broad jokes, kissed the women. At night when they left, the horses, stuffed up to the nostrils with oats, could hardly be got into the shafts; they kicked, reared, the harness broke, their masters laughed or swore; and all night in the light of the moon along country roads there were runaway carts at full gallop plunging into the ditches, jumping over yard after yard of stones, clambering up the hills, with women leaning out from the tilt to catch hold of the reins. Those who stayed at the Bertaux spent the night drinking in the kitchen. The children had fallen asleep under the seats. The bride had begged her father to be spared the usual marriage pleasantries. However, a fishmonger, one of their cousins (who had even brought a pair of soles for his wedding present), began to squirt water from his mouth through the keyhole, when old Rouault came up just in time to stop him, and explain to him that the distinguished position of his son-in-law would not allow of such liberties. The cousin all the same did not give in to these reasons readily. In his heart he accused old Rouault of being proud, and he joined four or five other guests in a corner, who having, through mere chance, been several times running served with the worst helps of meat, also were of opinion they had been badly used, and were whispering about their host, and with covered hints hoping he would ruin himself. Madame Bovary, senior, had not opened her mouth all day. She had been consulted neither as to the dress of her daughter-in-law nor as to the arrangement of the feast; she went to bed early. Her husband, instead of following her, sent to Saint-Victor for some cigars, and smoked till daybreak, drinking kirsch-punch, a mixture unknown to the company. This added greatly to the consideration in which he was held. Charles, who was not of a facetious turn, did not shine at the wedding. He answered feebly to the puns, doubles entendres*, compliments, and chaff that it was felt a duty to let off at him as soon as the soup appeared. *Double meanings. The next day, on the other hand, he seemed another man. It was he who might rather have been taken for the virgin of the evening before, whilst the bride gave no sign that revealed anything. The shrewdest did not know what to make of it, and they looked at her when she passed near them with an unbounded concentration of mind. But Charles concealed nothing. He called her "my wife", tutoyed* her, asked for her of everyone, looked for her everywhere, and often he dragged her into the yards, where he could be seen from far between the trees, putting his arm around her waist, and walking half-bending over her, ruffling the chemisette of her bodice with his head. *Used the familiar form of address. Two days after the wedding the married pair left. Charles, on account of his patients, could not be away longer. Old Rouault had them driven back in his cart, and himself accompanied them as far as Vassonville. Here he embraced his daughter for the last time, got down, and went his way. When he had gone about a hundred paces he stopped, and as he saw the cart disappearing, its wheels turning in the dust, he gave a deep sigh. Then he remembered his wedding, the old times, the first pregnancy of his wife; he, too, had been very happy the day when he had taken her from her father to his home, and had carried her off on a pillion, trotting through the snow, for it was near Christmas-time, and the country was all white. She held him by one arm, her basket hanging from the other; the wind blew the long lace of her Cauchois headdress so that it sometimes flapped across his mouth, and when he turned his head he saw near him, on his shoulder, her little rosy face, smiling silently under the gold bands of her cap. To warm her hands she put them from time to time in his breast. How long ago it all was! Their son would have been thirty by now. Then he looked back and saw nothing on the road. He felt dreary as an empty house; and tender memories mingling with the sad thoughts in his brain, addled by the fumes of the feast, he felt inclined for a moment to take a turn towards the church. As he was afraid, however, that this sight would make him yet more sad, he went right away home. Monsieur and Madame Charles arrived at Tostes about six o'clock. The neighbors came to the windows to see their doctor's new wife. The old servant presented herself, curtsied to her, apologised for not having dinner ready, and suggested that madame, in the meantime, should look over her house. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 5--------- The brick front was just in a line with the street, or rather the road. Behind the door hung a cloak with a small collar, a bridle, and a black leather cap, and on the floor, in a corner, were a pair of leggings, still covered with dry mud. On the right was the one apartment, that was both dining and sitting room. A canary yellow paper, relieved at the top by a garland of pale flowers, was puckered everywhere over the badly stretched canvas; white calico curtains with a red border hung crossways at the length of the window; and on the narrow mantelpiece a clock with a head of Hippocrates shone resplendent between two plate candlesticks under oval shades. On the other side of the passage was Charles's consulting room, a little room about six paces wide, with a table, three chairs, and an office chair. Volumes of the "Dictionary of Medical Science," uncut, but the binding rather the worse for the successive sales through which they had gone, occupied almost along the six shelves of a deal bookcase. The smell of melted butter penetrated through the walls when he saw patients, just as in the kitchen one could hear the people coughing in the consulting room and recounting their histories. Then, opening on the yard, where the stable was, came a large dilapidated room with a stove, now used as a wood-house, cellar, and pantry, full of old rubbish, of empty casks, agricultural implements past service, and a mass of dusty things whose use it was impossible to guess. The garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with espaliered apricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from the field. In the middle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal; four flower beds with eglantines surrounded symmetrically the more useful kitchen garden bed. Right at the bottom, under the spruce bushes, was a cure in plaster reading his breviary. Emma went upstairs. The first room was not furnished, but in the second, which was their bedroom, was a mahogany bedstead in an alcove with red drapery. A shell box adorned the chest of drawers, and on the secretary near the window a bouquet of orange blossoms tied with white satin ribbons stood in a bottle. It was a bride's bouquet; it was the other one's. She looked at it. Charles noticed it; he took it and carried it up to the attic, while Emma seated in an arm-chair (they were putting her things down around her) thought of her bridal flowers packed up in a bandbox, and wondered, dreaming, what would be done with them if she were to die. During the first days she occupied herself in thinking about changes in the house. She took the shades off the candlesticks, had new wallpaper put up, the staircase repainted, and seats made in the garden round the sundial; she even inquired how she could get a basin with a jet fountain and fishes. Finally her husband, knowing that she liked to drive out, picked up a second-hand dogcart, which, with new lamps and splashboard in striped leather, looked almost like a tilbury. He was happy then, and without a care in the world. A meal together, a walk in the evening on the highroad, a gesture of her hands over her hair, the sight of her straw hat hanging from the window-fastener, and many another thing in which Charles had never dreamed of pleasure, now made up the endless round of his happiness. In bed, in the morning, by her side, on the pillow, he watched the sunlight sinking into the down on her fair cheek, half hidden by the lappets of her night-cap. Seen thus closely, her eyes looked to him enlarged, especially when, on waking up, she opened and shut them rapidly many times. Black in the shade, dark blue in broad daylight, they had, as it were, depths of different colours, that, darker in the centre, grew paler towards the surface of the eye. His own eyes lost themselves in these depths; he saw himself in miniature down to the shoulders, with his handkerchief round his head and the top of his shirt open. He rose. She came to the window to see him off, and stayed leaning on the sill between two pots of geranium, clad in her dressing gown hanging loosely about her. Charles, in the street buckled his spurs, his foot on the mounting stone, while she talked to him from above, picking with her mouth some scrap of flower or leaf that she blew out at him. Then this, eddying, floating, described semicircles in the air like a bird, and was caught before it reached the ground in the ill-groomed mane of the old white mare standing motionless at the door. Charles from horseback threw her a kiss; she answered with a nod; she shut the window, and he set off. And then along the highroad, spreading out its long ribbon of dust, along the deep lanes that the trees bent over as in arbours, along paths where the corn reached to the knees, with the sun on his back and the morning air in his nostrils, his heart full of the joys of the past night, his mind at rest, his flesh at ease, he went on, re-chewing his happiness, like those who after dinner taste again the truffles which they are digesting. Until now what good had he had of his life? His time at school, when he remained shut up within the high walls, alone, in the midst of companions richer than he or cleverer at their work, who laughed at his accent, who jeered at his clothes, and whose mothers came to the school with cakes in their muffs? Later on, when he studied medicine, and never had his purse full enough to treat some little work-girl who would have become his mistress? Afterwards, he had lived fourteen months with the widow, whose feet in bed were cold as icicles. But now he had for life this beautiful woman whom he adored. For him the universe did not extend beyond the circumference of her petticoat, and he reproached himself with not loving her. He wanted to see her again; he turned back quickly, ran up the stairs with a beating heart. Emma, in her room, was dressing; he came up on tiptoe, kissed her back; she gave a cry. He could not keep from constantly touching her comb, her ring, her fichu; sometimes he gave her great sounding kisses with all his mouth on her cheeks, or else little kisses in a row all along her bare arm from the tip of her fingers up to her shoulder, and she put him away half-smiling, half-vexed, as you do a child who hangs about you. Before marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that should have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought, have been mistaken. And Emma tried to find out what one meant exactly in life by the words felicity, passion, rapture, that had seemed to her so beautiful in books.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for part 1, chapter 7 with the given context.

part 1, chapter 6|part 1, chapter 7

Emma wonders if these "honeymoon days" are really the best days of her life. She starts to feel cheated, as though Charles has deprived her of the cliched, romantic fantasies she cooks up. She's sure that she would be happier if only she was somewhere else...preferably with someone else... Emma wants to reveal these feelings of discontent to somebody, and wishes Charles could be a little more sensitive. Day by day he just grows less and less interesting to her, and she is consistently disappointed in the man she married. She believes that men should know everything and be able to do anything - Charles, however, is just an average guy. Emma attempts to express her turbulent feelings through drawing and music; Charles loves to watch her, and the people of the village are impressed by her accomplishments. Speaking of which, Emma turns out to actually be a pretty capable wife when she tries. She knows how to take care of the house and of Charles's business, and this makes the village respect the doctor and his young wife even more. Charles is also extremely impressed himself for having such a terrific wife. In his view, everything is just peachy keen. As far as we can tell, he's a really simple creature, with very few desires and no ambition at all. He's stingy and kind of oafish, but is generally still the same old predictable Charles - the kind of nice guy that finishes last. Charles's mom approves of her son's ways wholeheartedly, but she's skeptical of her daughter-in-law. She's worried that Emma wastes too much money, and every time she visits , the two women harass each other relentlessly. This springs largely from Mom's anxieties about Charles's love for Emma - she's no longer the favorite, now that Wife #2 is in the picture. Charles is caught in the crossfire between the two loves of his life. He can't believe that his mother could ever be wrong, but he also can't believe that Emma ever makes any mistakes. It's a confusing time for him; mostly, he just bumbles about, which doesn't help. Emma decides to at least attempt to "experience love" . She sings songs and recites poetry to Charles, but it doesn't accomplish anything. That's it. Emma is certain she doesn't love Charles, and furthermore, that she's incapable of loving him. She's way, way bored with her life on the whole. One of the great constants in life is the fact that Puppies Are Awesome. Emma receives a little greyhound pup as a gift from one of Charles's patients, and for a while, the awesomeness of the puppy actually makes her feel a wee bit better. She names the dog Djali and tells her about the troubles of married life. You may not have realized it, but dog is woman's best friend, too. Emma is certain she could have married someone different - and better - given the chance. She wonders about her former classmates from the convent school, and is sure that they have better husbands than she does. Her former life seems painfully far away. Just when it seems like nothing will ever happen for Emma, an invitation arrives: she and Charles are invited to a party at the home of a local big-shot, the Marquis d'Andervilliers. The Marquis, a former patient of Charles's, was impressed by Emma's elegance. The chapter ends as the couple arrives at the Marquis' chateau.

----------PART 1, CHAPTER 6--------- She had read "Paul and Virginia," and she had dreamed of the little bamboo-house, the nigger Domingo, the dog Fidele, but above all of the sweet friendship of some dear little brother, who seeks red fruit for you on trees taller than steeples, or who runs barefoot over the sand, bringing you a bird's nest. When she was thirteen, her father himself took her to town to place her in the convent. They stopped at an inn in the St. Gervais quarter, where, at their supper, they used painted plates that set forth the story of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The explanatory legends, chipped here and there by the scratching of knives, all glorified religion, the tendernesses of the heart, and the pomps of court. Far from being bored at first at the convent, she took pleasure in the society of the good sisters, who, to amuse her, took her to the chapel, which one entered from the refectory by a long corridor. She played very little during recreation hours, knew her catechism well, and it was she who always answered Monsieur le Vicaire's difficult questions. Living thus, without ever leaving the warm atmosphere of the classrooms, and amid these pale-faced women wearing rosaries with brass crosses, she was softly lulled by the mystic languor exhaled in the perfumes of the altar, the freshness of the holy water, and the lights of the tapers. Instead of attending to mass, she looked at the pious vignettes with their azure borders in her book, and she loved the sick lamb, the sacred heart pierced with sharp arrows, or the poor Jesus sinking beneath the cross he carries. She tried, by way of mortification, to eat nothing a whole day. She puzzled her head to find some vow to fulfil. When she went to confession, she invented little sins in order that she might stay there longer, kneeling in the shadow, her hands joined, her face against the grating beneath the whispering of the priest. The comparisons of betrothed, husband, celestial lover, and eternal marriage, that recur in sermons, stirred within her soul depths of unexpected sweetness. In the evening, before prayers, there was some religious reading in the study. On week-nights it was some abstract of sacred history or the Lectures of the Abbe Frayssinous, and on Sundays passages from the "Genie du Christianisme," as a recreation. How she listened at first to the sonorous lamentations of its romantic melancholies reechoing through the world and eternity! If her childhood had been spent in the shop-parlour of some business quarter, she might perhaps have opened her heart to those lyrical invasions of Nature, which usually come to us only through translation in books. But she knew the country too well; she knew the lowing of cattle, the milking, the ploughs. Accustomed to calm aspects of life, she turned, on the contrary, to those of excitement. She loved the sea only for the sake of its storms, and the green fields only when broken up by ruins. She wanted to get some personal profit out of things, and she rejected as useless all that did not contribute to the immediate desires of her heart, being of a temperament more sentimental than artistic, looking for emotions, not landscapes. At the convent there was an old maid who came for a week each month to mend the linen. Patronized by the clergy, because she belonged to an ancient family of noblemen ruined by the Revolution, she dined in the refectory at the table of the good sisters, and after the meal had a bit of chat with them before going back to her work. The girls often slipped out from the study to go and see her. She knew by heart the love songs of the last century, and sang them in a low voice as she stitched away. She told stories, gave them news, went errands in the town, and on the sly lent the big girls some novel, that she always carried in the pockets of her apron, and of which the good lady herself swallowed long chapters in the intervals of her work. They were all love, lovers, sweethearts, persecuted ladies fainting in lonely pavilions, postilions killed at every stage, horses ridden to death on every page, sombre forests, heartaches, vows, sobs, tears and kisses, little skiffs by moonlight, nightingales in shady groves, "gentlemen" brave as lions, gentle as lambs, virtuous as no one ever was, always well dressed, and weeping like fountains. For six months, then, Emma, at fifteen years of age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries. Through Walter Scott, later on, she fell in love with historical events, dreamed of old chests, guard-rooms and minstrels. She would have liked to live in some old manor-house, like those long-waisted chatelaines who, in the shade of pointed arches, spent their days leaning on the stone, chin in hand, watching a cavalier with white plume galloping on his black horse from the distant fields. At this time she had a cult for Mary Stuart and enthusiastic veneration for illustrious or unhappy women. Joan of Arc, Heloise, Agnes Sorel, the beautiful Ferroniere, and Clemence Isaure stood out to her like comets in the dark immensity of heaven, where also were seen, lost in shadow, and all unconnected, St. Louis with his oak, the dying Bayard, some cruelties of Louis XI, a little of St. Bartholomew's Day, the plume of the Bearnais, and always the remembrance of the plates painted in honour of Louis XIV. In the music class, in the ballads she sang, there was nothing but little angels with golden wings, madonnas, lagunes, gondoliers;-mild compositions that allowed her to catch a glimpse athwart the obscurity of style and the weakness of the music of the attractive phantasmagoria of sentimental realities. Some of her companions brought "keepsakes" given them as new year's gifts to the convent. These had to be hidden; it was quite an undertaking; they were read in the dormitory. Delicately handling the beautiful satin bindings, Emma looked with dazzled eyes at the names of the unknown authors, who had signed their verses for the most part as counts or viscounts. She trembled as she blew back the tissue paper over the engraving and saw it folded in two and fall gently against the page. Here behind the balustrade of a balcony was a young man in a short cloak, holding in his arms a young girl in a white dress wearing an alms-bag at her belt; or there were nameless portraits of English ladies with fair curls, who looked at you from under their round straw hats with their large clear eyes. Some there were lounging in their carriages, gliding through parks, a greyhound bounding along in front of the equipage driven at a trot by two midget postilions in white breeches. Others, dreaming on sofas with an open letter, gazed at the moon through a slightly open window half draped by a black curtain. The naive ones, a tear on their cheeks, were kissing doves through the bars of a Gothic cage, or, smiling, their heads on one side, were plucking the leaves of a marguerite with their taper fingers, that curved at the tips like peaked shoes. And you, too, were there, Sultans with long pipes reclining beneath arbours in the arms of Bayaderes; Djiaours, Turkish sabres, Greek caps; and you especially, pale landscapes of dithyrambic lands, that often show us at once palm trees and firs, tigers on the right, a lion to the left, Tartar minarets on the horizon; the whole framed by a very neat virgin forest, and with a great perpendicular sunbeam trembling in the water, where, standing out in relief like white excoriations on a steel-grey ground, swans are swimming about. And the shade of the argand lamp fastened to the wall above Emma's head lighted up all these pictures of the world, that passed before her one by one in the silence of the dormitory, and to the distant noise of some belated carriage rolling over the Boulevards. When her mother died she cried much the first few days. She had a funeral picture made with the hair of the deceased, and, in a letter sent to the Bertaux full of sad reflections on life, she asked to be buried later on in the same grave. The goodman thought she must be ill, and came to see her. Emma was secretly pleased that she had reached at a first attempt the rare ideal of pale lives, never attained by mediocre hearts. She let herself glide along with Lamartine meanderings, listened to harps on lakes, to all the songs of dying swans, to the falling of the leaves, the pure virgins ascending to heaven, and the voice of the Eternal discoursing down the valleys. She wearied of it, would not confess it, continued from habit, and at last was surprised to feel herself soothed, and with no more sadness at heart than wrinkles on her brow. The good nuns, who had been so sure of her vocation, perceived with great astonishment that Mademoiselle Rouault seemed to be slipping from them. They had indeed been so lavish to her of prayers, retreats, novenas, and sermons, they had so often preached the respect due to saints and martyrs, and given so much good advice as to the modesty of the body and the salvation of her soul, that she did as tightly reined horses; she pulled up short and the bit slipped from her teeth. This nature, positive in the midst of its enthusiasms, that had loved the church for the sake of the flowers, and music for the words of the songs, and literature for its passional stimulus, rebelled against the mysteries of faith as it grew irritated by discipline, a thing antipathetic to her constitution. When her father took her from school, no one was sorry to see her go. The Lady Superior even thought that she had latterly been somewhat irreverent to the community. Emma, at home once more, first took pleasure in looking after the servants, then grew disgusted with the country and missed her convent. When Charles came to the Bertaux for the first time, she thought herself quite disillusioned, with nothing more to learn, and nothing more to feel. But the uneasiness of her new position, or perhaps the disturbance caused by the presence of this man, had sufficed to make her believe that she at last felt that wondrous passion which, till then, like a great bird with rose-coloured wings, hung in the splendour of the skies of poesy; and now she could not think that the calm in which she lived was the happiness she had dreamed. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 7--------- She thought, sometimes, that, after all, this was the happiest time of her life--the honeymoon, as people called it. To taste the full sweetness of it, it would have been necessary doubtless to fly to those lands with sonorous names where the days after marriage are full of laziness most suave. In post chaises behind blue silken curtains to ride slowly up steep road, listening to the song of the postilion re-echoed by the mountains, along with the bells of goats and the muffled sound of a waterfall; at sunset on the shores of gulfs to breathe in the perfume of lemon trees; then in the evening on the villa-terraces above, hand in hand to look at the stars, making plans for the future. It seemed to her that certain places on earth must bring happiness, as a plant peculiar to the soil, and that cannot thrive elsewhere. Why could not she lean over balconies in Swiss chalets, or enshrine her melancholy in a Scotch cottage, with a husband dressed in a black velvet coat with long tails, and thin shoes, a pointed hat and frills? Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness, variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed her--the opportunity, the courage. If Charles had but wished it, if he had guessed it, if his look had but once met her thought, it seemed to her that a sudden plenty would have gone out from her heart, as the fruit falls from a tree when shaken by a hand. But as the intimacy of their life became deeper, the greater became the gulf that separated her from him. Charles's conversation was commonplace as a street pavement, and everyone's ideas trooped through it in their everyday garb, without exciting emotion, laughter, or thought. He had never had the curiosity, he said, while he lived at Rouen, to go to the theatre to see the actors from Paris. He could neither swim, nor fence, nor shoot, and one day he could not explain some term of horsemanship to her that she had come across in a novel. A man, on the contrary, should he not know everything, excel in manifold activities, initiate you into the energies of passion, the refinements of life, all mysteries? But this one taught nothing, knew nothing, wished nothing. He thought her happy; and she resented this easy calm, this serene heaviness, the very happiness she gave him. Sometimes she would draw; and it was great amusement to Charles to stand there bolt upright and watch her bend over her cardboard, with eyes half-closed the better to see her work, or rolling, between her fingers, little bread-pellets. As to the piano, the more quickly her fingers glided over it the more he wondered. She struck the notes with aplomb, and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shaken up, the old instrument, whose strings buzzed, could be heard at the other end of the village when the window was open, and often the bailiff's clerk, passing along the highroad bare-headed and in list slippers, stopped to listen, his sheet of paper in his hand. Emma, on the other hand, knew how to look after her house. She sent the patients' accounts in well-phrased letters that had no suggestion of a bill. When they had a neighbour to dinner on Sundays, she managed to have some tasty dish--piled up pyramids of greengages on vine leaves, served up preserves turned out into plates--and even spoke of buying finger-glasses for dessert. From all this much consideration was extended to Bovary. Charles finished by rising in his own esteem for possessing such a wife. He showed with pride in the sitting room two small pencil sketches by her that he had had framed in very large frames, and hung up against the wallpaper by long green cords. People returning from mass saw him at his door in his wool-work slippers. He came home late--at ten o'clock, at midnight sometimes. Then he asked for something to eat, and as the servant had gone to bed, Emma waited on him. He took off his coat to dine more at his ease. He told her, one after the other, the people he had met, the villages where he had been, the prescriptions he had written, and, well pleased with himself, he finished the remainder of the boiled beef and onions, picked pieces off the cheese, munched an apple, emptied his water-bottle, and then went to bed, and lay on his back and snored. As he had been for a time accustomed to wear nightcaps, his handkerchief would not keep down over his ears, so that his hair in the morning was all tumbled pell-mell about his face and whitened with the feathers of the pillow, whose strings came untied during the night. He always wore thick boots that had two long creases over the instep running obliquely towards the ankle, while the rest of the upper continued in a straight line as if stretched on a wooden foot. He said that "was quite good enough for the country." His mother approved of his economy, for she came to see him as formerly when there had been some violent row at her place; and yet Madame Bovary senior seemed prejudiced against her daughter-in-law. She thought "her ways too fine for their position"; the wood, the sugar, and the candles disappeared as "at a grand establishment," and the amount of firing in the kitchen would have been enough for twenty-five courses. She put her linen in order for her in the presses, and taught her to keep an eye on the butcher when he brought the meat. Emma put up with these lessons. Madame Bovary was lavish of them; and the words "daughter" and "mother" were exchanged all day long, accompanied by little quiverings of the lips, each one uttering gentle words in a voice trembling with anger. In Madame Dubuc's time the old woman felt that she was still the favorite; but now the love of Charles for Emma seemed to her a desertion from her tenderness, an encroachment upon what was hers, and she watched her son's happiness in sad silence, as a ruined man looks through the windows at people dining in his old house. She recalled to him as remembrances her troubles and her sacrifices, and, comparing these with Emma's negligence, came to the conclusion that it was not reasonable to adore her so exclusively. Charles knew not what to answer: he respected his mother, and he loved his wife infinitely; he considered the judgment of the one infallible, and yet he thought the conduct of the other irreproachable. When Madam Bovary had gone, he tried timidly and in the same terms to hazard one or two of the more anodyne observations he had heard from his mamma. Emma proved to him with a word that he was mistaken, and sent him off to his patients. And yet, in accord with theories she believed right, she wanted to make herself in love with him. By moonlight in the garden she recited all the passionate rhymes she knew by heart, and, sighing, sang to him many melancholy adagios; but she found herself as calm after as before, and Charles seemed no more amorous and no more moved. When she had thus for a while struck the flint on her heart without getting a spark, incapable, moreover, of understanding what she did not experience as of believing anything that did not present itself in conventional forms, she persuaded herself without difficulty that Charles's passion was nothing very exorbitant. His outbursts became regular; he embraced her at certain fixed times. It was one habit among other habits, and, like a dessert, looked forward to after the monotony of dinner. A gamekeeper, cured by the doctor of inflammation of the lungs, had given madame a little Italian greyhound; she took her out walking, for she went out sometimes in order to be alone for a moment, and not to see before her eyes the eternal garden and the dusty road. She went as far as the beeches of Banneville, near the deserted pavilion which forms an angle of the wall on the side of the country. Amidst the vegetation of the ditch there are long reeds with leaves that cut you. She began by looking round her to see if nothing had changed since last she had been there. She found again in the same places the foxgloves and wallflowers, the beds of nettles growing round the big stones, and the patches of lichen along the three windows, whose shutters, always closed, were rotting away on their rusty iron bars. Her thoughts, aimless at first, wandered at random, like her greyhound, who ran round and round in the fields, yelping after the yellow butterflies, chasing the shrew-mice, or nibbling the poppies on the edge of a cornfield. Then gradually her ideas took definite shape, and, sitting on the grass that she dug up with little prods of her sunshade, Emma repeated to herself, "Good heavens! Why did I marry?" She asked herself if by some other chance combination it would have not been possible to meet another man; and she tried to imagine what would have been these unrealised events, this different life, this unknown husband. All, surely, could not be like this one. He might have been handsome, witty, distinguished, attractive, such as, no doubt, her old companions of the convent had married. What were they doing now? In town, with the noise of the streets, the buzz of the theatres and the lights of the ballroom, they were living lives where the heart expands, the senses bourgeon out. But she--her life was cold as a garret whose dormer window looks on the north, and ennui, the silent spider, was weaving its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart. She recalled the prize days, when she mounted the platform to receive her little crowns, with her hair in long plaits. In her white frock and open prunella shoes she had a pretty way, and when she went back to her seat, the gentlemen bent over her to congratulate her; the courtyard was full of carriages; farewells were called to her through their windows; the music master with his violin case bowed in passing by. How far all of this! How far away! She called Djali, took her between her knees, and smoothed the long delicate head, saying, "Come, kiss mistress; you have no troubles." Then noting the melancholy face of the graceful animal, who yawned slowly, she softened, and comparing her to herself, spoke to her aloud as to somebody in trouble whom one is consoling. Occasionally there came gusts of winds, breezes from the sea rolling in one sweep over the whole plateau of the Caux country, which brought even to these fields a salt freshness. The rushes, close to the ground, whistled; the branches trembled in a swift rustling, while their summits, ceaselessly swaying, kept up a deep murmur. Emma drew her shawl round her shoulders and rose. In the avenue a green light dimmed by the leaves lit up the short moss that crackled softly beneath her feet. The sun was setting; the sky showed red between the branches, and the trunks of the trees, uniform, and planted in a straight line, seemed a brown colonnade standing out against a background of gold. A fear took hold of her; she called Djali, and hurriedly returned to Tostes by the high road, threw herself into an armchair, and for the rest of the evening did not speak. But towards the end of September something extraordinary fell upon her life; she was invited by the Marquis d'Andervilliers to Vaubyessard. Secretary of State under the Restoration, the Marquis, anxious to re-enter political life, set about preparing for his candidature to the Chamber of Deputies long beforehand. In the winter he distributed a great deal of wood, and in the Conseil General always enthusiastically demanded new roads for his arrondissement. During the dog-days he had suffered from an abscess, which Charles had cured as if by miracle by giving a timely little touch with the lancet. The steward sent to Tostes to pay for the operation reported in the evening that he had seen some superb cherries in the doctor's little garden. Now cherry trees did not thrive at Vaubyessard; the Marquis asked Bovary for some slips; made it his business to thank his personally; saw Emma; thought she had a pretty figure, and that she did not bow like a peasant; so that he did not think he was going beyond the bounds of condescension, nor, on the other hand, making a mistake, in inviting the young couple. On Wednesday at three o'clock, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, seated in their dog-cart, set out for Vaubyessard, with a great trunk strapped on behind and a bonnet-box in front of the apron. Besides these Charles held a bandbox between his knees. They arrived at nightfall, just as the lamps in the park were being lit to show the way for the carriages.

cliffnotes

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

chapter 3|chapter 6

Sometime after, Roualt paid Charles a call to settle his bill and to offer his condolences. He invited Bovary to visit at the farm. Charles accepted the offer and became a frequent guest at the Roualt house. In these circumstances, Bovary's interest in Emma matured, and soon he found himself in love with her. Emma's father had never been a very good farmer. He had debts and constantly drank the best cider rather than sending it to the market. Thus, when he realized that Charles was interested in Emma, he resolved to give his consent, especially since Emma had never been very good around the farm. Thus Charles' proposal was accepted. Charles and Emma decided that the wedding would take place as soon as Charles was out of mourning. He visited often and they discussed the details of the wedding. Emma would have preferred a midnight wedding with torches, but her father would not stand for that. Instead, there was a traditional wedding with a party that lasted sixteen hours.

----------CHAPTER 3--------- One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting his leg--seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. He had heard of his loss, and consoled him as well as he could. "I know what it is," said he, clapping him on the shoulder; "I've been through it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into the fields to be quite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree; I cried; I called on God; I talked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw on the branches, their insides swarming with worms, dead, and an end of it. And when I thought that there were others at that very moment with their nice little wives holding them in their embrace, I struck great blows on the earth with my stick. I was pretty well mad with not eating; the very idea of going to a cafe disgusted me--you wouldn't believe it. Well, quite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter, and an autumn after a summer, this wore away, piece by piece, crumb by crumb; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something always remains at the bottom as one would say--a weight here, at one's heart. But since it is the lot of all of us, one must not give way altogether, and, because others have died, want to die too. You must pull yourself together, Monsieur Bovary. It will pass away. Come to see us; my daughter thinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says you are forgetting her. Spring will soon be here. We'll have some rabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit." Charles followed his advice. He went back to the Bertaux. He found all as he had left it, that is to say, as it was five months ago. The pear trees were already in blossom, and Farmer Rouault, on his legs again, came and went, making the farm more full of life. Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the doctor because of his sad position, he begged him not to take his hat off, spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, and even pretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for him than for the others, such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears. He told stories. Charles found himself laughing, but the remembrance of his wife suddenly coming back to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in; he thought no more about her. He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone. The new delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable. He could now change his meal-times, go in or out without explanation, and when he was very tired stretch himself at full length on his bed. So he nursed and coddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him. On the other hand, the death of his wife had not served him ill in his business, since for a month people had been saying, "The poor young man! what a loss!" His name had been talked about, his practice had increased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked. He had an aimless hope, and was vaguely happy; he thought himself better looking as he brushed his whiskers before the looking-glass. One day he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the fields. He went into the kitchen, but did not at once catch sight of Emma; the outside shutters were closed. Through the chinks of the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays that were broken at the corners of the furniture and trembled along the ceiling. Some flies on the table were crawling up the glasses that had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the dregs of the cider. The daylight that came in by the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and touched with blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of perspiration on her bare shoulders. After the fashion of country folks she asked him to have something to drink. He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him. So she went to fetch a bottle of curacao from the cupboard, reached down two small glasses, filled one to the brim, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked glasses, carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent back to drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on the strain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tip of her tongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop by drop the bottom of her glass. She sat down again and took up her work, a white cotton stocking she was darning. She worked with her head bent down; she did not speak, nor did Charles. The air coming in under the door blew a little dust over the flags; he watched it drift along, and heard nothing but the throbbing in his head and the faint clucking of a hen that had laid an egg in the yard. Emma from time to time cooled her cheeks with the palms of her hands, and cooled these again on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs. She complained of suffering since the beginning of the season from giddiness; she asked if sea-baths would do her any good; she began talking of her convent, Charles of his school; words came to them. They went up into her bedroom. She showed him her old music-books, the little prizes she had won, and the oak-leaf crowns, left at the bottom of a cupboard. She spoke to him, too, of her mother, of the country, and even showed him the bed in the garden where, on the first Friday of every month, she gathered flowers to put on her mother's tomb. But the gardener they had never knew anything about it; servants are so stupid! She would have dearly liked, if only for the winter, to live in town, although the length of the fine days made the country perhaps even more wearisome in the summer. And, according to what she was saying, her voice was clear, sharp, or, on a sudden all languor, drawn out in modulations that ended almost in murmurs as she spoke to herself, now joyous, opening big naive eyes, then with her eyelids half closed, her look full of boredom, her thoughts wandering. Going home at night, Charles went over her words one by one, trying to recall them, to fill out their sense, that he might piece out the life she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her in his thoughts other than he had seen her the first time, or as he had just left her. Then he asked himself what would become of her--if she would be married, and to whom! Alas! Old Rouault was rich, and she!--so beautiful! But Emma's face always rose before his eyes, and a monotone, like the humming of a top, sounded in his ears, "If you should marry after all! If you should marry!" At night he could not sleep; his throat was parched; he was athirst. He got up to drink from the water-bottle and opened the window. The night was covered with stars, a warm wind blowing in the distance; the dogs were barking. He turned his head towards the Bertaux. Thinking that, after all, he should lose nothing, Charles promised himself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasion offered, but each time such occasion did offer the fear of not finding the right words sealed his lips. Old Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his daughter, who was of no use to him in the house. In his heart he excused her, thinking her too clever for farming, a calling under the ban of Heaven, since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far from having made a fortune by it, the good man was losing every year; for if he was good in bargaining, in which he enjoyed the dodges of the trade, on the other hand, agriculture properly so called, and the internal management of the farm, suited him less than most people. He did not willingly take his hands out of his pockets, and did not spare expense in all that concerned himself, liking to eat well, to have good fires, and to sleep well. He liked old cider, underdone legs of mutton, glorias* well beaten up. He took his meals in the kitchen alone, opposite the fire, on a little table brought to him all ready laid as on the stage. *A mixture of coffee and spirits. When, therefore, he perceived that Charles's cheeks grew red if near his daughter, which meant that he would propose for her one of these days, he chewed the cud of the matter beforehand. He certainly thought him a little meagre, and not quite the son-in-law he would have liked, but he was said to be well brought-up, economical, very learned, and no doubt would not make too many difficulties about the dowry. Now, as old Rouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of "his property," as he owed a good deal to the mason, to the harness-maker, and as the shaft of the cider-press wanted renewing, "If he asks for her," he said to himself, "I'll give her to him." At Michaelmas Charles went to spend three days at the Bertaux. The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from hour to hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were walking along the road full of ruts; they were about to part. This was the time. Charles gave himself as far as to the corner of the hedge, and at last, when past it-- "Monsieur Rouault," he murmured, "I should like to say something to you." They stopped. Charles was silent. "Well, tell me your story. Don't I know all about it?" said old Rouault, laughing softly. "Monsieur Rouault--Monsieur Rouault," stammered Charles. "I ask nothing better", the farmer went on. "Although, no doubt, the little one is of my mind, still we must ask her opinion. So you get off--I'll go back home. If it is 'yes', you needn't return because of all the people about, and besides it would upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be eating your heart, I'll open wide the outer shutter of the window against the wall; you can see it from the back by leaning over the hedge." And he went off. Charles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road and waited. Half an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes by his watch. Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall; the shutter had been thrown back; the hook was still swinging. The next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as he entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself in countenance. Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. The discussion of money matters was put off; moreover, there was plenty of time before them, as the marriage could not decently take place till Charles was out of mourning, that is to say, about the spring of the next year. The winter passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that she borrowed. When Charles visited the farmer, the preparations for the wedding were talked over; they wondered in what room they should have dinner; they dreamed of the number of dishes that would be wanted, and what should be entrees. Emma would, on the contrary, have preferred to have a midnight wedding with torches, but old Rouault could not understand such an idea. So there was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present, at which they remained sixteen hours at table, began again the next day, and to some extent on the days following. ----------CHAPTER 6--------- She had read "Paul and Virginia," and she had dreamed of the little bamboo-house, the nigger Domingo, the dog Fidele, but above all of the sweet friendship of some dear little brother, who seeks red fruit for you on trees taller than steeples, or who runs barefoot over the sand, bringing you a bird's nest. When she was thirteen, her father himself took her to town to place her in the convent. They stopped at an inn in the St. Gervais quarter, where, at their supper, they used painted plates that set forth the story of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The explanatory legends, chipped here and there by the scratching of knives, all glorified religion, the tendernesses of the heart, and the pomps of court. Far from being bored at first at the convent, she took pleasure in the society of the good sisters, who, to amuse her, took her to the chapel, which one entered from the refectory by a long corridor. She played very little during recreation hours, knew her catechism well, and it was she who always answered Monsieur le Vicaire's difficult questions. Living thus, without ever leaving the warm atmosphere of the classrooms, and amid these pale-faced women wearing rosaries with brass crosses, she was softly lulled by the mystic languor exhaled in the perfumes of the altar, the freshness of the holy water, and the lights of the tapers. Instead of attending to mass, she looked at the pious vignettes with their azure borders in her book, and she loved the sick lamb, the sacred heart pierced with sharp arrows, or the poor Jesus sinking beneath the cross he carries. She tried, by way of mortification, to eat nothing a whole day. She puzzled her head to find some vow to fulfil. When she went to confession, she invented little sins in order that she might stay there longer, kneeling in the shadow, her hands joined, her face against the grating beneath the whispering of the priest. The comparisons of betrothed, husband, celestial lover, and eternal marriage, that recur in sermons, stirred within her soul depths of unexpected sweetness. In the evening, before prayers, there was some religious reading in the study. On week-nights it was some abstract of sacred history or the Lectures of the Abbe Frayssinous, and on Sundays passages from the "Genie du Christianisme," as a recreation. How she listened at first to the sonorous lamentations of its romantic melancholies reechoing through the world and eternity! If her childhood had been spent in the shop-parlour of some business quarter, she might perhaps have opened her heart to those lyrical invasions of Nature, which usually come to us only through translation in books. But she knew the country too well; she knew the lowing of cattle, the milking, the ploughs. Accustomed to calm aspects of life, she turned, on the contrary, to those of excitement. She loved the sea only for the sake of its storms, and the green fields only when broken up by ruins. She wanted to get some personal profit out of things, and she rejected as useless all that did not contribute to the immediate desires of her heart, being of a temperament more sentimental than artistic, looking for emotions, not landscapes. At the convent there was an old maid who came for a week each month to mend the linen. Patronized by the clergy, because she belonged to an ancient family of noblemen ruined by the Revolution, she dined in the refectory at the table of the good sisters, and after the meal had a bit of chat with them before going back to her work. The girls often slipped out from the study to go and see her. She knew by heart the love songs of the last century, and sang them in a low voice as she stitched away. She told stories, gave them news, went errands in the town, and on the sly lent the big girls some novel, that she always carried in the pockets of her apron, and of which the good lady herself swallowed long chapters in the intervals of her work. They were all love, lovers, sweethearts, persecuted ladies fainting in lonely pavilions, postilions killed at every stage, horses ridden to death on every page, sombre forests, heartaches, vows, sobs, tears and kisses, little skiffs by moonlight, nightingales in shady groves, "gentlemen" brave as lions, gentle as lambs, virtuous as no one ever was, always well dressed, and weeping like fountains. For six months, then, Emma, at fifteen years of age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries. Through Walter Scott, later on, she fell in love with historical events, dreamed of old chests, guard-rooms and minstrels. She would have liked to live in some old manor-house, like those long-waisted chatelaines who, in the shade of pointed arches, spent their days leaning on the stone, chin in hand, watching a cavalier with white plume galloping on his black horse from the distant fields. At this time she had a cult for Mary Stuart and enthusiastic veneration for illustrious or unhappy women. Joan of Arc, Heloise, Agnes Sorel, the beautiful Ferroniere, and Clemence Isaure stood out to her like comets in the dark immensity of heaven, where also were seen, lost in shadow, and all unconnected, St. Louis with his oak, the dying Bayard, some cruelties of Louis XI, a little of St. Bartholomew's Day, the plume of the Bearnais, and always the remembrance of the plates painted in honour of Louis XIV. In the music class, in the ballads she sang, there was nothing but little angels with golden wings, madonnas, lagunes, gondoliers;-mild compositions that allowed her to catch a glimpse athwart the obscurity of style and the weakness of the music of the attractive phantasmagoria of sentimental realities. Some of her companions brought "keepsakes" given them as new year's gifts to the convent. These had to be hidden; it was quite an undertaking; they were read in the dormitory. Delicately handling the beautiful satin bindings, Emma looked with dazzled eyes at the names of the unknown authors, who had signed their verses for the most part as counts or viscounts. She trembled as she blew back the tissue paper over the engraving and saw it folded in two and fall gently against the page. Here behind the balustrade of a balcony was a young man in a short cloak, holding in his arms a young girl in a white dress wearing an alms-bag at her belt; or there were nameless portraits of English ladies with fair curls, who looked at you from under their round straw hats with their large clear eyes. Some there were lounging in their carriages, gliding through parks, a greyhound bounding along in front of the equipage driven at a trot by two midget postilions in white breeches. Others, dreaming on sofas with an open letter, gazed at the moon through a slightly open window half draped by a black curtain. The naive ones, a tear on their cheeks, were kissing doves through the bars of a Gothic cage, or, smiling, their heads on one side, were plucking the leaves of a marguerite with their taper fingers, that curved at the tips like peaked shoes. And you, too, were there, Sultans with long pipes reclining beneath arbours in the arms of Bayaderes; Djiaours, Turkish sabres, Greek caps; and you especially, pale landscapes of dithyrambic lands, that often show us at once palm trees and firs, tigers on the right, a lion to the left, Tartar minarets on the horizon; the whole framed by a very neat virgin forest, and with a great perpendicular sunbeam trembling in the water, where, standing out in relief like white excoriations on a steel-grey ground, swans are swimming about. And the shade of the argand lamp fastened to the wall above Emma's head lighted up all these pictures of the world, that passed before her one by one in the silence of the dormitory, and to the distant noise of some belated carriage rolling over the Boulevards. When her mother died she cried much the first few days. She had a funeral picture made with the hair of the deceased, and, in a letter sent to the Bertaux full of sad reflections on life, she asked to be buried later on in the same grave. The goodman thought she must be ill, and came to see her. Emma was secretly pleased that she had reached at a first attempt the rare ideal of pale lives, never attained by mediocre hearts. She let herself glide along with Lamartine meanderings, listened to harps on lakes, to all the songs of dying swans, to the falling of the leaves, the pure virgins ascending to heaven, and the voice of the Eternal discoursing down the valleys. She wearied of it, would not confess it, continued from habit, and at last was surprised to feel herself soothed, and with no more sadness at heart than wrinkles on her brow. The good nuns, who had been so sure of her vocation, perceived with great astonishment that Mademoiselle Rouault seemed to be slipping from them. They had indeed been so lavish to her of prayers, retreats, novenas, and sermons, they had so often preached the respect due to saints and martyrs, and given so much good advice as to the modesty of the body and the salvation of her soul, that she did as tightly reined horses; she pulled up short and the bit slipped from her teeth. This nature, positive in the midst of its enthusiasms, that had loved the church for the sake of the flowers, and music for the words of the songs, and literature for its passional stimulus, rebelled against the mysteries of faith as it grew irritated by discipline, a thing antipathetic to her constitution. When her father took her from school, no one was sorry to see her go. The Lady Superior even thought that she had latterly been somewhat irreverent to the community. Emma, at home once more, first took pleasure in looking after the servants, then grew disgusted with the country and missed her convent. When Charles came to the Bertaux for the first time, she thought herself quite disillusioned, with nothing more to learn, and nothing more to feel. But the uneasiness of her new position, or perhaps the disturbance caused by the presence of this man, had sufficed to make her believe that she at last felt that wondrous passion which, till then, like a great bird with rose-coloured wings, hung in the splendour of the skies of poesy; and now she could not think that the calm in which she lived was the happiness she had dreamed.

cliffnotes

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

chapter 7|chapter 3

After Heloise's death, Rouault pays Charles a condolence visit, during which he settles his account with the doctor. He also tells Charles of the manner in which he had coped when his wife died and assures him that his grief will pass. He then invites Charles to visit Les Bertaux in the spring. Charles is delighted at the invitation, and he soon becomes a regular visitor at the farm. Things are going well for Charles. His practice is flourishing with the sympathy generated by his wife's death, he is delighted to visit with Emma during his trips to Les Bertaux. For the first time, Charles dares to feel "vaguely hopeful and happy." As the meetings between Emma and Charles become more frequent, old Rouault is sharp enough to see Charles' increasing fondness for his daughter. He is worried, however, about providing her with a dowry, since his debts are rising. When Charles asks him for Emma's hand in marriage, he readily consents. The wedding will take place after Charles' period of mourning ends. Emma pictures a romantic midnight wedding with torches.

----------CHAPTER 7--------- She thought, sometimes, that, after all, this was the happiest time of her life--the honeymoon, as people called it. To taste the full sweetness of it, it would have been necessary doubtless to fly to those lands with sonorous names where the days after marriage are full of laziness most suave. In post chaises behind blue silken curtains to ride slowly up steep road, listening to the song of the postilion re-echoed by the mountains, along with the bells of goats and the muffled sound of a waterfall; at sunset on the shores of gulfs to breathe in the perfume of lemon trees; then in the evening on the villa-terraces above, hand in hand to look at the stars, making plans for the future. It seemed to her that certain places on earth must bring happiness, as a plant peculiar to the soil, and that cannot thrive elsewhere. Why could not she lean over balconies in Swiss chalets, or enshrine her melancholy in a Scotch cottage, with a husband dressed in a black velvet coat with long tails, and thin shoes, a pointed hat and frills? Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness, variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed her--the opportunity, the courage. If Charles had but wished it, if he had guessed it, if his look had but once met her thought, it seemed to her that a sudden plenty would have gone out from her heart, as the fruit falls from a tree when shaken by a hand. But as the intimacy of their life became deeper, the greater became the gulf that separated her from him. Charles's conversation was commonplace as a street pavement, and everyone's ideas trooped through it in their everyday garb, without exciting emotion, laughter, or thought. He had never had the curiosity, he said, while he lived at Rouen, to go to the theatre to see the actors from Paris. He could neither swim, nor fence, nor shoot, and one day he could not explain some term of horsemanship to her that she had come across in a novel. A man, on the contrary, should he not know everything, excel in manifold activities, initiate you into the energies of passion, the refinements of life, all mysteries? But this one taught nothing, knew nothing, wished nothing. He thought her happy; and she resented this easy calm, this serene heaviness, the very happiness she gave him. Sometimes she would draw; and it was great amusement to Charles to stand there bolt upright and watch her bend over her cardboard, with eyes half-closed the better to see her work, or rolling, between her fingers, little bread-pellets. As to the piano, the more quickly her fingers glided over it the more he wondered. She struck the notes with aplomb, and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shaken up, the old instrument, whose strings buzzed, could be heard at the other end of the village when the window was open, and often the bailiff's clerk, passing along the highroad bare-headed and in list slippers, stopped to listen, his sheet of paper in his hand. Emma, on the other hand, knew how to look after her house. She sent the patients' accounts in well-phrased letters that had no suggestion of a bill. When they had a neighbour to dinner on Sundays, she managed to have some tasty dish--piled up pyramids of greengages on vine leaves, served up preserves turned out into plates--and even spoke of buying finger-glasses for dessert. From all this much consideration was extended to Bovary. Charles finished by rising in his own esteem for possessing such a wife. He showed with pride in the sitting room two small pencil sketches by her that he had had framed in very large frames, and hung up against the wallpaper by long green cords. People returning from mass saw him at his door in his wool-work slippers. He came home late--at ten o'clock, at midnight sometimes. Then he asked for something to eat, and as the servant had gone to bed, Emma waited on him. He took off his coat to dine more at his ease. He told her, one after the other, the people he had met, the villages where he had been, the prescriptions he had written, and, well pleased with himself, he finished the remainder of the boiled beef and onions, picked pieces off the cheese, munched an apple, emptied his water-bottle, and then went to bed, and lay on his back and snored. As he had been for a time accustomed to wear nightcaps, his handkerchief would not keep down over his ears, so that his hair in the morning was all tumbled pell-mell about his face and whitened with the feathers of the pillow, whose strings came untied during the night. He always wore thick boots that had two long creases over the instep running obliquely towards the ankle, while the rest of the upper continued in a straight line as if stretched on a wooden foot. He said that "was quite good enough for the country." His mother approved of his economy, for she came to see him as formerly when there had been some violent row at her place; and yet Madame Bovary senior seemed prejudiced against her daughter-in-law. She thought "her ways too fine for their position"; the wood, the sugar, and the candles disappeared as "at a grand establishment," and the amount of firing in the kitchen would have been enough for twenty-five courses. She put her linen in order for her in the presses, and taught her to keep an eye on the butcher when he brought the meat. Emma put up with these lessons. Madame Bovary was lavish of them; and the words "daughter" and "mother" were exchanged all day long, accompanied by little quiverings of the lips, each one uttering gentle words in a voice trembling with anger. In Madame Dubuc's time the old woman felt that she was still the favorite; but now the love of Charles for Emma seemed to her a desertion from her tenderness, an encroachment upon what was hers, and she watched her son's happiness in sad silence, as a ruined man looks through the windows at people dining in his old house. She recalled to him as remembrances her troubles and her sacrifices, and, comparing these with Emma's negligence, came to the conclusion that it was not reasonable to adore her so exclusively. Charles knew not what to answer: he respected his mother, and he loved his wife infinitely; he considered the judgment of the one infallible, and yet he thought the conduct of the other irreproachable. When Madam Bovary had gone, he tried timidly and in the same terms to hazard one or two of the more anodyne observations he had heard from his mamma. Emma proved to him with a word that he was mistaken, and sent him off to his patients. And yet, in accord with theories she believed right, she wanted to make herself in love with him. By moonlight in the garden she recited all the passionate rhymes she knew by heart, and, sighing, sang to him many melancholy adagios; but she found herself as calm after as before, and Charles seemed no more amorous and no more moved. When she had thus for a while struck the flint on her heart without getting a spark, incapable, moreover, of understanding what she did not experience as of believing anything that did not present itself in conventional forms, she persuaded herself without difficulty that Charles's passion was nothing very exorbitant. His outbursts became regular; he embraced her at certain fixed times. It was one habit among other habits, and, like a dessert, looked forward to after the monotony of dinner. A gamekeeper, cured by the doctor of inflammation of the lungs, had given madame a little Italian greyhound; she took her out walking, for she went out sometimes in order to be alone for a moment, and not to see before her eyes the eternal garden and the dusty road. She went as far as the beeches of Banneville, near the deserted pavilion which forms an angle of the wall on the side of the country. Amidst the vegetation of the ditch there are long reeds with leaves that cut you. She began by looking round her to see if nothing had changed since last she had been there. She found again in the same places the foxgloves and wallflowers, the beds of nettles growing round the big stones, and the patches of lichen along the three windows, whose shutters, always closed, were rotting away on their rusty iron bars. Her thoughts, aimless at first, wandered at random, like her greyhound, who ran round and round in the fields, yelping after the yellow butterflies, chasing the shrew-mice, or nibbling the poppies on the edge of a cornfield. Then gradually her ideas took definite shape, and, sitting on the grass that she dug up with little prods of her sunshade, Emma repeated to herself, "Good heavens! Why did I marry?" She asked herself if by some other chance combination it would have not been possible to meet another man; and she tried to imagine what would have been these unrealised events, this different life, this unknown husband. All, surely, could not be like this one. He might have been handsome, witty, distinguished, attractive, such as, no doubt, her old companions of the convent had married. What were they doing now? In town, with the noise of the streets, the buzz of the theatres and the lights of the ballroom, they were living lives where the heart expands, the senses bourgeon out. But she--her life was cold as a garret whose dormer window looks on the north, and ennui, the silent spider, was weaving its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart. She recalled the prize days, when she mounted the platform to receive her little crowns, with her hair in long plaits. In her white frock and open prunella shoes she had a pretty way, and when she went back to her seat, the gentlemen bent over her to congratulate her; the courtyard was full of carriages; farewells were called to her through their windows; the music master with his violin case bowed in passing by. How far all of this! How far away! She called Djali, took her between her knees, and smoothed the long delicate head, saying, "Come, kiss mistress; you have no troubles." Then noting the melancholy face of the graceful animal, who yawned slowly, she softened, and comparing her to herself, spoke to her aloud as to somebody in trouble whom one is consoling. Occasionally there came gusts of winds, breezes from the sea rolling in one sweep over the whole plateau of the Caux country, which brought even to these fields a salt freshness. The rushes, close to the ground, whistled; the branches trembled in a swift rustling, while their summits, ceaselessly swaying, kept up a deep murmur. Emma drew her shawl round her shoulders and rose. In the avenue a green light dimmed by the leaves lit up the short moss that crackled softly beneath her feet. The sun was setting; the sky showed red between the branches, and the trunks of the trees, uniform, and planted in a straight line, seemed a brown colonnade standing out against a background of gold. A fear took hold of her; she called Djali, and hurriedly returned to Tostes by the high road, threw herself into an armchair, and for the rest of the evening did not speak. But towards the end of September something extraordinary fell upon her life; she was invited by the Marquis d'Andervilliers to Vaubyessard. Secretary of State under the Restoration, the Marquis, anxious to re-enter political life, set about preparing for his candidature to the Chamber of Deputies long beforehand. In the winter he distributed a great deal of wood, and in the Conseil General always enthusiastically demanded new roads for his arrondissement. During the dog-days he had suffered from an abscess, which Charles had cured as if by miracle by giving a timely little touch with the lancet. The steward sent to Tostes to pay for the operation reported in the evening that he had seen some superb cherries in the doctor's little garden. Now cherry trees did not thrive at Vaubyessard; the Marquis asked Bovary for some slips; made it his business to thank his personally; saw Emma; thought she had a pretty figure, and that she did not bow like a peasant; so that he did not think he was going beyond the bounds of condescension, nor, on the other hand, making a mistake, in inviting the young couple. On Wednesday at three o'clock, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, seated in their dog-cart, set out for Vaubyessard, with a great trunk strapped on behind and a bonnet-box in front of the apron. Besides these Charles held a bandbox between his knees. They arrived at nightfall, just as the lamps in the park were being lit to show the way for the carriages. ----------CHAPTER 3--------- One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting his leg--seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. He had heard of his loss, and consoled him as well as he could. "I know what it is," said he, clapping him on the shoulder; "I've been through it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into the fields to be quite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree; I cried; I called on God; I talked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw on the branches, their insides swarming with worms, dead, and an end of it. And when I thought that there were others at that very moment with their nice little wives holding them in their embrace, I struck great blows on the earth with my stick. I was pretty well mad with not eating; the very idea of going to a cafe disgusted me--you wouldn't believe it. Well, quite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter, and an autumn after a summer, this wore away, piece by piece, crumb by crumb; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something always remains at the bottom as one would say--a weight here, at one's heart. But since it is the lot of all of us, one must not give way altogether, and, because others have died, want to die too. You must pull yourself together, Monsieur Bovary. It will pass away. Come to see us; my daughter thinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says you are forgetting her. Spring will soon be here. We'll have some rabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit." Charles followed his advice. He went back to the Bertaux. He found all as he had left it, that is to say, as it was five months ago. The pear trees were already in blossom, and Farmer Rouault, on his legs again, came and went, making the farm more full of life. Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the doctor because of his sad position, he begged him not to take his hat off, spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, and even pretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for him than for the others, such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears. He told stories. Charles found himself laughing, but the remembrance of his wife suddenly coming back to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in; he thought no more about her. He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone. The new delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable. He could now change his meal-times, go in or out without explanation, and when he was very tired stretch himself at full length on his bed. So he nursed and coddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him. On the other hand, the death of his wife had not served him ill in his business, since for a month people had been saying, "The poor young man! what a loss!" His name had been talked about, his practice had increased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked. He had an aimless hope, and was vaguely happy; he thought himself better looking as he brushed his whiskers before the looking-glass. One day he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the fields. He went into the kitchen, but did not at once catch sight of Emma; the outside shutters were closed. Through the chinks of the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays that were broken at the corners of the furniture and trembled along the ceiling. Some flies on the table were crawling up the glasses that had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the dregs of the cider. The daylight that came in by the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and touched with blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of perspiration on her bare shoulders. After the fashion of country folks she asked him to have something to drink. He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him. So she went to fetch a bottle of curacao from the cupboard, reached down two small glasses, filled one to the brim, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked glasses, carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent back to drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on the strain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tip of her tongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop by drop the bottom of her glass. She sat down again and took up her work, a white cotton stocking she was darning. She worked with her head bent down; she did not speak, nor did Charles. The air coming in under the door blew a little dust over the flags; he watched it drift along, and heard nothing but the throbbing in his head and the faint clucking of a hen that had laid an egg in the yard. Emma from time to time cooled her cheeks with the palms of her hands, and cooled these again on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs. She complained of suffering since the beginning of the season from giddiness; she asked if sea-baths would do her any good; she began talking of her convent, Charles of his school; words came to them. They went up into her bedroom. She showed him her old music-books, the little prizes she had won, and the oak-leaf crowns, left at the bottom of a cupboard. She spoke to him, too, of her mother, of the country, and even showed him the bed in the garden where, on the first Friday of every month, she gathered flowers to put on her mother's tomb. But the gardener they had never knew anything about it; servants are so stupid! She would have dearly liked, if only for the winter, to live in town, although the length of the fine days made the country perhaps even more wearisome in the summer. And, according to what she was saying, her voice was clear, sharp, or, on a sudden all languor, drawn out in modulations that ended almost in murmurs as she spoke to herself, now joyous, opening big naive eyes, then with her eyelids half closed, her look full of boredom, her thoughts wandering. Going home at night, Charles went over her words one by one, trying to recall them, to fill out their sense, that he might piece out the life she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her in his thoughts other than he had seen her the first time, or as he had just left her. Then he asked himself what would become of her--if she would be married, and to whom! Alas! Old Rouault was rich, and she!--so beautiful! But Emma's face always rose before his eyes, and a monotone, like the humming of a top, sounded in his ears, "If you should marry after all! If you should marry!" At night he could not sleep; his throat was parched; he was athirst. He got up to drink from the water-bottle and opened the window. The night was covered with stars, a warm wind blowing in the distance; the dogs were barking. He turned his head towards the Bertaux. Thinking that, after all, he should lose nothing, Charles promised himself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasion offered, but each time such occasion did offer the fear of not finding the right words sealed his lips. Old Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his daughter, who was of no use to him in the house. In his heart he excused her, thinking her too clever for farming, a calling under the ban of Heaven, since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far from having made a fortune by it, the good man was losing every year; for if he was good in bargaining, in which he enjoyed the dodges of the trade, on the other hand, agriculture properly so called, and the internal management of the farm, suited him less than most people. He did not willingly take his hands out of his pockets, and did not spare expense in all that concerned himself, liking to eat well, to have good fires, and to sleep well. He liked old cider, underdone legs of mutton, glorias* well beaten up. He took his meals in the kitchen alone, opposite the fire, on a little table brought to him all ready laid as on the stage. *A mixture of coffee and spirits. When, therefore, he perceived that Charles's cheeks grew red if near his daughter, which meant that he would propose for her one of these days, he chewed the cud of the matter beforehand. He certainly thought him a little meagre, and not quite the son-in-law he would have liked, but he was said to be well brought-up, economical, very learned, and no doubt would not make too many difficulties about the dowry. Now, as old Rouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of "his property," as he owed a good deal to the mason, to the harness-maker, and as the shaft of the cider-press wanted renewing, "If he asks for her," he said to himself, "I'll give her to him." At Michaelmas Charles went to spend three days at the Bertaux. The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from hour to hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were walking along the road full of ruts; they were about to part. This was the time. Charles gave himself as far as to the corner of the hedge, and at last, when past it-- "Monsieur Rouault," he murmured, "I should like to say something to you." They stopped. Charles was silent. "Well, tell me your story. Don't I know all about it?" said old Rouault, laughing softly. "Monsieur Rouault--Monsieur Rouault," stammered Charles. "I ask nothing better", the farmer went on. "Although, no doubt, the little one is of my mind, still we must ask her opinion. So you get off--I'll go back home. If it is 'yes', you needn't return because of all the people about, and besides it would upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be eating your heart, I'll open wide the outer shutter of the window against the wall; you can see it from the back by leaning over the hedge." And he went off. Charles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road and waited. Half an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes by his watch. Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall; the shutter had been thrown back; the hook was still swinging. The next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as he entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself in countenance. Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. The discussion of money matters was put off; moreover, there was plenty of time before them, as the marriage could not decently take place till Charles was out of mourning, that is to say, about the spring of the next year. The winter passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that she borrowed. When Charles visited the farmer, the preparations for the wedding were talked over; they wondered in what room they should have dinner; they dreamed of the number of dishes that would be wanted, and what should be entrees. Emma would, on the contrary, have preferred to have a midnight wedding with torches, but old Rouault could not understand such an idea. So there was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present, at which they remained sixteen hours at table, began again the next day, and to some extent on the days following.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 5 based on the provided context.

chapter 4|chapter 5|chapter 6

The house is described in great detail: the wallpaper, the curtains and the bookshelves all contribute to the "feel" of the place. Emma does not seem to mind that the garden is not very remarkable; it is the bedroom that she examines eagerly. When she notices Heloise's bridal bouquet, she muses morbidly about the possibility of her own death. Emma spends the next few days changing the house to suit her tastes, and Charles indulges her every whim. He buys her a second-hand carriage so that she can drive out on her own. Charles is ecstatic over his new found happiness with Emma. " A meal together, a walk along the highroad in the evening, a way she had of putting her hand to her hair, the sight of her straw hat hanging on the window latch, and a great many things besides, in which Charles had never thought to find pleasure, now made up the even tenor of his happiness." He treasures every moment with Emma. While Charles luxuriates in his love for his wife, Emma quickly grows tired of her husband and married life. She had dreamed of "bliss," "passion," and "ecstasy," a far cry from what she has found with Charles.

----------CHAPTER 4--------- The guests arrived early in carriages, in one-horse chaises, two-wheeled cars, old open gigs, waggonettes with leather hoods, and the young people from the nearer villages in carts, in which they stood up in rows, holding on to the sides so as not to fall, going at a trot and well shaken up. Some came from a distance of thirty miles, from Goderville, from Normanville, and from Cany. All the relatives of both families had been invited, quarrels between friends arranged, acquaintances long since lost sight of written to. From time to time one heard the crack of a whip behind the hedge; then the gates opened, a chaise entered. Galloping up to the foot of the steps, it stopped short and emptied its load. They got down from all sides, rubbing knees and stretching arms. The ladies, wearing bonnets, had on dresses in the town fashion, gold watch chains, pelerines with the ends tucked into belts, or little coloured fichus fastened down behind with a pin, and that left the back of the neck bare. The lads, dressed like their papas, seemed uncomfortable in their new clothes (many that day hand-sewed their first pair of boots), and by their sides, speaking never a work, wearing the white dress of their first communion lengthened for the occasion were some big girls of fourteen or sixteen, cousins or elder sisters no doubt, rubicund, bewildered, their hair greasy with rose pomade, and very much afraid of dirtying their gloves. As there were not enough stable-boys to unharness all the carriages, the gentlemen turned up their sleeves and set about it themselves. According to their different social positions they wore tail-coats, overcoats, shooting jackets, cutaway-coats; fine tail-coats, redolent of family respectability, that only came out of the wardrobe on state occasions; overcoats with long tails flapping in the wind and round capes and pockets like sacks; shooting jackets of coarse cloth, generally worn with a cap with a brass-bound peak; very short cutaway-coats with two small buttons in the back, close together like a pair of eyes, and the tails of which seemed cut out of one piece by a carpenter's hatchet. Some, too (but these, you may be sure, would sit at the bottom of the table), wore their best blouses--that is to say, with collars turned down to the shoulders, the back gathered into small plaits and the waist fastened very low down with a worked belt. And the shirts stood out from the chests like cuirasses! Everyone had just had his hair cut; ears stood out from the heads; they had been close-shaved; a few, even, who had had to get up before daybreak, and not been able to see to shave, had diagonal gashes under their noses or cuts the size of a three-franc piece along the jaws, which the fresh air en route had enflamed, so that the great white beaming faces were mottled here and there with red dabs. The mairie was a mile and a half from the farm, and they went thither on foot, returning in the same way after the ceremony in the church. The procession, first united like one long coloured scarf that undulated across the fields, along the narrow path winding amid the green corn, soon lengthened out, and broke up into different groups that loitered to talk. The fiddler walked in front with his violin, gay with ribbons at its pegs. Then came the married pair, the relations, the friends, all following pell-mell; the children stayed behind amusing themselves plucking the bell-flowers from oat-ears, or playing amongst themselves unseen. Emma's dress, too long, trailed a little on the ground; from time to time she stopped to pull it up, and then delicately, with her gloved hands, she picked off the coarse grass and the thistledowns, while Charles, empty handed, waited till she had finished. Old Rouault, with a new silk hat and the cuffs of his black coat covering his hands up to the nails, gave his arm to Madame Bovary senior. As to Monsieur Bovary senior, who, heartily despising all these folk, had come simply in a frock-coat of military cut with one row of buttons--he was passing compliments of the bar to a fair young peasant. She bowed, blushed, and did not know what to say. The other wedding guests talked of their business or played tricks behind each other's backs, egging one another on in advance to be jolly. Those who listened could always catch the squeaking of the fiddler, who went on playing across the fields. When he saw that the rest were far behind he stopped to take breath, slowly rosined his bow, so that the strings should sound more shrilly, then set off again, by turns lowering and raising his neck, the better to mark time for himself. The noise of the instrument drove away the little birds from afar. The table was laid under the cart-shed. On it were four sirloins, six chicken fricassees, stewed veal, three legs of mutton, and in the middle a fine roast suckling pig, flanked by four chitterlings with sorrel. At the corners were decanters of brandy. Sweet bottled-cider frothed round the corks, and all the glasses had been filled to the brim with wine beforehand. Large dishes of yellow cream, that trembled with the least shake of the table, had designed on their smooth surface the initials of the newly wedded pair in nonpareil arabesques. A confectioner of Yvetot had been intrusted with the tarts and sweets. As he had only just set up on the place, he had taken a lot of trouble, and at dessert he himself brought in a set dish that evoked loud cries of wonderment. To begin with, at its base there was a square of blue cardboard, representing a temple with porticoes, colonnades, and stucco statuettes all round, and in the niches constellations of gilt paper stars; then on the second stage was a dungeon of Savoy cake, surrounded by many fortifications in candied angelica, almonds, raisins, and quarters of oranges; and finally, on the upper platform a green field with rocks set in lakes of jam, nutshell boats, and a small Cupid balancing himself in a chocolate swing whose two uprights ended in real roses for balls at the top. Until night they ate. When any of them were too tired of sitting, they went out for a stroll in the yard, or for a game with corks in the granary, and then returned to table. Some towards the finish went to sleep and snored. But with the coffee everyone woke up. Then they began songs, showed off tricks, raised heavy weights, performed feats with their fingers, then tried lifting carts on their shoulders, made broad jokes, kissed the women. At night when they left, the horses, stuffed up to the nostrils with oats, could hardly be got into the shafts; they kicked, reared, the harness broke, their masters laughed or swore; and all night in the light of the moon along country roads there were runaway carts at full gallop plunging into the ditches, jumping over yard after yard of stones, clambering up the hills, with women leaning out from the tilt to catch hold of the reins. Those who stayed at the Bertaux spent the night drinking in the kitchen. The children had fallen asleep under the seats. The bride had begged her father to be spared the usual marriage pleasantries. However, a fishmonger, one of their cousins (who had even brought a pair of soles for his wedding present), began to squirt water from his mouth through the keyhole, when old Rouault came up just in time to stop him, and explain to him that the distinguished position of his son-in-law would not allow of such liberties. The cousin all the same did not give in to these reasons readily. In his heart he accused old Rouault of being proud, and he joined four or five other guests in a corner, who having, through mere chance, been several times running served with the worst helps of meat, also were of opinion they had been badly used, and were whispering about their host, and with covered hints hoping he would ruin himself. Madame Bovary, senior, had not opened her mouth all day. She had been consulted neither as to the dress of her daughter-in-law nor as to the arrangement of the feast; she went to bed early. Her husband, instead of following her, sent to Saint-Victor for some cigars, and smoked till daybreak, drinking kirsch-punch, a mixture unknown to the company. This added greatly to the consideration in which he was held. Charles, who was not of a facetious turn, did not shine at the wedding. He answered feebly to the puns, doubles entendres*, compliments, and chaff that it was felt a duty to let off at him as soon as the soup appeared. *Double meanings. The next day, on the other hand, he seemed another man. It was he who might rather have been taken for the virgin of the evening before, whilst the bride gave no sign that revealed anything. The shrewdest did not know what to make of it, and they looked at her when she passed near them with an unbounded concentration of mind. But Charles concealed nothing. He called her "my wife", tutoyed* her, asked for her of everyone, looked for her everywhere, and often he dragged her into the yards, where he could be seen from far between the trees, putting his arm around her waist, and walking half-bending over her, ruffling the chemisette of her bodice with his head. *Used the familiar form of address. Two days after the wedding the married pair left. Charles, on account of his patients, could not be away longer. Old Rouault had them driven back in his cart, and himself accompanied them as far as Vassonville. Here he embraced his daughter for the last time, got down, and went his way. When he had gone about a hundred paces he stopped, and as he saw the cart disappearing, its wheels turning in the dust, he gave a deep sigh. Then he remembered his wedding, the old times, the first pregnancy of his wife; he, too, had been very happy the day when he had taken her from her father to his home, and had carried her off on a pillion, trotting through the snow, for it was near Christmas-time, and the country was all white. She held him by one arm, her basket hanging from the other; the wind blew the long lace of her Cauchois headdress so that it sometimes flapped across his mouth, and when he turned his head he saw near him, on his shoulder, her little rosy face, smiling silently under the gold bands of her cap. To warm her hands she put them from time to time in his breast. How long ago it all was! Their son would have been thirty by now. Then he looked back and saw nothing on the road. He felt dreary as an empty house; and tender memories mingling with the sad thoughts in his brain, addled by the fumes of the feast, he felt inclined for a moment to take a turn towards the church. As he was afraid, however, that this sight would make him yet more sad, he went right away home. Monsieur and Madame Charles arrived at Tostes about six o'clock. The neighbors came to the windows to see their doctor's new wife. The old servant presented herself, curtsied to her, apologised for not having dinner ready, and suggested that madame, in the meantime, should look over her house. ----------CHAPTER 5--------- The brick front was just in a line with the street, or rather the road. Behind the door hung a cloak with a small collar, a bridle, and a black leather cap, and on the floor, in a corner, were a pair of leggings, still covered with dry mud. On the right was the one apartment, that was both dining and sitting room. A canary yellow paper, relieved at the top by a garland of pale flowers, was puckered everywhere over the badly stretched canvas; white calico curtains with a red border hung crossways at the length of the window; and on the narrow mantelpiece a clock with a head of Hippocrates shone resplendent between two plate candlesticks under oval shades. On the other side of the passage was Charles's consulting room, a little room about six paces wide, with a table, three chairs, and an office chair. Volumes of the "Dictionary of Medical Science," uncut, but the binding rather the worse for the successive sales through which they had gone, occupied almost along the six shelves of a deal bookcase. The smell of melted butter penetrated through the walls when he saw patients, just as in the kitchen one could hear the people coughing in the consulting room and recounting their histories. Then, opening on the yard, where the stable was, came a large dilapidated room with a stove, now used as a wood-house, cellar, and pantry, full of old rubbish, of empty casks, agricultural implements past service, and a mass of dusty things whose use it was impossible to guess. The garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with espaliered apricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from the field. In the middle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal; four flower beds with eglantines surrounded symmetrically the more useful kitchen garden bed. Right at the bottom, under the spruce bushes, was a cure in plaster reading his breviary. Emma went upstairs. The first room was not furnished, but in the second, which was their bedroom, was a mahogany bedstead in an alcove with red drapery. A shell box adorned the chest of drawers, and on the secretary near the window a bouquet of orange blossoms tied with white satin ribbons stood in a bottle. It was a bride's bouquet; it was the other one's. She looked at it. Charles noticed it; he took it and carried it up to the attic, while Emma seated in an arm-chair (they were putting her things down around her) thought of her bridal flowers packed up in a bandbox, and wondered, dreaming, what would be done with them if she were to die. During the first days she occupied herself in thinking about changes in the house. She took the shades off the candlesticks, had new wallpaper put up, the staircase repainted, and seats made in the garden round the sundial; she even inquired how she could get a basin with a jet fountain and fishes. Finally her husband, knowing that she liked to drive out, picked up a second-hand dogcart, which, with new lamps and splashboard in striped leather, looked almost like a tilbury. He was happy then, and without a care in the world. A meal together, a walk in the evening on the highroad, a gesture of her hands over her hair, the sight of her straw hat hanging from the window-fastener, and many another thing in which Charles had never dreamed of pleasure, now made up the endless round of his happiness. In bed, in the morning, by her side, on the pillow, he watched the sunlight sinking into the down on her fair cheek, half hidden by the lappets of her night-cap. Seen thus closely, her eyes looked to him enlarged, especially when, on waking up, she opened and shut them rapidly many times. Black in the shade, dark blue in broad daylight, they had, as it were, depths of different colours, that, darker in the centre, grew paler towards the surface of the eye. His own eyes lost themselves in these depths; he saw himself in miniature down to the shoulders, with his handkerchief round his head and the top of his shirt open. He rose. She came to the window to see him off, and stayed leaning on the sill between two pots of geranium, clad in her dressing gown hanging loosely about her. Charles, in the street buckled his spurs, his foot on the mounting stone, while she talked to him from above, picking with her mouth some scrap of flower or leaf that she blew out at him. Then this, eddying, floating, described semicircles in the air like a bird, and was caught before it reached the ground in the ill-groomed mane of the old white mare standing motionless at the door. Charles from horseback threw her a kiss; she answered with a nod; she shut the window, and he set off. And then along the highroad, spreading out its long ribbon of dust, along the deep lanes that the trees bent over as in arbours, along paths where the corn reached to the knees, with the sun on his back and the morning air in his nostrils, his heart full of the joys of the past night, his mind at rest, his flesh at ease, he went on, re-chewing his happiness, like those who after dinner taste again the truffles which they are digesting. Until now what good had he had of his life? His time at school, when he remained shut up within the high walls, alone, in the midst of companions richer than he or cleverer at their work, who laughed at his accent, who jeered at his clothes, and whose mothers came to the school with cakes in their muffs? Later on, when he studied medicine, and never had his purse full enough to treat some little work-girl who would have become his mistress? Afterwards, he had lived fourteen months with the widow, whose feet in bed were cold as icicles. But now he had for life this beautiful woman whom he adored. For him the universe did not extend beyond the circumference of her petticoat, and he reproached himself with not loving her. He wanted to see her again; he turned back quickly, ran up the stairs with a beating heart. Emma, in her room, was dressing; he came up on tiptoe, kissed her back; she gave a cry. He could not keep from constantly touching her comb, her ring, her fichu; sometimes he gave her great sounding kisses with all his mouth on her cheeks, or else little kisses in a row all along her bare arm from the tip of her fingers up to her shoulder, and she put him away half-smiling, half-vexed, as you do a child who hangs about you. Before marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that should have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought, have been mistaken. And Emma tried to find out what one meant exactly in life by the words felicity, passion, rapture, that had seemed to her so beautiful in books. ----------CHAPTER 6--------- She had read "Paul and Virginia," and she had dreamed of the little bamboo-house, the nigger Domingo, the dog Fidele, but above all of the sweet friendship of some dear little brother, who seeks red fruit for you on trees taller than steeples, or who runs barefoot over the sand, bringing you a bird's nest. When she was thirteen, her father himself took her to town to place her in the convent. They stopped at an inn in the St. Gervais quarter, where, at their supper, they used painted plates that set forth the story of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The explanatory legends, chipped here and there by the scratching of knives, all glorified religion, the tendernesses of the heart, and the pomps of court. Far from being bored at first at the convent, she took pleasure in the society of the good sisters, who, to amuse her, took her to the chapel, which one entered from the refectory by a long corridor. She played very little during recreation hours, knew her catechism well, and it was she who always answered Monsieur le Vicaire's difficult questions. Living thus, without ever leaving the warm atmosphere of the classrooms, and amid these pale-faced women wearing rosaries with brass crosses, she was softly lulled by the mystic languor exhaled in the perfumes of the altar, the freshness of the holy water, and the lights of the tapers. Instead of attending to mass, she looked at the pious vignettes with their azure borders in her book, and she loved the sick lamb, the sacred heart pierced with sharp arrows, or the poor Jesus sinking beneath the cross he carries. She tried, by way of mortification, to eat nothing a whole day. She puzzled her head to find some vow to fulfil. When she went to confession, she invented little sins in order that she might stay there longer, kneeling in the shadow, her hands joined, her face against the grating beneath the whispering of the priest. The comparisons of betrothed, husband, celestial lover, and eternal marriage, that recur in sermons, stirred within her soul depths of unexpected sweetness. In the evening, before prayers, there was some religious reading in the study. On week-nights it was some abstract of sacred history or the Lectures of the Abbe Frayssinous, and on Sundays passages from the "Genie du Christianisme," as a recreation. How she listened at first to the sonorous lamentations of its romantic melancholies reechoing through the world and eternity! If her childhood had been spent in the shop-parlour of some business quarter, she might perhaps have opened her heart to those lyrical invasions of Nature, which usually come to us only through translation in books. But she knew the country too well; she knew the lowing of cattle, the milking, the ploughs. Accustomed to calm aspects of life, she turned, on the contrary, to those of excitement. She loved the sea only for the sake of its storms, and the green fields only when broken up by ruins. She wanted to get some personal profit out of things, and she rejected as useless all that did not contribute to the immediate desires of her heart, being of a temperament more sentimental than artistic, looking for emotions, not landscapes. At the convent there was an old maid who came for a week each month to mend the linen. Patronized by the clergy, because she belonged to an ancient family of noblemen ruined by the Revolution, she dined in the refectory at the table of the good sisters, and after the meal had a bit of chat with them before going back to her work. The girls often slipped out from the study to go and see her. She knew by heart the love songs of the last century, and sang them in a low voice as she stitched away. She told stories, gave them news, went errands in the town, and on the sly lent the big girls some novel, that she always carried in the pockets of her apron, and of which the good lady herself swallowed long chapters in the intervals of her work. They were all love, lovers, sweethearts, persecuted ladies fainting in lonely pavilions, postilions killed at every stage, horses ridden to death on every page, sombre forests, heartaches, vows, sobs, tears and kisses, little skiffs by moonlight, nightingales in shady groves, "gentlemen" brave as lions, gentle as lambs, virtuous as no one ever was, always well dressed, and weeping like fountains. For six months, then, Emma, at fifteen years of age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries. Through Walter Scott, later on, she fell in love with historical events, dreamed of old chests, guard-rooms and minstrels. She would have liked to live in some old manor-house, like those long-waisted chatelaines who, in the shade of pointed arches, spent their days leaning on the stone, chin in hand, watching a cavalier with white plume galloping on his black horse from the distant fields. At this time she had a cult for Mary Stuart and enthusiastic veneration for illustrious or unhappy women. Joan of Arc, Heloise, Agnes Sorel, the beautiful Ferroniere, and Clemence Isaure stood out to her like comets in the dark immensity of heaven, where also were seen, lost in shadow, and all unconnected, St. Louis with his oak, the dying Bayard, some cruelties of Louis XI, a little of St. Bartholomew's Day, the plume of the Bearnais, and always the remembrance of the plates painted in honour of Louis XIV. In the music class, in the ballads she sang, there was nothing but little angels with golden wings, madonnas, lagunes, gondoliers;-mild compositions that allowed her to catch a glimpse athwart the obscurity of style and the weakness of the music of the attractive phantasmagoria of sentimental realities. Some of her companions brought "keepsakes" given them as new year's gifts to the convent. These had to be hidden; it was quite an undertaking; they were read in the dormitory. Delicately handling the beautiful satin bindings, Emma looked with dazzled eyes at the names of the unknown authors, who had signed their verses for the most part as counts or viscounts. She trembled as she blew back the tissue paper over the engraving and saw it folded in two and fall gently against the page. Here behind the balustrade of a balcony was a young man in a short cloak, holding in his arms a young girl in a white dress wearing an alms-bag at her belt; or there were nameless portraits of English ladies with fair curls, who looked at you from under their round straw hats with their large clear eyes. Some there were lounging in their carriages, gliding through parks, a greyhound bounding along in front of the equipage driven at a trot by two midget postilions in white breeches. Others, dreaming on sofas with an open letter, gazed at the moon through a slightly open window half draped by a black curtain. The naive ones, a tear on their cheeks, were kissing doves through the bars of a Gothic cage, or, smiling, their heads on one side, were plucking the leaves of a marguerite with their taper fingers, that curved at the tips like peaked shoes. And you, too, were there, Sultans with long pipes reclining beneath arbours in the arms of Bayaderes; Djiaours, Turkish sabres, Greek caps; and you especially, pale landscapes of dithyrambic lands, that often show us at once palm trees and firs, tigers on the right, a lion to the left, Tartar minarets on the horizon; the whole framed by a very neat virgin forest, and with a great perpendicular sunbeam trembling in the water, where, standing out in relief like white excoriations on a steel-grey ground, swans are swimming about. And the shade of the argand lamp fastened to the wall above Emma's head lighted up all these pictures of the world, that passed before her one by one in the silence of the dormitory, and to the distant noise of some belated carriage rolling over the Boulevards. When her mother died she cried much the first few days. She had a funeral picture made with the hair of the deceased, and, in a letter sent to the Bertaux full of sad reflections on life, she asked to be buried later on in the same grave. The goodman thought she must be ill, and came to see her. Emma was secretly pleased that she had reached at a first attempt the rare ideal of pale lives, never attained by mediocre hearts. She let herself glide along with Lamartine meanderings, listened to harps on lakes, to all the songs of dying swans, to the falling of the leaves, the pure virgins ascending to heaven, and the voice of the Eternal discoursing down the valleys. She wearied of it, would not confess it, continued from habit, and at last was surprised to feel herself soothed, and with no more sadness at heart than wrinkles on her brow. The good nuns, who had been so sure of her vocation, perceived with great astonishment that Mademoiselle Rouault seemed to be slipping from them. They had indeed been so lavish to her of prayers, retreats, novenas, and sermons, they had so often preached the respect due to saints and martyrs, and given so much good advice as to the modesty of the body and the salvation of her soul, that she did as tightly reined horses; she pulled up short and the bit slipped from her teeth. This nature, positive in the midst of its enthusiasms, that had loved the church for the sake of the flowers, and music for the words of the songs, and literature for its passional stimulus, rebelled against the mysteries of faith as it grew irritated by discipline, a thing antipathetic to her constitution. When her father took her from school, no one was sorry to see her go. The Lady Superior even thought that she had latterly been somewhat irreverent to the community. Emma, at home once more, first took pleasure in looking after the servants, then grew disgusted with the country and missed her convent. When Charles came to the Bertaux for the first time, she thought herself quite disillusioned, with nothing more to learn, and nothing more to feel. But the uneasiness of her new position, or perhaps the disturbance caused by the presence of this man, had sufficed to make her believe that she at last felt that wondrous passion which, till then, like a great bird with rose-coloured wings, hung in the splendour of the skies of poesy; and now she could not think that the calm in which she lived was the happiness she had dreamed.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for part 1, chapter 3 based on the provided context.

chapter 7|part 1, chapter 3

When Monsieur Rouault visits Charles to pay his bill he consoles the young man for his recent loss and invites him to the farm. Charles resumes his visits to the farm and realizes that the bachelor life suits him. He finds that he is increasingly attracted to Emma whom he learns is bored of life on the farm and desires to live in a city. He asks her father for permission to marry her and Monsieur Rouault, who has anticipated the proposal, puts the question to his daughter. She accepts and Monsieur signals to Bovary waiting behind a hedge outside by slamming the shutters. Though Emma would have preferred a torch-lit midnight ceremony they arrange for a traditional ceremony and reception at the farm

----------CHAPTER 7--------- She thought, sometimes, that, after all, this was the happiest time of her life--the honeymoon, as people called it. To taste the full sweetness of it, it would have been necessary doubtless to fly to those lands with sonorous names where the days after marriage are full of laziness most suave. In post chaises behind blue silken curtains to ride slowly up steep road, listening to the song of the postilion re-echoed by the mountains, along with the bells of goats and the muffled sound of a waterfall; at sunset on the shores of gulfs to breathe in the perfume of lemon trees; then in the evening on the villa-terraces above, hand in hand to look at the stars, making plans for the future. It seemed to her that certain places on earth must bring happiness, as a plant peculiar to the soil, and that cannot thrive elsewhere. Why could not she lean over balconies in Swiss chalets, or enshrine her melancholy in a Scotch cottage, with a husband dressed in a black velvet coat with long tails, and thin shoes, a pointed hat and frills? Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these things to someone. But how tell an undefinable uneasiness, variable as the clouds, unstable as the winds? Words failed her--the opportunity, the courage. If Charles had but wished it, if he had guessed it, if his look had but once met her thought, it seemed to her that a sudden plenty would have gone out from her heart, as the fruit falls from a tree when shaken by a hand. But as the intimacy of their life became deeper, the greater became the gulf that separated her from him. Charles's conversation was commonplace as a street pavement, and everyone's ideas trooped through it in their everyday garb, without exciting emotion, laughter, or thought. He had never had the curiosity, he said, while he lived at Rouen, to go to the theatre to see the actors from Paris. He could neither swim, nor fence, nor shoot, and one day he could not explain some term of horsemanship to her that she had come across in a novel. A man, on the contrary, should he not know everything, excel in manifold activities, initiate you into the energies of passion, the refinements of life, all mysteries? But this one taught nothing, knew nothing, wished nothing. He thought her happy; and she resented this easy calm, this serene heaviness, the very happiness she gave him. Sometimes she would draw; and it was great amusement to Charles to stand there bolt upright and watch her bend over her cardboard, with eyes half-closed the better to see her work, or rolling, between her fingers, little bread-pellets. As to the piano, the more quickly her fingers glided over it the more he wondered. She struck the notes with aplomb, and ran from top to bottom of the keyboard without a break. Thus shaken up, the old instrument, whose strings buzzed, could be heard at the other end of the village when the window was open, and often the bailiff's clerk, passing along the highroad bare-headed and in list slippers, stopped to listen, his sheet of paper in his hand. Emma, on the other hand, knew how to look after her house. She sent the patients' accounts in well-phrased letters that had no suggestion of a bill. When they had a neighbour to dinner on Sundays, she managed to have some tasty dish--piled up pyramids of greengages on vine leaves, served up preserves turned out into plates--and even spoke of buying finger-glasses for dessert. From all this much consideration was extended to Bovary. Charles finished by rising in his own esteem for possessing such a wife. He showed with pride in the sitting room two small pencil sketches by her that he had had framed in very large frames, and hung up against the wallpaper by long green cords. People returning from mass saw him at his door in his wool-work slippers. He came home late--at ten o'clock, at midnight sometimes. Then he asked for something to eat, and as the servant had gone to bed, Emma waited on him. He took off his coat to dine more at his ease. He told her, one after the other, the people he had met, the villages where he had been, the prescriptions he had written, and, well pleased with himself, he finished the remainder of the boiled beef and onions, picked pieces off the cheese, munched an apple, emptied his water-bottle, and then went to bed, and lay on his back and snored. As he had been for a time accustomed to wear nightcaps, his handkerchief would not keep down over his ears, so that his hair in the morning was all tumbled pell-mell about his face and whitened with the feathers of the pillow, whose strings came untied during the night. He always wore thick boots that had two long creases over the instep running obliquely towards the ankle, while the rest of the upper continued in a straight line as if stretched on a wooden foot. He said that "was quite good enough for the country." His mother approved of his economy, for she came to see him as formerly when there had been some violent row at her place; and yet Madame Bovary senior seemed prejudiced against her daughter-in-law. She thought "her ways too fine for their position"; the wood, the sugar, and the candles disappeared as "at a grand establishment," and the amount of firing in the kitchen would have been enough for twenty-five courses. She put her linen in order for her in the presses, and taught her to keep an eye on the butcher when he brought the meat. Emma put up with these lessons. Madame Bovary was lavish of them; and the words "daughter" and "mother" were exchanged all day long, accompanied by little quiverings of the lips, each one uttering gentle words in a voice trembling with anger. In Madame Dubuc's time the old woman felt that she was still the favorite; but now the love of Charles for Emma seemed to her a desertion from her tenderness, an encroachment upon what was hers, and she watched her son's happiness in sad silence, as a ruined man looks through the windows at people dining in his old house. She recalled to him as remembrances her troubles and her sacrifices, and, comparing these with Emma's negligence, came to the conclusion that it was not reasonable to adore her so exclusively. Charles knew not what to answer: he respected his mother, and he loved his wife infinitely; he considered the judgment of the one infallible, and yet he thought the conduct of the other irreproachable. When Madam Bovary had gone, he tried timidly and in the same terms to hazard one or two of the more anodyne observations he had heard from his mamma. Emma proved to him with a word that he was mistaken, and sent him off to his patients. And yet, in accord with theories she believed right, she wanted to make herself in love with him. By moonlight in the garden she recited all the passionate rhymes she knew by heart, and, sighing, sang to him many melancholy adagios; but she found herself as calm after as before, and Charles seemed no more amorous and no more moved. When she had thus for a while struck the flint on her heart without getting a spark, incapable, moreover, of understanding what she did not experience as of believing anything that did not present itself in conventional forms, she persuaded herself without difficulty that Charles's passion was nothing very exorbitant. His outbursts became regular; he embraced her at certain fixed times. It was one habit among other habits, and, like a dessert, looked forward to after the monotony of dinner. A gamekeeper, cured by the doctor of inflammation of the lungs, had given madame a little Italian greyhound; she took her out walking, for she went out sometimes in order to be alone for a moment, and not to see before her eyes the eternal garden and the dusty road. She went as far as the beeches of Banneville, near the deserted pavilion which forms an angle of the wall on the side of the country. Amidst the vegetation of the ditch there are long reeds with leaves that cut you. She began by looking round her to see if nothing had changed since last she had been there. She found again in the same places the foxgloves and wallflowers, the beds of nettles growing round the big stones, and the patches of lichen along the three windows, whose shutters, always closed, were rotting away on their rusty iron bars. Her thoughts, aimless at first, wandered at random, like her greyhound, who ran round and round in the fields, yelping after the yellow butterflies, chasing the shrew-mice, or nibbling the poppies on the edge of a cornfield. Then gradually her ideas took definite shape, and, sitting on the grass that she dug up with little prods of her sunshade, Emma repeated to herself, "Good heavens! Why did I marry?" She asked herself if by some other chance combination it would have not been possible to meet another man; and she tried to imagine what would have been these unrealised events, this different life, this unknown husband. All, surely, could not be like this one. He might have been handsome, witty, distinguished, attractive, such as, no doubt, her old companions of the convent had married. What were they doing now? In town, with the noise of the streets, the buzz of the theatres and the lights of the ballroom, they were living lives where the heart expands, the senses bourgeon out. But she--her life was cold as a garret whose dormer window looks on the north, and ennui, the silent spider, was weaving its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart. She recalled the prize days, when she mounted the platform to receive her little crowns, with her hair in long plaits. In her white frock and open prunella shoes she had a pretty way, and when she went back to her seat, the gentlemen bent over her to congratulate her; the courtyard was full of carriages; farewells were called to her through their windows; the music master with his violin case bowed in passing by. How far all of this! How far away! She called Djali, took her between her knees, and smoothed the long delicate head, saying, "Come, kiss mistress; you have no troubles." Then noting the melancholy face of the graceful animal, who yawned slowly, she softened, and comparing her to herself, spoke to her aloud as to somebody in trouble whom one is consoling. Occasionally there came gusts of winds, breezes from the sea rolling in one sweep over the whole plateau of the Caux country, which brought even to these fields a salt freshness. The rushes, close to the ground, whistled; the branches trembled in a swift rustling, while their summits, ceaselessly swaying, kept up a deep murmur. Emma drew her shawl round her shoulders and rose. In the avenue a green light dimmed by the leaves lit up the short moss that crackled softly beneath her feet. The sun was setting; the sky showed red between the branches, and the trunks of the trees, uniform, and planted in a straight line, seemed a brown colonnade standing out against a background of gold. A fear took hold of her; she called Djali, and hurriedly returned to Tostes by the high road, threw herself into an armchair, and for the rest of the evening did not speak. But towards the end of September something extraordinary fell upon her life; she was invited by the Marquis d'Andervilliers to Vaubyessard. Secretary of State under the Restoration, the Marquis, anxious to re-enter political life, set about preparing for his candidature to the Chamber of Deputies long beforehand. In the winter he distributed a great deal of wood, and in the Conseil General always enthusiastically demanded new roads for his arrondissement. During the dog-days he had suffered from an abscess, which Charles had cured as if by miracle by giving a timely little touch with the lancet. The steward sent to Tostes to pay for the operation reported in the evening that he had seen some superb cherries in the doctor's little garden. Now cherry trees did not thrive at Vaubyessard; the Marquis asked Bovary for some slips; made it his business to thank his personally; saw Emma; thought she had a pretty figure, and that she did not bow like a peasant; so that he did not think he was going beyond the bounds of condescension, nor, on the other hand, making a mistake, in inviting the young couple. On Wednesday at three o'clock, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, seated in their dog-cart, set out for Vaubyessard, with a great trunk strapped on behind and a bonnet-box in front of the apron. Besides these Charles held a bandbox between his knees. They arrived at nightfall, just as the lamps in the park were being lit to show the way for the carriages. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 3--------- One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money for setting his leg--seventy-five francs in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. He had heard of his loss, and consoled him as well as he could. "I know what it is," said he, clapping him on the shoulder; "I've been through it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into the fields to be quite alone. I fell at the foot of a tree; I cried; I called on God; I talked nonsense to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw on the branches, their insides swarming with worms, dead, and an end of it. And when I thought that there were others at that very moment with their nice little wives holding them in their embrace, I struck great blows on the earth with my stick. I was pretty well mad with not eating; the very idea of going to a cafe disgusted me--you wouldn't believe it. Well, quite softly, one day following another, a spring on a winter, and an autumn after a summer, this wore away, piece by piece, crumb by crumb; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something always remains at the bottom as one would say--a weight here, at one's heart. But since it is the lot of all of us, one must not give way altogether, and, because others have died, want to die too. You must pull yourself together, Monsieur Bovary. It will pass away. Come to see us; my daughter thinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says you are forgetting her. Spring will soon be here. We'll have some rabbit-shooting in the warrens to amuse you a bit." Charles followed his advice. He went back to the Bertaux. He found all as he had left it, that is to say, as it was five months ago. The pear trees were already in blossom, and Farmer Rouault, on his legs again, came and went, making the farm more full of life. Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the doctor because of his sad position, he begged him not to take his hat off, spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, and even pretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for him than for the others, such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears. He told stories. Charles found himself laughing, but the remembrance of his wife suddenly coming back to him depressed him. Coffee was brought in; he thought no more about her. He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone. The new delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable. He could now change his meal-times, go in or out without explanation, and when he was very tired stretch himself at full length on his bed. So he nursed and coddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him. On the other hand, the death of his wife had not served him ill in his business, since for a month people had been saying, "The poor young man! what a loss!" His name had been talked about, his practice had increased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked. He had an aimless hope, and was vaguely happy; he thought himself better looking as he brushed his whiskers before the looking-glass. One day he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the fields. He went into the kitchen, but did not at once catch sight of Emma; the outside shutters were closed. Through the chinks of the wood the sun sent across the flooring long fine rays that were broken at the corners of the furniture and trembled along the ceiling. Some flies on the table were crawling up the glasses that had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the dregs of the cider. The daylight that came in by the chimney made velvet of the soot at the back of the fireplace, and touched with blue the cold cinders. Between the window and the hearth Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drops of perspiration on her bare shoulders. After the fashion of country folks she asked him to have something to drink. He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have a glass of liqueur with him. So she went to fetch a bottle of curacao from the cupboard, reached down two small glasses, filled one to the brim, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked glasses, carried hers to her mouth. As it was almost empty she bent back to drink, her head thrown back, her lips pouting, her neck on the strain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tip of her tongue passing between her small teeth she licked drop by drop the bottom of her glass. She sat down again and took up her work, a white cotton stocking she was darning. She worked with her head bent down; she did not speak, nor did Charles. The air coming in under the door blew a little dust over the flags; he watched it drift along, and heard nothing but the throbbing in his head and the faint clucking of a hen that had laid an egg in the yard. Emma from time to time cooled her cheeks with the palms of her hands, and cooled these again on the knobs of the huge fire-dogs. She complained of suffering since the beginning of the season from giddiness; she asked if sea-baths would do her any good; she began talking of her convent, Charles of his school; words came to them. They went up into her bedroom. She showed him her old music-books, the little prizes she had won, and the oak-leaf crowns, left at the bottom of a cupboard. She spoke to him, too, of her mother, of the country, and even showed him the bed in the garden where, on the first Friday of every month, she gathered flowers to put on her mother's tomb. But the gardener they had never knew anything about it; servants are so stupid! She would have dearly liked, if only for the winter, to live in town, although the length of the fine days made the country perhaps even more wearisome in the summer. And, according to what she was saying, her voice was clear, sharp, or, on a sudden all languor, drawn out in modulations that ended almost in murmurs as she spoke to herself, now joyous, opening big naive eyes, then with her eyelids half closed, her look full of boredom, her thoughts wandering. Going home at night, Charles went over her words one by one, trying to recall them, to fill out their sense, that he might piece out the life she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her in his thoughts other than he had seen her the first time, or as he had just left her. Then he asked himself what would become of her--if she would be married, and to whom! Alas! Old Rouault was rich, and she!--so beautiful! But Emma's face always rose before his eyes, and a monotone, like the humming of a top, sounded in his ears, "If you should marry after all! If you should marry!" At night he could not sleep; his throat was parched; he was athirst. He got up to drink from the water-bottle and opened the window. The night was covered with stars, a warm wind blowing in the distance; the dogs were barking. He turned his head towards the Bertaux. Thinking that, after all, he should lose nothing, Charles promised himself to ask her in marriage as soon as occasion offered, but each time such occasion did offer the fear of not finding the right words sealed his lips. Old Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his daughter, who was of no use to him in the house. In his heart he excused her, thinking her too clever for farming, a calling under the ban of Heaven, since one never saw a millionaire in it. Far from having made a fortune by it, the good man was losing every year; for if he was good in bargaining, in which he enjoyed the dodges of the trade, on the other hand, agriculture properly so called, and the internal management of the farm, suited him less than most people. He did not willingly take his hands out of his pockets, and did not spare expense in all that concerned himself, liking to eat well, to have good fires, and to sleep well. He liked old cider, underdone legs of mutton, glorias* well beaten up. He took his meals in the kitchen alone, opposite the fire, on a little table brought to him all ready laid as on the stage. *A mixture of coffee and spirits. When, therefore, he perceived that Charles's cheeks grew red if near his daughter, which meant that he would propose for her one of these days, he chewed the cud of the matter beforehand. He certainly thought him a little meagre, and not quite the son-in-law he would have liked, but he was said to be well brought-up, economical, very learned, and no doubt would not make too many difficulties about the dowry. Now, as old Rouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two acres of "his property," as he owed a good deal to the mason, to the harness-maker, and as the shaft of the cider-press wanted renewing, "If he asks for her," he said to himself, "I'll give her to him." At Michaelmas Charles went to spend three days at the Bertaux. The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from hour to hour. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were walking along the road full of ruts; they were about to part. This was the time. Charles gave himself as far as to the corner of the hedge, and at last, when past it-- "Monsieur Rouault," he murmured, "I should like to say something to you." They stopped. Charles was silent. "Well, tell me your story. Don't I know all about it?" said old Rouault, laughing softly. "Monsieur Rouault--Monsieur Rouault," stammered Charles. "I ask nothing better", the farmer went on. "Although, no doubt, the little one is of my mind, still we must ask her opinion. So you get off--I'll go back home. If it is 'yes', you needn't return because of all the people about, and besides it would upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be eating your heart, I'll open wide the outer shutter of the window against the wall; you can see it from the back by leaning over the hedge." And he went off. Charles fastened his horse to a tree; he ran into the road and waited. Half an hour passed, then he counted nineteen minutes by his watch. Suddenly a noise was heard against the wall; the shutter had been thrown back; the hook was still swinging. The next day by nine o'clock he was at the farm. Emma blushed as he entered, and she gave a little forced laugh to keep herself in countenance. Old Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. The discussion of money matters was put off; moreover, there was plenty of time before them, as the marriage could not decently take place till Charles was out of mourning, that is to say, about the spring of the next year. The winter passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself chemises and nightcaps after fashion-plates that she borrowed. When Charles visited the farmer, the preparations for the wedding were talked over; they wondered in what room they should have dinner; they dreamed of the number of dishes that would be wanted, and what should be entrees. Emma would, on the contrary, have preferred to have a midnight wedding with torches, but old Rouault could not understand such an idea. So there was a wedding at which forty-three persons were present, at which they remained sixteen hours at table, began again the next day, and to some extent on the days following.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of part 1, chapter 6, utilizing the provided context.

part 1, chapter 4|part 1, chapter 5|part 1, chapter 6

This chapter provides the details of Emma's life up to her marriage. At the age of thirteen she became a boarder at a convent in the city of Rouen. She was a quick student and enjoyed life in the convent. The mysticism of the church appealed to her romantic temperament which was "more sentimental than artistic. An old spinster wash lady at the convent who had been a member of the aristocracy before the Revolution enthralled the girls with tales of the past and provided them with novels featuring romantic tales set in exotic locales. Emma took quickly to the notions in the novels. The idyllic pictures of heartsick maidens pining for their lovers deeply affected her. After her mother died she mourned profusely but gradually found that her sadness was contrived. Although she had initially loved the convent and the trappings of religious life she balked at the discipline and neither she nor the nuns were too disappointed when she left the school. She quickly tired of life on her father's farm, however, and when Charles appeared she thought her chance for true romantic happiness had arrived. The drab reality of the little house in Tostes, however, fails to match her idea of romance

----------PART 1, CHAPTER 4--------- The guests arrived early in carriages, in one-horse chaises, two-wheeled cars, old open gigs, waggonettes with leather hoods, and the young people from the nearer villages in carts, in which they stood up in rows, holding on to the sides so as not to fall, going at a trot and well shaken up. Some came from a distance of thirty miles, from Goderville, from Normanville, and from Cany. All the relatives of both families had been invited, quarrels between friends arranged, acquaintances long since lost sight of written to. From time to time one heard the crack of a whip behind the hedge; then the gates opened, a chaise entered. Galloping up to the foot of the steps, it stopped short and emptied its load. They got down from all sides, rubbing knees and stretching arms. The ladies, wearing bonnets, had on dresses in the town fashion, gold watch chains, pelerines with the ends tucked into belts, or little coloured fichus fastened down behind with a pin, and that left the back of the neck bare. The lads, dressed like their papas, seemed uncomfortable in their new clothes (many that day hand-sewed their first pair of boots), and by their sides, speaking never a work, wearing the white dress of their first communion lengthened for the occasion were some big girls of fourteen or sixteen, cousins or elder sisters no doubt, rubicund, bewildered, their hair greasy with rose pomade, and very much afraid of dirtying their gloves. As there were not enough stable-boys to unharness all the carriages, the gentlemen turned up their sleeves and set about it themselves. According to their different social positions they wore tail-coats, overcoats, shooting jackets, cutaway-coats; fine tail-coats, redolent of family respectability, that only came out of the wardrobe on state occasions; overcoats with long tails flapping in the wind and round capes and pockets like sacks; shooting jackets of coarse cloth, generally worn with a cap with a brass-bound peak; very short cutaway-coats with two small buttons in the back, close together like a pair of eyes, and the tails of which seemed cut out of one piece by a carpenter's hatchet. Some, too (but these, you may be sure, would sit at the bottom of the table), wore their best blouses--that is to say, with collars turned down to the shoulders, the back gathered into small plaits and the waist fastened very low down with a worked belt. And the shirts stood out from the chests like cuirasses! Everyone had just had his hair cut; ears stood out from the heads; they had been close-shaved; a few, even, who had had to get up before daybreak, and not been able to see to shave, had diagonal gashes under their noses or cuts the size of a three-franc piece along the jaws, which the fresh air en route had enflamed, so that the great white beaming faces were mottled here and there with red dabs. The mairie was a mile and a half from the farm, and they went thither on foot, returning in the same way after the ceremony in the church. The procession, first united like one long coloured scarf that undulated across the fields, along the narrow path winding amid the green corn, soon lengthened out, and broke up into different groups that loitered to talk. The fiddler walked in front with his violin, gay with ribbons at its pegs. Then came the married pair, the relations, the friends, all following pell-mell; the children stayed behind amusing themselves plucking the bell-flowers from oat-ears, or playing amongst themselves unseen. Emma's dress, too long, trailed a little on the ground; from time to time she stopped to pull it up, and then delicately, with her gloved hands, she picked off the coarse grass and the thistledowns, while Charles, empty handed, waited till she had finished. Old Rouault, with a new silk hat and the cuffs of his black coat covering his hands up to the nails, gave his arm to Madame Bovary senior. As to Monsieur Bovary senior, who, heartily despising all these folk, had come simply in a frock-coat of military cut with one row of buttons--he was passing compliments of the bar to a fair young peasant. She bowed, blushed, and did not know what to say. The other wedding guests talked of their business or played tricks behind each other's backs, egging one another on in advance to be jolly. Those who listened could always catch the squeaking of the fiddler, who went on playing across the fields. When he saw that the rest were far behind he stopped to take breath, slowly rosined his bow, so that the strings should sound more shrilly, then set off again, by turns lowering and raising his neck, the better to mark time for himself. The noise of the instrument drove away the little birds from afar. The table was laid under the cart-shed. On it were four sirloins, six chicken fricassees, stewed veal, three legs of mutton, and in the middle a fine roast suckling pig, flanked by four chitterlings with sorrel. At the corners were decanters of brandy. Sweet bottled-cider frothed round the corks, and all the glasses had been filled to the brim with wine beforehand. Large dishes of yellow cream, that trembled with the least shake of the table, had designed on their smooth surface the initials of the newly wedded pair in nonpareil arabesques. A confectioner of Yvetot had been intrusted with the tarts and sweets. As he had only just set up on the place, he had taken a lot of trouble, and at dessert he himself brought in a set dish that evoked loud cries of wonderment. To begin with, at its base there was a square of blue cardboard, representing a temple with porticoes, colonnades, and stucco statuettes all round, and in the niches constellations of gilt paper stars; then on the second stage was a dungeon of Savoy cake, surrounded by many fortifications in candied angelica, almonds, raisins, and quarters of oranges; and finally, on the upper platform a green field with rocks set in lakes of jam, nutshell boats, and a small Cupid balancing himself in a chocolate swing whose two uprights ended in real roses for balls at the top. Until night they ate. When any of them were too tired of sitting, they went out for a stroll in the yard, or for a game with corks in the granary, and then returned to table. Some towards the finish went to sleep and snored. But with the coffee everyone woke up. Then they began songs, showed off tricks, raised heavy weights, performed feats with their fingers, then tried lifting carts on their shoulders, made broad jokes, kissed the women. At night when they left, the horses, stuffed up to the nostrils with oats, could hardly be got into the shafts; they kicked, reared, the harness broke, their masters laughed or swore; and all night in the light of the moon along country roads there were runaway carts at full gallop plunging into the ditches, jumping over yard after yard of stones, clambering up the hills, with women leaning out from the tilt to catch hold of the reins. Those who stayed at the Bertaux spent the night drinking in the kitchen. The children had fallen asleep under the seats. The bride had begged her father to be spared the usual marriage pleasantries. However, a fishmonger, one of their cousins (who had even brought a pair of soles for his wedding present), began to squirt water from his mouth through the keyhole, when old Rouault came up just in time to stop him, and explain to him that the distinguished position of his son-in-law would not allow of such liberties. The cousin all the same did not give in to these reasons readily. In his heart he accused old Rouault of being proud, and he joined four or five other guests in a corner, who having, through mere chance, been several times running served with the worst helps of meat, also were of opinion they had been badly used, and were whispering about their host, and with covered hints hoping he would ruin himself. Madame Bovary, senior, had not opened her mouth all day. She had been consulted neither as to the dress of her daughter-in-law nor as to the arrangement of the feast; she went to bed early. Her husband, instead of following her, sent to Saint-Victor for some cigars, and smoked till daybreak, drinking kirsch-punch, a mixture unknown to the company. This added greatly to the consideration in which he was held. Charles, who was not of a facetious turn, did not shine at the wedding. He answered feebly to the puns, doubles entendres*, compliments, and chaff that it was felt a duty to let off at him as soon as the soup appeared. *Double meanings. The next day, on the other hand, he seemed another man. It was he who might rather have been taken for the virgin of the evening before, whilst the bride gave no sign that revealed anything. The shrewdest did not know what to make of it, and they looked at her when she passed near them with an unbounded concentration of mind. But Charles concealed nothing. He called her "my wife", tutoyed* her, asked for her of everyone, looked for her everywhere, and often he dragged her into the yards, where he could be seen from far between the trees, putting his arm around her waist, and walking half-bending over her, ruffling the chemisette of her bodice with his head. *Used the familiar form of address. Two days after the wedding the married pair left. Charles, on account of his patients, could not be away longer. Old Rouault had them driven back in his cart, and himself accompanied them as far as Vassonville. Here he embraced his daughter for the last time, got down, and went his way. When he had gone about a hundred paces he stopped, and as he saw the cart disappearing, its wheels turning in the dust, he gave a deep sigh. Then he remembered his wedding, the old times, the first pregnancy of his wife; he, too, had been very happy the day when he had taken her from her father to his home, and had carried her off on a pillion, trotting through the snow, for it was near Christmas-time, and the country was all white. She held him by one arm, her basket hanging from the other; the wind blew the long lace of her Cauchois headdress so that it sometimes flapped across his mouth, and when he turned his head he saw near him, on his shoulder, her little rosy face, smiling silently under the gold bands of her cap. To warm her hands she put them from time to time in his breast. How long ago it all was! Their son would have been thirty by now. Then he looked back and saw nothing on the road. He felt dreary as an empty house; and tender memories mingling with the sad thoughts in his brain, addled by the fumes of the feast, he felt inclined for a moment to take a turn towards the church. As he was afraid, however, that this sight would make him yet more sad, he went right away home. Monsieur and Madame Charles arrived at Tostes about six o'clock. The neighbors came to the windows to see their doctor's new wife. The old servant presented herself, curtsied to her, apologised for not having dinner ready, and suggested that madame, in the meantime, should look over her house. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 5--------- The brick front was just in a line with the street, or rather the road. Behind the door hung a cloak with a small collar, a bridle, and a black leather cap, and on the floor, in a corner, were a pair of leggings, still covered with dry mud. On the right was the one apartment, that was both dining and sitting room. A canary yellow paper, relieved at the top by a garland of pale flowers, was puckered everywhere over the badly stretched canvas; white calico curtains with a red border hung crossways at the length of the window; and on the narrow mantelpiece a clock with a head of Hippocrates shone resplendent between two plate candlesticks under oval shades. On the other side of the passage was Charles's consulting room, a little room about six paces wide, with a table, three chairs, and an office chair. Volumes of the "Dictionary of Medical Science," uncut, but the binding rather the worse for the successive sales through which they had gone, occupied almost along the six shelves of a deal bookcase. The smell of melted butter penetrated through the walls when he saw patients, just as in the kitchen one could hear the people coughing in the consulting room and recounting their histories. Then, opening on the yard, where the stable was, came a large dilapidated room with a stove, now used as a wood-house, cellar, and pantry, full of old rubbish, of empty casks, agricultural implements past service, and a mass of dusty things whose use it was impossible to guess. The garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with espaliered apricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from the field. In the middle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal; four flower beds with eglantines surrounded symmetrically the more useful kitchen garden bed. Right at the bottom, under the spruce bushes, was a cure in plaster reading his breviary. Emma went upstairs. The first room was not furnished, but in the second, which was their bedroom, was a mahogany bedstead in an alcove with red drapery. A shell box adorned the chest of drawers, and on the secretary near the window a bouquet of orange blossoms tied with white satin ribbons stood in a bottle. It was a bride's bouquet; it was the other one's. She looked at it. Charles noticed it; he took it and carried it up to the attic, while Emma seated in an arm-chair (they were putting her things down around her) thought of her bridal flowers packed up in a bandbox, and wondered, dreaming, what would be done with them if she were to die. During the first days she occupied herself in thinking about changes in the house. She took the shades off the candlesticks, had new wallpaper put up, the staircase repainted, and seats made in the garden round the sundial; she even inquired how she could get a basin with a jet fountain and fishes. Finally her husband, knowing that she liked to drive out, picked up a second-hand dogcart, which, with new lamps and splashboard in striped leather, looked almost like a tilbury. He was happy then, and without a care in the world. A meal together, a walk in the evening on the highroad, a gesture of her hands over her hair, the sight of her straw hat hanging from the window-fastener, and many another thing in which Charles had never dreamed of pleasure, now made up the endless round of his happiness. In bed, in the morning, by her side, on the pillow, he watched the sunlight sinking into the down on her fair cheek, half hidden by the lappets of her night-cap. Seen thus closely, her eyes looked to him enlarged, especially when, on waking up, she opened and shut them rapidly many times. Black in the shade, dark blue in broad daylight, they had, as it were, depths of different colours, that, darker in the centre, grew paler towards the surface of the eye. His own eyes lost themselves in these depths; he saw himself in miniature down to the shoulders, with his handkerchief round his head and the top of his shirt open. He rose. She came to the window to see him off, and stayed leaning on the sill between two pots of geranium, clad in her dressing gown hanging loosely about her. Charles, in the street buckled his spurs, his foot on the mounting stone, while she talked to him from above, picking with her mouth some scrap of flower or leaf that she blew out at him. Then this, eddying, floating, described semicircles in the air like a bird, and was caught before it reached the ground in the ill-groomed mane of the old white mare standing motionless at the door. Charles from horseback threw her a kiss; she answered with a nod; she shut the window, and he set off. And then along the highroad, spreading out its long ribbon of dust, along the deep lanes that the trees bent over as in arbours, along paths where the corn reached to the knees, with the sun on his back and the morning air in his nostrils, his heart full of the joys of the past night, his mind at rest, his flesh at ease, he went on, re-chewing his happiness, like those who after dinner taste again the truffles which they are digesting. Until now what good had he had of his life? His time at school, when he remained shut up within the high walls, alone, in the midst of companions richer than he or cleverer at their work, who laughed at his accent, who jeered at his clothes, and whose mothers came to the school with cakes in their muffs? Later on, when he studied medicine, and never had his purse full enough to treat some little work-girl who would have become his mistress? Afterwards, he had lived fourteen months with the widow, whose feet in bed were cold as icicles. But now he had for life this beautiful woman whom he adored. For him the universe did not extend beyond the circumference of her petticoat, and he reproached himself with not loving her. He wanted to see her again; he turned back quickly, ran up the stairs with a beating heart. Emma, in her room, was dressing; he came up on tiptoe, kissed her back; she gave a cry. He could not keep from constantly touching her comb, her ring, her fichu; sometimes he gave her great sounding kisses with all his mouth on her cheeks, or else little kisses in a row all along her bare arm from the tip of her fingers up to her shoulder, and she put him away half-smiling, half-vexed, as you do a child who hangs about you. Before marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that should have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought, have been mistaken. And Emma tried to find out what one meant exactly in life by the words felicity, passion, rapture, that had seemed to her so beautiful in books. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 6--------- She had read "Paul and Virginia," and she had dreamed of the little bamboo-house, the nigger Domingo, the dog Fidele, but above all of the sweet friendship of some dear little brother, who seeks red fruit for you on trees taller than steeples, or who runs barefoot over the sand, bringing you a bird's nest. When she was thirteen, her father himself took her to town to place her in the convent. They stopped at an inn in the St. Gervais quarter, where, at their supper, they used painted plates that set forth the story of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The explanatory legends, chipped here and there by the scratching of knives, all glorified religion, the tendernesses of the heart, and the pomps of court. Far from being bored at first at the convent, she took pleasure in the society of the good sisters, who, to amuse her, took her to the chapel, which one entered from the refectory by a long corridor. She played very little during recreation hours, knew her catechism well, and it was she who always answered Monsieur le Vicaire's difficult questions. Living thus, without ever leaving the warm atmosphere of the classrooms, and amid these pale-faced women wearing rosaries with brass crosses, she was softly lulled by the mystic languor exhaled in the perfumes of the altar, the freshness of the holy water, and the lights of the tapers. Instead of attending to mass, she looked at the pious vignettes with their azure borders in her book, and she loved the sick lamb, the sacred heart pierced with sharp arrows, or the poor Jesus sinking beneath the cross he carries. She tried, by way of mortification, to eat nothing a whole day. She puzzled her head to find some vow to fulfil. When she went to confession, she invented little sins in order that she might stay there longer, kneeling in the shadow, her hands joined, her face against the grating beneath the whispering of the priest. The comparisons of betrothed, husband, celestial lover, and eternal marriage, that recur in sermons, stirred within her soul depths of unexpected sweetness. In the evening, before prayers, there was some religious reading in the study. On week-nights it was some abstract of sacred history or the Lectures of the Abbe Frayssinous, and on Sundays passages from the "Genie du Christianisme," as a recreation. How she listened at first to the sonorous lamentations of its romantic melancholies reechoing through the world and eternity! If her childhood had been spent in the shop-parlour of some business quarter, she might perhaps have opened her heart to those lyrical invasions of Nature, which usually come to us only through translation in books. But she knew the country too well; she knew the lowing of cattle, the milking, the ploughs. Accustomed to calm aspects of life, she turned, on the contrary, to those of excitement. She loved the sea only for the sake of its storms, and the green fields only when broken up by ruins. She wanted to get some personal profit out of things, and she rejected as useless all that did not contribute to the immediate desires of her heart, being of a temperament more sentimental than artistic, looking for emotions, not landscapes. At the convent there was an old maid who came for a week each month to mend the linen. Patronized by the clergy, because she belonged to an ancient family of noblemen ruined by the Revolution, she dined in the refectory at the table of the good sisters, and after the meal had a bit of chat with them before going back to her work. The girls often slipped out from the study to go and see her. She knew by heart the love songs of the last century, and sang them in a low voice as she stitched away. She told stories, gave them news, went errands in the town, and on the sly lent the big girls some novel, that she always carried in the pockets of her apron, and of which the good lady herself swallowed long chapters in the intervals of her work. They were all love, lovers, sweethearts, persecuted ladies fainting in lonely pavilions, postilions killed at every stage, horses ridden to death on every page, sombre forests, heartaches, vows, sobs, tears and kisses, little skiffs by moonlight, nightingales in shady groves, "gentlemen" brave as lions, gentle as lambs, virtuous as no one ever was, always well dressed, and weeping like fountains. For six months, then, Emma, at fifteen years of age, made her hands dirty with books from old lending libraries. Through Walter Scott, later on, she fell in love with historical events, dreamed of old chests, guard-rooms and minstrels. She would have liked to live in some old manor-house, like those long-waisted chatelaines who, in the shade of pointed arches, spent their days leaning on the stone, chin in hand, watching a cavalier with white plume galloping on his black horse from the distant fields. At this time she had a cult for Mary Stuart and enthusiastic veneration for illustrious or unhappy women. Joan of Arc, Heloise, Agnes Sorel, the beautiful Ferroniere, and Clemence Isaure stood out to her like comets in the dark immensity of heaven, where also were seen, lost in shadow, and all unconnected, St. Louis with his oak, the dying Bayard, some cruelties of Louis XI, a little of St. Bartholomew's Day, the plume of the Bearnais, and always the remembrance of the plates painted in honour of Louis XIV. In the music class, in the ballads she sang, there was nothing but little angels with golden wings, madonnas, lagunes, gondoliers;-mild compositions that allowed her to catch a glimpse athwart the obscurity of style and the weakness of the music of the attractive phantasmagoria of sentimental realities. Some of her companions brought "keepsakes" given them as new year's gifts to the convent. These had to be hidden; it was quite an undertaking; they were read in the dormitory. Delicately handling the beautiful satin bindings, Emma looked with dazzled eyes at the names of the unknown authors, who had signed their verses for the most part as counts or viscounts. She trembled as she blew back the tissue paper over the engraving and saw it folded in two and fall gently against the page. Here behind the balustrade of a balcony was a young man in a short cloak, holding in his arms a young girl in a white dress wearing an alms-bag at her belt; or there were nameless portraits of English ladies with fair curls, who looked at you from under their round straw hats with their large clear eyes. Some there were lounging in their carriages, gliding through parks, a greyhound bounding along in front of the equipage driven at a trot by two midget postilions in white breeches. Others, dreaming on sofas with an open letter, gazed at the moon through a slightly open window half draped by a black curtain. The naive ones, a tear on their cheeks, were kissing doves through the bars of a Gothic cage, or, smiling, their heads on one side, were plucking the leaves of a marguerite with their taper fingers, that curved at the tips like peaked shoes. And you, too, were there, Sultans with long pipes reclining beneath arbours in the arms of Bayaderes; Djiaours, Turkish sabres, Greek caps; and you especially, pale landscapes of dithyrambic lands, that often show us at once palm trees and firs, tigers on the right, a lion to the left, Tartar minarets on the horizon; the whole framed by a very neat virgin forest, and with a great perpendicular sunbeam trembling in the water, where, standing out in relief like white excoriations on a steel-grey ground, swans are swimming about. And the shade of the argand lamp fastened to the wall above Emma's head lighted up all these pictures of the world, that passed before her one by one in the silence of the dormitory, and to the distant noise of some belated carriage rolling over the Boulevards. When her mother died she cried much the first few days. She had a funeral picture made with the hair of the deceased, and, in a letter sent to the Bertaux full of sad reflections on life, she asked to be buried later on in the same grave. The goodman thought she must be ill, and came to see her. Emma was secretly pleased that she had reached at a first attempt the rare ideal of pale lives, never attained by mediocre hearts. She let herself glide along with Lamartine meanderings, listened to harps on lakes, to all the songs of dying swans, to the falling of the leaves, the pure virgins ascending to heaven, and the voice of the Eternal discoursing down the valleys. She wearied of it, would not confess it, continued from habit, and at last was surprised to feel herself soothed, and with no more sadness at heart than wrinkles on her brow. The good nuns, who had been so sure of her vocation, perceived with great astonishment that Mademoiselle Rouault seemed to be slipping from them. They had indeed been so lavish to her of prayers, retreats, novenas, and sermons, they had so often preached the respect due to saints and martyrs, and given so much good advice as to the modesty of the body and the salvation of her soul, that she did as tightly reined horses; she pulled up short and the bit slipped from her teeth. This nature, positive in the midst of its enthusiasms, that had loved the church for the sake of the flowers, and music for the words of the songs, and literature for its passional stimulus, rebelled against the mysteries of faith as it grew irritated by discipline, a thing antipathetic to her constitution. When her father took her from school, no one was sorry to see her go. The Lady Superior even thought that she had latterly been somewhat irreverent to the community. Emma, at home once more, first took pleasure in looking after the servants, then grew disgusted with the country and missed her convent. When Charles came to the Bertaux for the first time, she thought herself quite disillusioned, with nothing more to learn, and nothing more to feel. But the uneasiness of her new position, or perhaps the disturbance caused by the presence of this man, had sufficed to make her believe that she at last felt that wondrous passion which, till then, like a great bird with rose-coloured wings, hung in the splendour of the skies of poesy; and now she could not think that the calm in which she lived was the happiness she had dreamed.

Madame Bovary.part 2.chap

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of part 2, chapter 4, utilizing the provided context.

part 2, chapter 2|part 2, chapter 4

Once the winter arrives, Emma moves into the parlor from her room. She sits and people-watches all day. Twice a day, she sees Leon go back and forth to and from his office. Monsieur Homais continues to be an attentive neighbor; he stops by every day around dinner time to discuss the daily news with Charles and to give Emma household tips. After this evening chat, Justin comes in to fetch his master. Homais pokes fun at the boy for having a crush on Felicite. The pharmacist also scolds Justin for eavesdropping all the time. On Sundays, the Homais household entertains the few townspeople Monsieur Homais hasn't alienated. Leon and the Bovarys always come. On these occasions, Leon is always by Emma's side, talking to her, coaching her at card games, and looking at magazines with her. Something is obviously going on between Emma and Leon. Charles, unsuspecting as ever, has no idea. At this point, Emma herself doesn't fully realize it. Leon is careful to include Charles in his thoughts, as to avoid suspicions. He gives the officier de sante a splendid phrenological head model for his birthday . Leon is always willing to get things for Emma, from the latest books to a bushel of cacti. Emma and Leon each have little gardens outside their windows, from which they look at each other while tending the plants. To show her gratitude, Emma has a gorgeous velvet bedspread sent over to Leon...it seems like something of an extravagant present. Everyone else is sure that the pair are lovers. Leon idiotically reinforces this idea by talking about Emma 24/7. Even poor Binet gets so sick of him that he snaps at the boy one day. Ah, l'amour! Leon is tortured by his love for Emma, and tries to figure out how to possibly tell her. He can't bring himself to do it. Emma, on the other hand, doesn't get all worked up; she doesn't even try and see if she is or isn't in love with him. Flaubert ominously ends the chapter, though, with the suggestion that one day she'll crack and her love will be out of control.

----------PART 2, CHAPTER 2--------- Emma got out first, then Felicite, Monsieur Lheureux, and a nurse, and they had to wake up Charles in his corner, where he had slept soundly since night set in. Homais introduced himself; he offered his homages to madame and his respects to monsieur; said he was charmed to have been able to render them some slight service, and added with a cordial air that he had ventured to invite himself, his wife being away. When Madame Bovary was in the kitchen she went up to the chimney. With the tips of her fingers she caught her dress at the knee, and having thus pulled it up to her ankle, held out her foot in its black boot to the fire above the revolving leg of mutton. The flame lit up the whole of her, penetrating with a crude light the woof of her gowns, the fine pores of her fair skin, and even her eyelids, which she blinked now and again. A great red glow passed over her with the blowing of the wind through the half-open door. On the other side of the chimney a young man with fair hair watched her silently. As he was a good deal bored at Yonville, where he was a clerk at the notary's, Monsieur Guillaumin, Monsieur Leon Dupuis (it was he who was the second habitue of the "Lion d'Or") frequently put back his dinner-hour in hope that some traveler might come to the inn, with whom he could chat in the evening. On the days when his work was done early, he had, for want of something else to do, to come punctually, and endure from soup to cheese a tete-a-tete with Binet. It was therefore with delight that he accepted the landlady's suggestion that he should dine in company with the newcomers, and they passed into the large parlour where Madame Lefrancois, for the purpose of showing off, had had the table laid for four. Homais asked to be allowed to keep on his skull-cap, for fear of coryza; then, turning to his neighbour-- "Madame is no doubt a little fatigued; one gets jolted so abominably in our 'Hirondelle.'" "That is true," replied Emma; "but moving about always amuses me. I like change of place." "It is so tedious," sighed the clerk, "to be always riveted to the same places." "If you were like me," said Charles, "constantly obliged to be in the saddle"-- "But," Leon went on, addressing himself to Madame Bovary, "nothing, it seems to me, is more pleasant--when one can," he added. "Moreover," said the druggist, "the practice of medicine is not very hard work in our part of the world, for the state of our roads allows us the use of gigs, and generally, as the farmers are prosperous, they pay pretty well. We have, medically speaking, besides the ordinary cases of enteritis, bronchitis, bilious affections, etc., now and then a few intermittent fevers at harvest-time; but on the whole, little of a serious nature, nothing special to note, unless it be a great deal of scrofula, due, no doubt, to the deplorable hygienic conditions of our peasant dwellings. Ah! you will find many prejudices to combat, Monsieur Bovary, much obstinacy of routine, with which all the efforts of your science will daily come into collision; for people still have recourse to novenas, to relics, to the priest, rather than come straight to the doctor or the chemist. The climate, however, is not, truth to tell, bad, and we even have a few nonagenarians in our parish. The thermometer (I have made some observations) falls in winter to 4 degrees Centigrade at the outside, which gives us 24 degrees Reaumur as the maximum, or otherwise 54 degrees Fahrenheit (English scale), not more. And, as a matter of fact, we are sheltered from the north winds by the forest of Argueil on the one side, from the west winds by the St. Jean range on the other; and this heat, moreover, which, on account of the aqueous vapours given off by the river and the considerable number of cattle in the fields, which, as you know, exhale much ammonia, that is to say, nitrogen, hydrogen and oxygen (no, nitrogen and hydrogen alone), and which sucking up into itself the humus from the ground, mixing together all those different emanations, unites them into a stack, so to say, and combining with the electricity diffused through the atmosphere, when there is any, might in the long run, as in tropical countries, engender insalubrious miasmata--this heat, I say, finds itself perfectly tempered on the side whence it comes, or rather whence it should come--that is to say, the southern side--by the south-eastern winds, which, having cooled themselves passing over the Seine, reach us sometimes all at once like breezes from Russia." "At any rate, you have some walks in the neighbourhood?" continued Madame Bovary, speaking to the young man. "Oh, very few," he answered. "There is a place they call La Pature, on the top of the hill, on the edge of the forest. Sometimes, on Sundays, I go and stay there with a book, watching the sunset." "I think there is nothing so admirable as sunsets," she resumed; "but especially by the side of the sea." "Oh, I adore the sea!" said Monsieur Leon. "And then, does it not seem to you," continued Madame Bovary, "that the mind travels more freely on this limitless expanse, the contemplation of which elevates the soul, gives ideas of the infinite, the ideal?" "It is the same with mountainous landscapes," continued Leon. "A cousin of mine who travelled in Switzerland last year told me that one could not picture to oneself the poetry of the lakes, the charm of the waterfalls, the gigantic effect of the glaciers. One sees pines of incredible size across torrents, cottages suspended over precipices, and, a thousand feet below one, whole valleys when the clouds open. Such spectacles must stir to enthusiasm, incline to prayer, to ecstasy; and I no longer marvel at that celebrated musician who, the better to inspire his imagination, was in the habit of playing the piano before some imposing site." "You play?" she asked. "No, but I am very fond of music," he replied. "Ah! don't you listen to him, Madame Bovary," interrupted Homais, bending over his plate. "That's sheer modesty. Why, my dear fellow, the other day in your room you were singing 'L'Ange Gardien' ravishingly. I heard you from the laboratory. You gave it like an actor." Leon, in fact, lodged at the chemist's where he had a small room on the second floor, overlooking the Place. He blushed at the compliment of his landlord, who had already turned to the doctor, and was enumerating to him, one after the other, all the principal inhabitants of Yonville. He was telling anecdotes, giving information; the fortune of the notary was not known exactly, and "there was the Tuvache household," who made a good deal of show. Emma continued, "And what music do you prefer?" "Oh, German music; that which makes you dream." "Have you been to the opera?" "Not yet; but I shall go next year, when I am living at Paris to finish reading for the bar." "As I had the honour of putting it to your husband," said the chemist, "with regard to this poor Yanoda who has run away, you will find yourself, thanks to his extravagance, in the possession of one of the most comfortable houses of Yonville. Its greatest convenience for a doctor is a door giving on the Walk, where one can go in and out unseen. Moreover, it contains everything that is agreeable in a household--a laundry, kitchen with offices, sitting-room, fruit-room, and so on. He was a gay dog, who didn't care what he spent. At the end of the garden, by the side of the water, he had an arbour built just for the purpose of drinking beer in summer; and if madame is fond of gardening she will be able--" "My wife doesn't care about it," said Charles; "although she has been advised to take exercise, she prefers always sitting in her room reading." "Like me," replied Leon. "And indeed, what is better than to sit by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against the window and the lamp is burning?" "What, indeed?" she said, fixing her large black eyes wide open upon him. "One thinks of nothing," he continued; "the hours slip by. Motionless we traverse countries we fancy we see, and your thought, blending with the fiction, playing with the details, follows the outline of the adventures. It mingles with the characters, and it seems as if it were yourself palpitating beneath their costumes." "That is true! That is true?" she said. "Has it ever happened to you," Leon went on, "to come across some vague idea of one's own in a book, some dim image that comes back to you from afar, and as the completest expression of your own slightest sentiment?" "I have experienced it," she replied. "That is why," he said, "I especially love the poets. I think verse more tender than prose, and that it moves far more easily to tears." "Still in the long run it is tiring," continued Emma. "Now I, on the contrary, adore stories that rush breathlessly along, that frighten one. I detest commonplace heroes and moderate sentiments, such as there are in nature." "In fact," observed the clerk, "these works, not touching the heart, miss, it seems to me, the true end of art. It is so sweet, amid all the disenchantments of life, to be able to dwell in thought upon noble characters, pure affections, and pictures of happiness. For myself, living here far from the world, this is my one distraction; but Yonville affords so few resources." "Like Tostes, no doubt," replied Emma; "and so I always subscribed to a lending library." "If madame will do me the honour of making use of it", said the chemist, who had just caught the last words, "I have at her disposal a library composed of the best authors, Voltaire, Rousseau, Delille, Walter Scott, the 'Echo des Feuilletons'; and in addition I receive various periodicals, among them the 'Fanal de Rouen' daily, having the advantage to be its correspondent for the districts of Buchy, Forges, Neufchatel, Yonville, and vicinity." For two hours and a half they had been at table; for the servant Artemis, carelessly dragging her old list slippers over the flags, brought one plate after the other, forgot everything, and constantly left the door of the billiard-room half open, so that it beat against the wall with its hooks. Unconsciously, Leon, while talking, had placed his foot on one of the bars of the chair on which Madame Bovary was sitting. She wore a small blue silk necktie, that kept up like a ruff a gauffered cambric collar, and with the movements of her head the lower part of her face gently sunk into the linen or came out from it. Thus side by side, while Charles and the chemist chatted, they entered into one of those vague conversations where the hazard of all that is said brings you back to the fixed centre of a common sympathy. The Paris theatres, titles of novels, new quadrilles, and the world they did not know; Tostes, where she had lived, and Yonville, where they were; they examined all, talked of everything till to the end of dinner. When coffee was served Felicite went away to get ready the room in the new house, and the guests soon raised the siege. Madame Lefrancois was asleep near the cinders, while the stable-boy, lantern in hand, was waiting to show Monsieur and Madame Bovary the way home. Bits of straw stuck in his red hair, and he limped with his left leg. When he had taken in his other hand the cure's umbrella, they started. The town was asleep; the pillars of the market threw great shadows; the earth was all grey as on a summer's night. But as the doctor's house was only some fifty paces from the inn, they had to say good-night almost immediately, and the company dispersed. As soon as she entered the passage, Emma felt the cold of the plaster fall about her shoulders like damp linen. The walls were new and the wooden stairs creaked. In their bedroom, on the first floor, a whitish light passed through the curtainless windows. She could catch glimpses of tree tops, and beyond, the fields, half-drowned in the fog that lay reeking in the moonlight along the course of the river. In the middle of the room, pell-mell, were scattered drawers, bottles, curtain-rods, gilt poles, with mattresses on the chairs and basins on the ground--the two men who had brought the furniture had left everything about carelessly. This was the fourth time that she had slept in a strange place. The first was the day of her going to the convent; the second, of her arrival at Tostes; the third, at Vaubyessard; and this was the fourth. And each one had marked, as it were, the inauguration of a new phase in her life. She did not believe that things could present themselves in the same way in different places, and since the portion of her life lived had been bad, no doubt that which remained to be lived would be better. ----------PART 2, CHAPTER 4--------- When the first cold days set in Emma left her bedroom for the sitting-room, a long apartment with a low ceiling, in which there was on the mantelpiece a large bunch of coral spread out against the looking-glass. Seated in her arm chair near the window, she could see the villagers pass along the pavement. Twice a day Leon went from his office to the Lion d'Or. Emma could hear him coming from afar; she leant forward listening, and the young man glided past the curtain, always dressed in the same way, and without turning his head. But in the twilight, when, her chin resting on her left hand, she let the embroidery she had begun fall on her knees, she often shuddered at the apparition of this shadow suddenly gliding past. She would get up and order the table to be laid. Monsieur Homais called at dinner-time. Skull-cap in hand, he came in on tiptoe, in order to disturb no one, always repeating the same phrase, "Good evening, everybody." Then, when he had taken his seat at the table between the pair, he asked the doctor about his patients, and the latter consulted his as to the probability of their payment. Next they talked of "what was in the paper." Homais by this hour knew it almost by heart, and he repeated it from end to end, with the reflections of the penny-a-liners, and all the stories of individual catastrophes that had occurred in France or abroad. But the subject becoming exhausted, he was not slow in throwing out some remarks on the dishes before him. Sometimes even, half-rising, he delicately pointed out to madame the tenderest morsel, or turning to the servant, gave her some advice on the manipulation of stews and the hygiene of seasoning. He talked aroma, osmazome, juices, and gelatine in a bewildering manner. Moreover, Homais, with his head fuller of recipes than his shop of jars, excelled in making all kinds of preserves, vinegars, and sweet liqueurs; he knew also all the latest inventions in economic stoves, together with the art of preserving cheese and of curing sick wines. At eight o'clock Justin came to fetch him to shut up the shop. Then Monsieur Homais gave him a sly look, especially if Felicite was there, for he half noticed that his apprentice was fond of the doctor's house. "The young dog," he said, "is beginning to have ideas, and the devil take me if I don't believe he's in love with your servant!" But a more serious fault with which he reproached Justin was his constantly listening to conversation. On Sunday, for example, one could not get him out of the drawing-room, whither Madame Homais had called him to fetch the children, who were falling asleep in the arm-chairs, and dragging down with their backs calico chair-covers that were too large. Not many people came to these soirees at the chemist's, his scandal-mongering and political opinions having successfully alienated various respectable persons from him. The clerk never failed to be there. As soon as he heard the bell he ran to meet Madame Bovary, took her shawl, and put away under the shop-counter the thick list shoes that she wore over her boots when there was snow. First they played some hands at trente-et-un; next Monsieur Homais played ecarte with Emma; Leon behind her gave her advice. Standing up with his hands on the back of her chair he saw the teeth of her comb that bit into her chignon. With every movement that she made to throw her cards the right side of her dress was drawn up. From her turned-up hair a dark colour fell over her back, and growing gradually paler, lost itself little by little in the shade. Then her dress fell on both sides of her chair, puffing out full of folds, and reached the ground. When Leon occasionally felt the sole of his boot resting on it, he drew back as if he had trodden upon some one. When the game of cards was over, the druggist and the Doctor played dominoes, and Emma, changing her place, leant her elbow on the table, turning over the leaves of "L'Illustration". She had brought her ladies' journal with her. Leon sat down near her; they looked at the engravings together, and waited for one another at the bottom of the pages. She often begged him to read her the verses; Leon declaimed them in a languid voice, to which he carefully gave a dying fall in the love passages. But the noise of the dominoes annoyed him. Monsieur Homais was strong at the game; he could beat Charles and give him a double-six. Then the three hundred finished, they both stretched themselves out in front of the fire, and were soon asleep. The fire was dying out in the cinders; the teapot was empty, Leon was still reading. Emma listened to him, mechanically turning around the lampshade, on the gauze of which were painted clowns in carriages, and tight-rope dances with their balancing-poles. Leon stopped, pointing with a gesture to his sleeping audience; then they talked in low tones, and their conversation seemed the more sweet to them because it was unheard. Thus a kind of bond was established between them, a constant commerce of books and of romances. Monsieur Bovary, little given to jealousy, did not trouble himself about it. On his birthday he received a beautiful phrenological head, all marked with figures to the thorax and painted blue. This was an attention of the clerk's. He showed him many others, even to doing errands for him at Rouen; and the book of a novelist having made the mania for cactuses fashionable, Leon bought some for Madame Bovary, bringing them back on his knees in the "Hirondelle," pricking his fingers on their hard hairs. She had a board with a balustrade fixed against her window to hold the pots. The clerk, too, had his small hanging garden; they saw each other tending their flowers at their windows. Of the windows of the village there was one yet more often occupied; for on Sundays from morning to night, and every morning when the weather was bright, one could see at the dormer-window of the garret the profile of Monsieur Binet bending over his lathe, whose monotonous humming could be heard at the Lion d'Or. One evening on coming home Leon found in his room a rug in velvet and wool with leaves on a pale ground. He called Madame Homais, Monsieur Homais, Justin, the children, the cook; he spoke of it to his chief; every one wanted to see this rug. Why did the doctor's wife give the clerk presents? It looked queer. They decided that she must be his lover. He made this seem likely, so ceaselessly did he talk of her charms and of her wit; so much so, that Binet once roughly answered him-- "What does it matter to me since I'm not in her set?" He tortured himself to find out how he could make his declaration to her, and always halting between the fear of displeasing her and the shame of being such a coward, he wept with discouragement and desire. Then he took energetic resolutions, wrote letters that he tore up, put it off to times that he again deferred. Often he set out with the determination to dare all; but this resolution soon deserted him in Emma's presence, and when Charles, dropping in, invited him to jump into his chaise to go with him to see some patient in the neighbourhood, he at once accepted, bowed to madame, and went out. Her husband, was he not something belonging to her? As to Emma, she did not ask herself whether she loved. Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings--a hurricane of the skies, which falls upon life, revolutionises it, roots up the will like a leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss. She did not know that on the terrace of houses it makes lakes when the pipes are choked, and she would thus have remained in her security when she suddenly discovered a rent in the wall of it.

cliffnotes

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

chapter 2|chapter 4

With winter setting in, Emma develops the habit of sitting in the parlor by the window, watching the passers-by. This way she sees Leon quite often. She also sees Homais, who makes frequent visits to the Bovarys' house. He engages Charles in political and journalistic discussions and speaks with Emma about recipes. During dinner, it is invariably Homais who speaks the most. The Bovarys also attend Homais' Sunday evening gatherings. Emma plays cards with Homais, while Leon advises her. When Homais is busy entertaining the doctor, Leon and Emma discuss fashion and poetry. Their mutual interest in "books and ballads" creates a bond between them. Charles, who is not of a jealous disposition, sees nothing odd in their relationship. Emma gives Leon a rug, a gesture that causes gossip throughout the town. Leon does not know how to handle his feelings for Emma. Her very presence makes him indecisive. He cannot guess whether expressing himself would help or harm his case. Emma, on the other hand, is blissfully unaware of her own feelings for Leon.

----------CHAPTER 2--------- Emma got out first, then Felicite, Monsieur Lheureux, and a nurse, and they had to wake up Charles in his corner, where he had slept soundly since night set in. Homais introduced himself; he offered his homages to madame and his respects to monsieur; said he was charmed to have been able to render them some slight service, and added with a cordial air that he had ventured to invite himself, his wife being away. When Madame Bovary was in the kitchen she went up to the chimney. With the tips of her fingers she caught her dress at the knee, and having thus pulled it up to her ankle, held out her foot in its black boot to the fire above the revolving leg of mutton. The flame lit up the whole of her, penetrating with a crude light the woof of her gowns, the fine pores of her fair skin, and even her eyelids, which she blinked now and again. A great red glow passed over her with the blowing of the wind through the half-open door. On the other side of the chimney a young man with fair hair watched her silently. As he was a good deal bored at Yonville, where he was a clerk at the notary's, Monsieur Guillaumin, Monsieur Leon Dupuis (it was he who was the second habitue of the "Lion d'Or") frequently put back his dinner-hour in hope that some traveler might come to the inn, with whom he could chat in the evening. On the days when his work was done early, he had, for want of something else to do, to come punctually, and endure from soup to cheese a tete-a-tete with Binet. It was therefore with delight that he accepted the landlady's suggestion that he should dine in company with the newcomers, and they passed into the large parlour where Madame Lefrancois, for the purpose of showing off, had had the table laid for four. Homais asked to be allowed to keep on his skull-cap, for fear of coryza; then, turning to his neighbour-- "Madame is no doubt a little fatigued; one gets jolted so abominably in our 'Hirondelle.'" "That is true," replied Emma; "but moving about always amuses me. I like change of place." "It is so tedious," sighed the clerk, "to be always riveted to the same places." "If you were like me," said Charles, "constantly obliged to be in the saddle"-- "But," Leon went on, addressing himself to Madame Bovary, "nothing, it seems to me, is more pleasant--when one can," he added. "Moreover," said the druggist, "the practice of medicine is not very hard work in our part of the world, for the state of our roads allows us the use of gigs, and generally, as the farmers are prosperous, they pay pretty well. We have, medically speaking, besides the ordinary cases of enteritis, bronchitis, bilious affections, etc., now and then a few intermittent fevers at harvest-time; but on the whole, little of a serious nature, nothing special to note, unless it be a great deal of scrofula, due, no doubt, to the deplorable hygienic conditions of our peasant dwellings. Ah! you will find many prejudices to combat, Monsieur Bovary, much obstinacy of routine, with which all the efforts of your science will daily come into collision; for people still have recourse to novenas, to relics, to the priest, rather than come straight to the doctor or the chemist. The climate, however, is not, truth to tell, bad, and we even have a few nonagenarians in our parish. The thermometer (I have made some observations) falls in winter to 4 degrees Centigrade at the outside, which gives us 24 degrees Reaumur as the maximum, or otherwise 54 degrees Fahrenheit (English scale), not more. And, as a matter of fact, we are sheltered from the north winds by the forest of Argueil on the one side, from the west winds by the St. Jean range on the other; and this heat, moreover, which, on account of the aqueous vapours given off by the river and the considerable number of cattle in the fields, which, as you know, exhale much ammonia, that is to say, nitrogen, hydrogen and oxygen (no, nitrogen and hydrogen alone), and which sucking up into itself the humus from the ground, mixing together all those different emanations, unites them into a stack, so to say, and combining with the electricity diffused through the atmosphere, when there is any, might in the long run, as in tropical countries, engender insalubrious miasmata--this heat, I say, finds itself perfectly tempered on the side whence it comes, or rather whence it should come--that is to say, the southern side--by the south-eastern winds, which, having cooled themselves passing over the Seine, reach us sometimes all at once like breezes from Russia." "At any rate, you have some walks in the neighbourhood?" continued Madame Bovary, speaking to the young man. "Oh, very few," he answered. "There is a place they call La Pature, on the top of the hill, on the edge of the forest. Sometimes, on Sundays, I go and stay there with a book, watching the sunset." "I think there is nothing so admirable as sunsets," she resumed; "but especially by the side of the sea." "Oh, I adore the sea!" said Monsieur Leon. "And then, does it not seem to you," continued Madame Bovary, "that the mind travels more freely on this limitless expanse, the contemplation of which elevates the soul, gives ideas of the infinite, the ideal?" "It is the same with mountainous landscapes," continued Leon. "A cousin of mine who travelled in Switzerland last year told me that one could not picture to oneself the poetry of the lakes, the charm of the waterfalls, the gigantic effect of the glaciers. One sees pines of incredible size across torrents, cottages suspended over precipices, and, a thousand feet below one, whole valleys when the clouds open. Such spectacles must stir to enthusiasm, incline to prayer, to ecstasy; and I no longer marvel at that celebrated musician who, the better to inspire his imagination, was in the habit of playing the piano before some imposing site." "You play?" she asked. "No, but I am very fond of music," he replied. "Ah! don't you listen to him, Madame Bovary," interrupted Homais, bending over his plate. "That's sheer modesty. Why, my dear fellow, the other day in your room you were singing 'L'Ange Gardien' ravishingly. I heard you from the laboratory. You gave it like an actor." Leon, in fact, lodged at the chemist's where he had a small room on the second floor, overlooking the Place. He blushed at the compliment of his landlord, who had already turned to the doctor, and was enumerating to him, one after the other, all the principal inhabitants of Yonville. He was telling anecdotes, giving information; the fortune of the notary was not known exactly, and "there was the Tuvache household," who made a good deal of show. Emma continued, "And what music do you prefer?" "Oh, German music; that which makes you dream." "Have you been to the opera?" "Not yet; but I shall go next year, when I am living at Paris to finish reading for the bar." "As I had the honour of putting it to your husband," said the chemist, "with regard to this poor Yanoda who has run away, you will find yourself, thanks to his extravagance, in the possession of one of the most comfortable houses of Yonville. Its greatest convenience for a doctor is a door giving on the Walk, where one can go in and out unseen. Moreover, it contains everything that is agreeable in a household--a laundry, kitchen with offices, sitting-room, fruit-room, and so on. He was a gay dog, who didn't care what he spent. At the end of the garden, by the side of the water, he had an arbour built just for the purpose of drinking beer in summer; and if madame is fond of gardening she will be able--" "My wife doesn't care about it," said Charles; "although she has been advised to take exercise, she prefers always sitting in her room reading." "Like me," replied Leon. "And indeed, what is better than to sit by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against the window and the lamp is burning?" "What, indeed?" she said, fixing her large black eyes wide open upon him. "One thinks of nothing," he continued; "the hours slip by. Motionless we traverse countries we fancy we see, and your thought, blending with the fiction, playing with the details, follows the outline of the adventures. It mingles with the characters, and it seems as if it were yourself palpitating beneath their costumes." "That is true! That is true?" she said. "Has it ever happened to you," Leon went on, "to come across some vague idea of one's own in a book, some dim image that comes back to you from afar, and as the completest expression of your own slightest sentiment?" "I have experienced it," she replied. "That is why," he said, "I especially love the poets. I think verse more tender than prose, and that it moves far more easily to tears." "Still in the long run it is tiring," continued Emma. "Now I, on the contrary, adore stories that rush breathlessly along, that frighten one. I detest commonplace heroes and moderate sentiments, such as there are in nature." "In fact," observed the clerk, "these works, not touching the heart, miss, it seems to me, the true end of art. It is so sweet, amid all the disenchantments of life, to be able to dwell in thought upon noble characters, pure affections, and pictures of happiness. For myself, living here far from the world, this is my one distraction; but Yonville affords so few resources." "Like Tostes, no doubt," replied Emma; "and so I always subscribed to a lending library." "If madame will do me the honour of making use of it", said the chemist, who had just caught the last words, "I have at her disposal a library composed of the best authors, Voltaire, Rousseau, Delille, Walter Scott, the 'Echo des Feuilletons'; and in addition I receive various periodicals, among them the 'Fanal de Rouen' daily, having the advantage to be its correspondent for the districts of Buchy, Forges, Neufchatel, Yonville, and vicinity." For two hours and a half they had been at table; for the servant Artemis, carelessly dragging her old list slippers over the flags, brought one plate after the other, forgot everything, and constantly left the door of the billiard-room half open, so that it beat against the wall with its hooks. Unconsciously, Leon, while talking, had placed his foot on one of the bars of the chair on which Madame Bovary was sitting. She wore a small blue silk necktie, that kept up like a ruff a gauffered cambric collar, and with the movements of her head the lower part of her face gently sunk into the linen or came out from it. Thus side by side, while Charles and the chemist chatted, they entered into one of those vague conversations where the hazard of all that is said brings you back to the fixed centre of a common sympathy. The Paris theatres, titles of novels, new quadrilles, and the world they did not know; Tostes, where she had lived, and Yonville, where they were; they examined all, talked of everything till to the end of dinner. When coffee was served Felicite went away to get ready the room in the new house, and the guests soon raised the siege. Madame Lefrancois was asleep near the cinders, while the stable-boy, lantern in hand, was waiting to show Monsieur and Madame Bovary the way home. Bits of straw stuck in his red hair, and he limped with his left leg. When he had taken in his other hand the cure's umbrella, they started. The town was asleep; the pillars of the market threw great shadows; the earth was all grey as on a summer's night. But as the doctor's house was only some fifty paces from the inn, they had to say good-night almost immediately, and the company dispersed. As soon as she entered the passage, Emma felt the cold of the plaster fall about her shoulders like damp linen. The walls were new and the wooden stairs creaked. In their bedroom, on the first floor, a whitish light passed through the curtainless windows. She could catch glimpses of tree tops, and beyond, the fields, half-drowned in the fog that lay reeking in the moonlight along the course of the river. In the middle of the room, pell-mell, were scattered drawers, bottles, curtain-rods, gilt poles, with mattresses on the chairs and basins on the ground--the two men who had brought the furniture had left everything about carelessly. This was the fourth time that she had slept in a strange place. The first was the day of her going to the convent; the second, of her arrival at Tostes; the third, at Vaubyessard; and this was the fourth. And each one had marked, as it were, the inauguration of a new phase in her life. She did not believe that things could present themselves in the same way in different places, and since the portion of her life lived had been bad, no doubt that which remained to be lived would be better. ----------CHAPTER 4--------- When the first cold days set in Emma left her bedroom for the sitting-room, a long apartment with a low ceiling, in which there was on the mantelpiece a large bunch of coral spread out against the looking-glass. Seated in her arm chair near the window, she could see the villagers pass along the pavement. Twice a day Leon went from his office to the Lion d'Or. Emma could hear him coming from afar; she leant forward listening, and the young man glided past the curtain, always dressed in the same way, and without turning his head. But in the twilight, when, her chin resting on her left hand, she let the embroidery she had begun fall on her knees, she often shuddered at the apparition of this shadow suddenly gliding past. She would get up and order the table to be laid. Monsieur Homais called at dinner-time. Skull-cap in hand, he came in on tiptoe, in order to disturb no one, always repeating the same phrase, "Good evening, everybody." Then, when he had taken his seat at the table between the pair, he asked the doctor about his patients, and the latter consulted his as to the probability of their payment. Next they talked of "what was in the paper." Homais by this hour knew it almost by heart, and he repeated it from end to end, with the reflections of the penny-a-liners, and all the stories of individual catastrophes that had occurred in France or abroad. But the subject becoming exhausted, he was not slow in throwing out some remarks on the dishes before him. Sometimes even, half-rising, he delicately pointed out to madame the tenderest morsel, or turning to the servant, gave her some advice on the manipulation of stews and the hygiene of seasoning. He talked aroma, osmazome, juices, and gelatine in a bewildering manner. Moreover, Homais, with his head fuller of recipes than his shop of jars, excelled in making all kinds of preserves, vinegars, and sweet liqueurs; he knew also all the latest inventions in economic stoves, together with the art of preserving cheese and of curing sick wines. At eight o'clock Justin came to fetch him to shut up the shop. Then Monsieur Homais gave him a sly look, especially if Felicite was there, for he half noticed that his apprentice was fond of the doctor's house. "The young dog," he said, "is beginning to have ideas, and the devil take me if I don't believe he's in love with your servant!" But a more serious fault with which he reproached Justin was his constantly listening to conversation. On Sunday, for example, one could not get him out of the drawing-room, whither Madame Homais had called him to fetch the children, who were falling asleep in the arm-chairs, and dragging down with their backs calico chair-covers that were too large. Not many people came to these soirees at the chemist's, his scandal-mongering and political opinions having successfully alienated various respectable persons from him. The clerk never failed to be there. As soon as he heard the bell he ran to meet Madame Bovary, took her shawl, and put away under the shop-counter the thick list shoes that she wore over her boots when there was snow. First they played some hands at trente-et-un; next Monsieur Homais played ecarte with Emma; Leon behind her gave her advice. Standing up with his hands on the back of her chair he saw the teeth of her comb that bit into her chignon. With every movement that she made to throw her cards the right side of her dress was drawn up. From her turned-up hair a dark colour fell over her back, and growing gradually paler, lost itself little by little in the shade. Then her dress fell on both sides of her chair, puffing out full of folds, and reached the ground. When Leon occasionally felt the sole of his boot resting on it, he drew back as if he had trodden upon some one. When the game of cards was over, the druggist and the Doctor played dominoes, and Emma, changing her place, leant her elbow on the table, turning over the leaves of "L'Illustration". She had brought her ladies' journal with her. Leon sat down near her; they looked at the engravings together, and waited for one another at the bottom of the pages. She often begged him to read her the verses; Leon declaimed them in a languid voice, to which he carefully gave a dying fall in the love passages. But the noise of the dominoes annoyed him. Monsieur Homais was strong at the game; he could beat Charles and give him a double-six. Then the three hundred finished, they both stretched themselves out in front of the fire, and were soon asleep. The fire was dying out in the cinders; the teapot was empty, Leon was still reading. Emma listened to him, mechanically turning around the lampshade, on the gauze of which were painted clowns in carriages, and tight-rope dances with their balancing-poles. Leon stopped, pointing with a gesture to his sleeping audience; then they talked in low tones, and their conversation seemed the more sweet to them because it was unheard. Thus a kind of bond was established between them, a constant commerce of books and of romances. Monsieur Bovary, little given to jealousy, did not trouble himself about it. On his birthday he received a beautiful phrenological head, all marked with figures to the thorax and painted blue. This was an attention of the clerk's. He showed him many others, even to doing errands for him at Rouen; and the book of a novelist having made the mania for cactuses fashionable, Leon bought some for Madame Bovary, bringing them back on his knees in the "Hirondelle," pricking his fingers on their hard hairs. She had a board with a balustrade fixed against her window to hold the pots. The clerk, too, had his small hanging garden; they saw each other tending their flowers at their windows. Of the windows of the village there was one yet more often occupied; for on Sundays from morning to night, and every morning when the weather was bright, one could see at the dormer-window of the garret the profile of Monsieur Binet bending over his lathe, whose monotonous humming could be heard at the Lion d'Or. One evening on coming home Leon found in his room a rug in velvet and wool with leaves on a pale ground. He called Madame Homais, Monsieur Homais, Justin, the children, the cook; he spoke of it to his chief; every one wanted to see this rug. Why did the doctor's wife give the clerk presents? It looked queer. They decided that she must be his lover. He made this seem likely, so ceaselessly did he talk of her charms and of her wit; so much so, that Binet once roughly answered him-- "What does it matter to me since I'm not in her set?" He tortured himself to find out how he could make his declaration to her, and always halting between the fear of displeasing her and the shame of being such a coward, he wept with discouragement and desire. Then he took energetic resolutions, wrote letters that he tore up, put it off to times that he again deferred. Often he set out with the determination to dare all; but this resolution soon deserted him in Emma's presence, and when Charles, dropping in, invited him to jump into his chaise to go with him to see some patient in the neighbourhood, he at once accepted, bowed to madame, and went out. Her husband, was he not something belonging to her? As to Emma, she did not ask herself whether she loved. Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings--a hurricane of the skies, which falls upon life, revolutionises it, roots up the will like a leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss. She did not know that on the terrace of houses it makes lakes when the pipes are choked, and she would thus have remained in her security when she suddenly discovered a rent in the wall of it.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for part 2, chapter 2 with the given context.

Homais greets the Bovary's and explains that he will be joining them for dinner. Monsieur Lon watches Emma warm herself by the fire and is delighted when the innkeeper suggests he join the new arrivals for dinner. While they eat the pharmacist explains the character of the region and its inhabitants to the Charles while Emma and Leon discover they have similar artistic tastes and sensibilities. Flicit leaves to prepare the Bovary's new home and Homais observes that the house benefits from a garden arbor on the river and a private entrance on the lane where they can come and go without being observed. Finally the lame stable boy comes with a lantern to lead them to their new home. Emma feels chilled by the house but she reasons that any change must be for the good and it must be better than what she has known before.

----------PART 2, CHAPTER 2--------- Emma got out first, then Felicite, Monsieur Lheureux, and a nurse, and they had to wake up Charles in his corner, where he had slept soundly since night set in. Homais introduced himself; he offered his homages to madame and his respects to monsieur; said he was charmed to have been able to render them some slight service, and added with a cordial air that he had ventured to invite himself, his wife being away. When Madame Bovary was in the kitchen she went up to the chimney. With the tips of her fingers she caught her dress at the knee, and having thus pulled it up to her ankle, held out her foot in its black boot to the fire above the revolving leg of mutton. The flame lit up the whole of her, penetrating with a crude light the woof of her gowns, the fine pores of her fair skin, and even her eyelids, which she blinked now and again. A great red glow passed over her with the blowing of the wind through the half-open door. On the other side of the chimney a young man with fair hair watched her silently. As he was a good deal bored at Yonville, where he was a clerk at the notary's, Monsieur Guillaumin, Monsieur Leon Dupuis (it was he who was the second habitue of the "Lion d'Or") frequently put back his dinner-hour in hope that some traveler might come to the inn, with whom he could chat in the evening. On the days when his work was done early, he had, for want of something else to do, to come punctually, and endure from soup to cheese a tete-a-tete with Binet. It was therefore with delight that he accepted the landlady's suggestion that he should dine in company with the newcomers, and they passed into the large parlour where Madame Lefrancois, for the purpose of showing off, had had the table laid for four. Homais asked to be allowed to keep on his skull-cap, for fear of coryza; then, turning to his neighbour-- "Madame is no doubt a little fatigued; one gets jolted so abominably in our 'Hirondelle.'" "That is true," replied Emma; "but moving about always amuses me. I like change of place." "It is so tedious," sighed the clerk, "to be always riveted to the same places." "If you were like me," said Charles, "constantly obliged to be in the saddle"-- "But," Leon went on, addressing himself to Madame Bovary, "nothing, it seems to me, is more pleasant--when one can," he added. "Moreover," said the druggist, "the practice of medicine is not very hard work in our part of the world, for the state of our roads allows us the use of gigs, and generally, as the farmers are prosperous, they pay pretty well. We have, medically speaking, besides the ordinary cases of enteritis, bronchitis, bilious affections, etc., now and then a few intermittent fevers at harvest-time; but on the whole, little of a serious nature, nothing special to note, unless it be a great deal of scrofula, due, no doubt, to the deplorable hygienic conditions of our peasant dwellings. Ah! you will find many prejudices to combat, Monsieur Bovary, much obstinacy of routine, with which all the efforts of your science will daily come into collision; for people still have recourse to novenas, to relics, to the priest, rather than come straight to the doctor or the chemist. The climate, however, is not, truth to tell, bad, and we even have a few nonagenarians in our parish. The thermometer (I have made some observations) falls in winter to 4 degrees Centigrade at the outside, which gives us 24 degrees Reaumur as the maximum, or otherwise 54 degrees Fahrenheit (English scale), not more. And, as a matter of fact, we are sheltered from the north winds by the forest of Argueil on the one side, from the west winds by the St. Jean range on the other; and this heat, moreover, which, on account of the aqueous vapours given off by the river and the considerable number of cattle in the fields, which, as you know, exhale much ammonia, that is to say, nitrogen, hydrogen and oxygen (no, nitrogen and hydrogen alone), and which sucking up into itself the humus from the ground, mixing together all those different emanations, unites them into a stack, so to say, and combining with the electricity diffused through the atmosphere, when there is any, might in the long run, as in tropical countries, engender insalubrious miasmata--this heat, I say, finds itself perfectly tempered on the side whence it comes, or rather whence it should come--that is to say, the southern side--by the south-eastern winds, which, having cooled themselves passing over the Seine, reach us sometimes all at once like breezes from Russia." "At any rate, you have some walks in the neighbourhood?" continued Madame Bovary, speaking to the young man. "Oh, very few," he answered. "There is a place they call La Pature, on the top of the hill, on the edge of the forest. Sometimes, on Sundays, I go and stay there with a book, watching the sunset." "I think there is nothing so admirable as sunsets," she resumed; "but especially by the side of the sea." "Oh, I adore the sea!" said Monsieur Leon. "And then, does it not seem to you," continued Madame Bovary, "that the mind travels more freely on this limitless expanse, the contemplation of which elevates the soul, gives ideas of the infinite, the ideal?" "It is the same with mountainous landscapes," continued Leon. "A cousin of mine who travelled in Switzerland last year told me that one could not picture to oneself the poetry of the lakes, the charm of the waterfalls, the gigantic effect of the glaciers. One sees pines of incredible size across torrents, cottages suspended over precipices, and, a thousand feet below one, whole valleys when the clouds open. Such spectacles must stir to enthusiasm, incline to prayer, to ecstasy; and I no longer marvel at that celebrated musician who, the better to inspire his imagination, was in the habit of playing the piano before some imposing site." "You play?" she asked. "No, but I am very fond of music," he replied. "Ah! don't you listen to him, Madame Bovary," interrupted Homais, bending over his plate. "That's sheer modesty. Why, my dear fellow, the other day in your room you were singing 'L'Ange Gardien' ravishingly. I heard you from the laboratory. You gave it like an actor." Leon, in fact, lodged at the chemist's where he had a small room on the second floor, overlooking the Place. He blushed at the compliment of his landlord, who had already turned to the doctor, and was enumerating to him, one after the other, all the principal inhabitants of Yonville. He was telling anecdotes, giving information; the fortune of the notary was not known exactly, and "there was the Tuvache household," who made a good deal of show. Emma continued, "And what music do you prefer?" "Oh, German music; that which makes you dream." "Have you been to the opera?" "Not yet; but I shall go next year, when I am living at Paris to finish reading for the bar." "As I had the honour of putting it to your husband," said the chemist, "with regard to this poor Yanoda who has run away, you will find yourself, thanks to his extravagance, in the possession of one of the most comfortable houses of Yonville. Its greatest convenience for a doctor is a door giving on the Walk, where one can go in and out unseen. Moreover, it contains everything that is agreeable in a household--a laundry, kitchen with offices, sitting-room, fruit-room, and so on. He was a gay dog, who didn't care what he spent. At the end of the garden, by the side of the water, he had an arbour built just for the purpose of drinking beer in summer; and if madame is fond of gardening she will be able--" "My wife doesn't care about it," said Charles; "although she has been advised to take exercise, she prefers always sitting in her room reading." "Like me," replied Leon. "And indeed, what is better than to sit by one's fireside in the evening with a book, while the wind beats against the window and the lamp is burning?" "What, indeed?" she said, fixing her large black eyes wide open upon him. "One thinks of nothing," he continued; "the hours slip by. Motionless we traverse countries we fancy we see, and your thought, blending with the fiction, playing with the details, follows the outline of the adventures. It mingles with the characters, and it seems as if it were yourself palpitating beneath their costumes." "That is true! That is true?" she said. "Has it ever happened to you," Leon went on, "to come across some vague idea of one's own in a book, some dim image that comes back to you from afar, and as the completest expression of your own slightest sentiment?" "I have experienced it," she replied. "That is why," he said, "I especially love the poets. I think verse more tender than prose, and that it moves far more easily to tears." "Still in the long run it is tiring," continued Emma. "Now I, on the contrary, adore stories that rush breathlessly along, that frighten one. I detest commonplace heroes and moderate sentiments, such as there are in nature." "In fact," observed the clerk, "these works, not touching the heart, miss, it seems to me, the true end of art. It is so sweet, amid all the disenchantments of life, to be able to dwell in thought upon noble characters, pure affections, and pictures of happiness. For myself, living here far from the world, this is my one distraction; but Yonville affords so few resources." "Like Tostes, no doubt," replied Emma; "and so I always subscribed to a lending library." "If madame will do me the honour of making use of it", said the chemist, who had just caught the last words, "I have at her disposal a library composed of the best authors, Voltaire, Rousseau, Delille, Walter Scott, the 'Echo des Feuilletons'; and in addition I receive various periodicals, among them the 'Fanal de Rouen' daily, having the advantage to be its correspondent for the districts of Buchy, Forges, Neufchatel, Yonville, and vicinity." For two hours and a half they had been at table; for the servant Artemis, carelessly dragging her old list slippers over the flags, brought one plate after the other, forgot everything, and constantly left the door of the billiard-room half open, so that it beat against the wall with its hooks. Unconsciously, Leon, while talking, had placed his foot on one of the bars of the chair on which Madame Bovary was sitting. She wore a small blue silk necktie, that kept up like a ruff a gauffered cambric collar, and with the movements of her head the lower part of her face gently sunk into the linen or came out from it. Thus side by side, while Charles and the chemist chatted, they entered into one of those vague conversations where the hazard of all that is said brings you back to the fixed centre of a common sympathy. The Paris theatres, titles of novels, new quadrilles, and the world they did not know; Tostes, where she had lived, and Yonville, where they were; they examined all, talked of everything till to the end of dinner. When coffee was served Felicite went away to get ready the room in the new house, and the guests soon raised the siege. Madame Lefrancois was asleep near the cinders, while the stable-boy, lantern in hand, was waiting to show Monsieur and Madame Bovary the way home. Bits of straw stuck in his red hair, and he limped with his left leg. When he had taken in his other hand the cure's umbrella, they started. The town was asleep; the pillars of the market threw great shadows; the earth was all grey as on a summer's night. But as the doctor's house was only some fifty paces from the inn, they had to say good-night almost immediately, and the company dispersed. As soon as she entered the passage, Emma felt the cold of the plaster fall about her shoulders like damp linen. The walls were new and the wooden stairs creaked. In their bedroom, on the first floor, a whitish light passed through the curtainless windows. She could catch glimpses of tree tops, and beyond, the fields, half-drowned in the fog that lay reeking in the moonlight along the course of the river. In the middle of the room, pell-mell, were scattered drawers, bottles, curtain-rods, gilt poles, with mattresses on the chairs and basins on the ground--the two men who had brought the furniture had left everything about carelessly. This was the fourth time that she had slept in a strange place. The first was the day of her going to the convent; the second, of her arrival at Tostes; the third, at Vaubyessard; and this was the fourth. And each one had marked, as it were, the inauguration of a new phase in her life. She did not believe that things could present themselves in the same way in different places, and since the portion of her life lived had been bad, no doubt that which remained to be lived would be better. ----------PART 2, CHAPTER 4--------- When the first cold days set in Emma left her bedroom for the sitting-room, a long apartment with a low ceiling, in which there was on the mantelpiece a large bunch of coral spread out against the looking-glass. Seated in her arm chair near the window, she could see the villagers pass along the pavement. Twice a day Leon went from his office to the Lion d'Or. Emma could hear him coming from afar; she leant forward listening, and the young man glided past the curtain, always dressed in the same way, and without turning his head. But in the twilight, when, her chin resting on her left hand, she let the embroidery she had begun fall on her knees, she often shuddered at the apparition of this shadow suddenly gliding past. She would get up and order the table to be laid. Monsieur Homais called at dinner-time. Skull-cap in hand, he came in on tiptoe, in order to disturb no one, always repeating the same phrase, "Good evening, everybody." Then, when he had taken his seat at the table between the pair, he asked the doctor about his patients, and the latter consulted his as to the probability of their payment. Next they talked of "what was in the paper." Homais by this hour knew it almost by heart, and he repeated it from end to end, with the reflections of the penny-a-liners, and all the stories of individual catastrophes that had occurred in France or abroad. But the subject becoming exhausted, he was not slow in throwing out some remarks on the dishes before him. Sometimes even, half-rising, he delicately pointed out to madame the tenderest morsel, or turning to the servant, gave her some advice on the manipulation of stews and the hygiene of seasoning. He talked aroma, osmazome, juices, and gelatine in a bewildering manner. Moreover, Homais, with his head fuller of recipes than his shop of jars, excelled in making all kinds of preserves, vinegars, and sweet liqueurs; he knew also all the latest inventions in economic stoves, together with the art of preserving cheese and of curing sick wines. At eight o'clock Justin came to fetch him to shut up the shop. Then Monsieur Homais gave him a sly look, especially if Felicite was there, for he half noticed that his apprentice was fond of the doctor's house. "The young dog," he said, "is beginning to have ideas, and the devil take me if I don't believe he's in love with your servant!" But a more serious fault with which he reproached Justin was his constantly listening to conversation. On Sunday, for example, one could not get him out of the drawing-room, whither Madame Homais had called him to fetch the children, who were falling asleep in the arm-chairs, and dragging down with their backs calico chair-covers that were too large. Not many people came to these soirees at the chemist's, his scandal-mongering and political opinions having successfully alienated various respectable persons from him. The clerk never failed to be there. As soon as he heard the bell he ran to meet Madame Bovary, took her shawl, and put away under the shop-counter the thick list shoes that she wore over her boots when there was snow. First they played some hands at trente-et-un; next Monsieur Homais played ecarte with Emma; Leon behind her gave her advice. Standing up with his hands on the back of her chair he saw the teeth of her comb that bit into her chignon. With every movement that she made to throw her cards the right side of her dress was drawn up. From her turned-up hair a dark colour fell over her back, and growing gradually paler, lost itself little by little in the shade. Then her dress fell on both sides of her chair, puffing out full of folds, and reached the ground. When Leon occasionally felt the sole of his boot resting on it, he drew back as if he had trodden upon some one. When the game of cards was over, the druggist and the Doctor played dominoes, and Emma, changing her place, leant her elbow on the table, turning over the leaves of "L'Illustration". She had brought her ladies' journal with her. Leon sat down near her; they looked at the engravings together, and waited for one another at the bottom of the pages. She often begged him to read her the verses; Leon declaimed them in a languid voice, to which he carefully gave a dying fall in the love passages. But the noise of the dominoes annoyed him. Monsieur Homais was strong at the game; he could beat Charles and give him a double-six. Then the three hundred finished, they both stretched themselves out in front of the fire, and were soon asleep. The fire was dying out in the cinders; the teapot was empty, Leon was still reading. Emma listened to him, mechanically turning around the lampshade, on the gauze of which were painted clowns in carriages, and tight-rope dances with their balancing-poles. Leon stopped, pointing with a gesture to his sleeping audience; then they talked in low tones, and their conversation seemed the more sweet to them because it was unheard. Thus a kind of bond was established between them, a constant commerce of books and of romances. Monsieur Bovary, little given to jealousy, did not trouble himself about it. On his birthday he received a beautiful phrenological head, all marked with figures to the thorax and painted blue. This was an attention of the clerk's. He showed him many others, even to doing errands for him at Rouen; and the book of a novelist having made the mania for cactuses fashionable, Leon bought some for Madame Bovary, bringing them back on his knees in the "Hirondelle," pricking his fingers on their hard hairs. She had a board with a balustrade fixed against her window to hold the pots. The clerk, too, had his small hanging garden; they saw each other tending their flowers at their windows. Of the windows of the village there was one yet more often occupied; for on Sundays from morning to night, and every morning when the weather was bright, one could see at the dormer-window of the garret the profile of Monsieur Binet bending over his lathe, whose monotonous humming could be heard at the Lion d'Or. One evening on coming home Leon found in his room a rug in velvet and wool with leaves on a pale ground. He called Madame Homais, Monsieur Homais, Justin, the children, the cook; he spoke of it to his chief; every one wanted to see this rug. Why did the doctor's wife give the clerk presents? It looked queer. They decided that she must be his lover. He made this seem likely, so ceaselessly did he talk of her charms and of her wit; so much so, that Binet once roughly answered him-- "What does it matter to me since I'm not in her set?" He tortured himself to find out how he could make his declaration to her, and always halting between the fear of displeasing her and the shame of being such a coward, he wept with discouragement and desire. Then he took energetic resolutions, wrote letters that he tore up, put it off to times that he again deferred. Often he set out with the determination to dare all; but this resolution soon deserted him in Emma's presence, and when Charles, dropping in, invited him to jump into his chaise to go with him to see some patient in the neighbourhood, he at once accepted, bowed to madame, and went out. Her husband, was he not something belonging to her? As to Emma, she did not ask herself whether she loved. Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings--a hurricane of the skies, which falls upon life, revolutionises it, roots up the will like a leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss. She did not know that on the terrace of houses it makes lakes when the pipes are choked, and she would thus have remained in her security when she suddenly discovered a rent in the wall of it.

Madame Bovary.part 3.chap

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of part 3, chapter 9 using the context provided.

part 3, chapter 3|part 3, chapter 4|part 3, chapter 9

Charles throws himself on Emma's corpse, overcome by grief. Homais goes home, invents a story about accidental poisoning to cover up the suicide, and writes it up for the newspaper. When he returns to the Bovarys' house, he finds Charles alone and frightened, Canivet having left him. Homais, with the best of intentions, attempts to distract Charles by talking about the weather. Father Bournisien succeeds in getting Charles to do something about the funeral. He makes extravagantly romantic plans - ones that Emma herself would have appreciated. Charles rebels against God; he curses the heavens for allowing this to happen. The priest and the pharmacist sit up with the corpse all night, holding a vigil for her. The whole time, they argue about religion. Charles's mother arrives in the morning. She attempts to reason with Charles about the expense of the funeral, and he actually stands up to her for the first time. The townspeople come to visit and pay their respects; they're bored, but each is unwilling to be the first to leave. Felicite is hysterical with grief. She, Madame Lefrancois, and old Madame Bovary dress Emma in her wedding gown to prepare her for her coffin. Grotesquely, a stream of black liquid flows out of the dead woman's mouth as they lift her. Homais and Bournisien continue their intellectual discussion. Charles comes in to say his final good bye in private. He reflects upon his memories of their past together, looks at her dead face, and is horrified. The priest and pharmacist lead him away. Homais shakily cuts a few locks of Emma's hair for Charles to keep. Felicite thoughtfully leaves a bottle of brandy and a pastry out for the men - Homais and Father Bournisien need no prompting to drink the alcohol. They part ways after finishing the bottle. Finally, after Emma's body is sealed inside three coffins, her father arrives. He faints immediately.

----------PART 3, CHAPTER 3--------- They were three full, exquisite days--a true honeymoon. They were at the Hotel-de-Boulogne, on the harbour; and they lived there, with drawn blinds and closed doors, with flowers on the floor, and iced syrups were brought them early in the morning. Towards evening they took a covered boat and went to dine on one of the islands. It was the time when one hears by the side of the dockyard the caulking-mallets sounding against the hull of vessels. The smoke of the tar rose up between the trees; there were large fatty drops on the water, undulating in the purple colour of the sun, like floating plaques of Florentine bronze. They rowed down in the midst of moored boats, whose long oblique cables grazed lightly against the bottom of the boat. The din of the town gradually grew distant; the rolling of carriages, the tumult of voices, the yelping of dogs on the decks of vessels. She took off her bonnet, and they landed on their island. They sat down in the low-ceilinged room of a tavern, at whose door hung black nets. They ate fried smelts, cream and cherries. They lay down upon the grass; they kissed behind the poplars; and they would fain, like two Robinsons, have lived for ever in this little place, which seemed to them in their beatitude the most magnificent on earth. It was not the first time that they had seen trees, a blue sky, meadows; that they had heard the water flowing and the wind blowing in the leaves; but, no doubt, they had never admired all this, as if Nature had not existed before, or had only begun to be beautiful since the gratification of their desires. At night they returned. The boat glided along the shores of the islands. They sat at the bottom, both hidden by the shade, in silence. The square oars rang in the iron thwarts, and, in the stillness, seemed to mark time, like the beating of a metronome, while at the stern the rudder that trailed behind never ceased its gentle splash against the water. Once the moon rose; they did not fail to make fine phrases, finding the orb melancholy and full of poetry. She even began to sing-- "One night, do you remember, we were sailing," etc. Her musical but weak voice died away along the waves, and the winds carried off the trills that Leon heard pass like the flapping of wings about him. She was opposite him, leaning against the partition of the shallop, through one of whose raised blinds the moon streamed in. Her black dress, whose drapery spread out like a fan, made her seem more slender, taller. Her head was raised, her hands clasped, her eyes turned towards heaven. At times the shadow of the willows hid her completely; then she reappeared suddenly, like a vision in the moonlight. Leon, on the floor by her side, found under his hand a ribbon of scarlet silk. The boatman looked at it, and at last said-- "Perhaps it belongs to the party I took out the other day. A lot of jolly folk, gentlemen and ladies, with cakes, champagne, cornets--everything in style! There was one especially, a tall handsome man with small moustaches, who was that funny! And they all kept saying, 'Now tell us something, Adolphe--Dolpe,' I think." She shivered. "You are in pain?" asked Leon, coming closer to her. "Oh, it's nothing! No doubt, it is only the night air." "And who doesn't want for women, either," softly added the sailor, thinking he was paying the stranger a compliment. Then, spitting on his hands, he took the oars again. Yet they had to part. The adieux were sad. He was to send his letters to Mere Rollet, and she gave him such precise instructions about a double envelope that he admired greatly her amorous astuteness. "So you can assure me it is all right?" she said with her last kiss. "Yes, certainly." "But why," he thought afterwards as he came back through the streets alone, "is she so very anxious to get this power of attorney?" ----------PART 3, CHAPTER 4--------- Leon soon put on an air of superiority before his comrades, avoided their company, and completely neglected his work. He waited for her letters; he re-read them; he wrote to her. He called her to mind with all the strength of his desires and of his memories. Instead of lessening with absence, this longing to see her again grew, so that at last on Saturday morning he escaped from his office. When, from the summit of the hill, he saw in the valley below the church-spire with its tin flag swinging in the wind, he felt that delight mingled with triumphant vanity and egoistic tenderness that millionaires must experience when they come back to their native village. He went rambling round her house. A light was burning in the kitchen. He watched for her shadow behind the curtains, but nothing appeared. Mere Lefrancois, when she saw him, uttered many exclamations. She thought he "had grown and was thinner," while Artemise, on the contrary, thought him stouter and darker. He dined in the little room as of yore, but alone, without the tax-gatherer; for Binet, tired of waiting for the "Hirondelle," had definitely put forward his meal one hour, and now he dined punctually at five, and yet he declared usually the rickety old concern "was late." Leon, however, made up his mind, and knocked at the doctor's door. Madame was in her room, and did not come down for a quarter of an hour. The doctor seemed delighted to see him, but he never stirred out that evening, nor all the next day. He saw her alone in the evening, very late, behind the garden in the lane; in the lane, as she had the other one! It was a stormy night, and they talked under an umbrella by lightning flashes. Their separation was becoming intolerable. "I would rather die!" said Emma. She was writhing in his arms, weeping. "Adieu! adieu! When shall I see you again?" They came back again to embrace once more, and it was then that she promised him to find soon, by no matter what means, a regular opportunity for seeing one another in freedom at least once a week. Emma never doubted she should be able to do this. Besides, she was full of hope. Some money was coming to her. On the strength of it she bought a pair of yellow curtains with large stripes for her room, whose cheapness Monsieur Lheureux had commended; she dreamed of getting a carpet, and Lheureux, declaring that it wasn't "drinking the sea," politely undertook to supply her with one. She could no longer do without his services. Twenty times a day she sent for him, and he at once put by his business without a murmur. People could not understand either why Mere Rollet breakfasted with her every day, and even paid her private visits. It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that she seemed seized with great musical fervour. One evening when Charles was listening to her, she began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried-- "Bravo! very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!" "Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty." The next day he begged her to play him something again. "Very well; to please you!" And Charles confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short-- "Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but--" She bit her lips and added, "Twenty francs a lesson, that's too dear!" "Yes, so it is--rather," said Charles, giggling stupidly. "But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities." "Find them!" said Emma. The next day when he came home he looked at her shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words. "How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres to-day. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!" She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when she passed by it (if Bovary were there), she sighed-- "Ah! my poor piano!" And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her-- "What a pity! she had so much talent!" They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist. "You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau's, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination." So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano, that had given her vanity so much satisfaction--to see it go was to Bovary like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself. "If you liked," he said, "a lesson from time to time, that wouldn't after all be very ruinous." "But lessons," she replied, "are only of use when followed up." And thus it was she set about obtaining her husband's permission to go to town once a week to see her lover. At the end of a month she was even considered to have made considerable progress. ----------PART 3, CHAPTER 9--------- There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction; so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign ourselves to believe in it. But still, when he saw that she did not move, Charles threw himself upon her, crying-- "Farewell! farewell!" Homais and Canivet dragged him from the room. "Restrain yourself!" "Yes." said he, struggling, "I'll be quiet. I'll not do anything. But leave me alone. I want to see her. She is my wife!" And he wept. "Cry," said the chemist; "let nature take her course; that will solace you." Weaker than a child, Charles let himself be led downstairs into the sitting-room, and Monsieur Homais soon went home. On the Place he was accosted by the blind man, who, having dragged himself as far as Yonville, in the hope of getting the antiphlogistic pomade, was asking every passer-by where the druggist lived. "There now! as if I hadn't got other fish to fry. Well, so much the worse; you must come later on." And he entered the shop hurriedly. He had to write two letters, to prepare a soothing potion for Bovary, to invent some lie that would conceal the poisoning, and work it up into an article for the "Fanal," without counting the people who were waiting to get the news from him; and when the Yonvillers had all heard his story of the arsenic that she had mistaken for sugar in making a vanilla cream. Homais once more returned to Bovary's. He found him alone (Monsieur Canivet had left), sitting in an arm-chair near the window, staring with an idiotic look at the flags of the floor. "Now," said the chemist, "you ought yourself to fix the hour for the ceremony." "Why? What ceremony?" Then, in a stammering, frightened voice, "Oh, no! not that. No! I want to see her here." Homais, to keep himself in countenance, took up a water-bottle on the whatnot to water the geraniums. "Ah! thanks," said Charles; "you are good." But he did not finish, choking beneath the crowd of memories that this action of the druggist recalled to him. Then to distract him, Homais thought fit to talk a little horticulture: plants wanted humidity. Charles bowed his head in sign of approbation. "Besides, the fine days will soon be here again." "Ah!" said Bovary. The druggist, at his wit's end, began softly to draw aside the small window-curtain. "Hallo! there's Monsieur Tuvache passing." Charles repeated like a machine--- "Monsieur Tuvache passing!" Homais did not dare to speak to him again about the funeral arrangements; it was the priest who succeeded in reconciling him to them. He shut himself up in his consulting-room, took a pen, and after sobbing for some time, wrote-- "I wish her to be buried in her wedding-dress, with white shoes, and a wreath. Her hair is to be spread out over her shoulders. Three coffins, one of oak, one of mahogany, one of lead. Let no one say anything to me. I shall have strength. Over all there is to be placed a large piece of green velvet. This is my wish; see that it is done." The two men were much surprised at Bovary's romantic ideas. The chemist at once went to him and said-- "This velvet seems to me a superfetation. Besides, the expense--" "What's that to you?" cried Charles. "Leave me! You did not love her. Go!" The priest took him by the arm for a turn in the garden. He discoursed on the vanity of earthly things. God was very great, was very good: one must submit to his decrees without a murmur; nay, must even thank him. Charles burst out into blasphemies: "I hate your God!" "The spirit of rebellion is still upon you," sighed the ecclesiastic. Bovary was far away. He was walking with great strides along by the wall, near the espalier, and he ground his teeth; he raised to heaven looks of malediction, but not so much as a leaf stirred. A fine rain was falling: Charles, whose chest was bare, at last began to shiver; he went in and sat down in the kitchen. At six o'clock a noise like a clatter of old iron was heard on the Place; it was the "Hirondelle" coming in, and he remained with his forehead against the windowpane, watching all the passengers get out, one after the other. Felicite put down a mattress for him in the drawing-room. He threw himself upon it and fell asleep. Although a philosopher, Monsieur Homais respected the dead. So bearing no grudge to poor Charles, he came back again in the evening to sit up with the body; bringing with him three volumes and a pocket-book for taking notes. Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning at the head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove. The druggist, on whom the silence weighed, was not long before he began formulating some regrets about this "unfortunate young woman." and the priest replied that there was nothing to do now but pray for her. "Yet," Homais went on, "one of two things; either she died in a state of grace (as the Church has it), and then she has no need of our prayers; or else she departed impertinent (that is, I believe, the ecclesiastical expression), and then--" Bournisien interrupted him, replying testily that it was none the less necessary to pray. "But," objected the chemist, "since God knows all our needs, what can be the good of prayer?" "What!" cried the ecclesiastic, "prayer! Why, aren't you a Christian?" "Excuse me," said Homais; "I admire Christianity. To begin with, it enfranchised the slaves, introduced into the world a morality--" "That isn't the question. All the texts-" "Oh! oh! As to texts, look at history; it, is known that all the texts have been falsified by the Jesuits." Charles came in, and advancing towards the bed, slowly drew the curtains. Emma's head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner of her mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lower part of her face; her two thumbs were bent into the palms of her hands; a kind of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyes were beginning to disappear in that viscous pallor that looks like a thin web, as if spiders had spun it over. The sheet sunk in from her breast to her knees, and then rose at the tips of her toes, and it seemed to Charles that infinite masses, an enormous load, were weighing upon her. The church clock struck two. They could hear the loud murmur of the river flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace. Monsieur Bournisien from time to time blew his nose noisily, and Homais' pen was scratching over the paper. "Come, my good friend," he said, "withdraw; this spectacle is tearing you to pieces." Charles once gone, the chemist and the cure recommenced their discussions. "Read Voltaire," said the one, "read D'Holbach, read the 'Encyclopaedia'!" "Read the 'Letters of some Portuguese Jews,'" said the other; "read 'The Meaning of Christianity,' by Nicolas, formerly a magistrate." They grew warm, they grew red, they both talked at once without listening to each other. Bournisien was scandalized at such audacity; Homais marvelled at such stupidity; and they were on the point of insulting one another when Charles suddenly reappeared. A fascination drew him. He was continually coming upstairs. He stood opposite her, the better to see her, and he lost himself in a contemplation so deep that it was no longer painful. He recalled stories of catalepsy, the marvels of magnetism, and he said to himself that by willing it with all his force he might perhaps succeed in reviving her. Once he even bent towards he, and cried in a low voice, "Emma! Emma!" His strong breathing made the flames of the candles tremble against the wall. At daybreak Madame Bovary senior arrived. Charles as he embraced her burst into another flood of tears. She tried, as the chemist had done, to make some remarks to him on the expenses of the funeral. He became so angry that she was silent, and he even commissioned her to go to town at once and buy what was necessary. Charles remained alone the whole afternoon; they had taken Berthe to Madame Homais'; Felicite was in the room upstairs with Madame Lefrancois. In the evening he had some visitors. He rose, pressed their hands, unable to speak. Then they sat down near one another, and formed a large semicircle in front of the fire. With lowered faces, and swinging one leg crossed over the other knee, they uttered deep sighs at intervals; each one was inordinately bored, and yet none would be the first to go. Homais, when he returned at nine o'clock (for the last two days only Homais seemed to have been on the Place), was laden with a stock of camphor, of benzine, and aromatic herbs. He also carried a large jar full of chlorine water, to keep off all miasmata. Just then the servant, Madame Lefrancois, and Madame Bovary senior were busy about Emma, finishing dressing her, and they were drawing down the long stiff veil that covered her to her satin shoes. Felicite was sobbing--"Ah! my poor mistress! my poor mistress!" "Look at her," said the landlady, sighing; "how pretty she still is! Now, couldn't you swear she was going to get up in a minute?" Then they bent over her to put on her wreath. They had to raise the head a little, and a rush of black liquid issued, as if she were vomiting, from her mouth. "Oh, goodness! The dress; take care!" cried Madame Lefrancois. "Now, just come and help," she said to the chemist. "Perhaps you're afraid?" "I afraid?" replied he, shrugging his shoulders. "I dare say! I've seen all sorts of things at the hospital when I was studying pharmacy. We used to make punch in the dissecting room! Nothingness does not terrify a philosopher; and, as I often say, I even intend to leave my body to the hospitals, in order, later on, to serve science." The cure on his arrival inquired how Monsieur Bovary was, and, on the reply of the druggist, went on--"The blow, you see, is still too recent." Then Homais congratulated him on not being exposed, like other people, to the loss of a beloved companion; whence there followed a discussion on the celibacy of priests. "For," said the chemist, "it is unnatural that a man should do without women! There have been crimes--" "But, good heaven!" cried the ecclesiastic, "how do you expect an individual who is married to keep the secrets of the confessional, for example?" Homais fell foul of the confessional. Bournisien defended it; he enlarged on the acts of restitution that it brought about. He cited various anecdotes about thieves who had suddenly become honest. Military men on approaching the tribunal of penitence had felt the scales fall from their eyes. At Fribourg there was a minister-- His companion was asleep. Then he felt somewhat stifled by the over-heavy atmosphere of the room; he opened the window; this awoke the chemist. "Come, take a pinch of snuff," he said to him. "Take it; it'll relieve you." A continual barking was heard in the distance. "Do you hear that dog howling?" said the chemist. "They smell the dead," replied the priest. "It's like bees; they leave their hives on the decease of any person." Homais made no remark upon these prejudices, for he had again dropped asleep. Monsieur Bournisien, stronger than he, went on moving his lips gently for some time, then insensibly his chin sank down, he let fall his big black boot, and began to snore. They sat opposite one another, with protruding stomachs, puffed-up faces, and frowning looks, after so much disagreement uniting at last in the same human weakness, and they moved no more than the corpse by their side, that seemed to be sleeping. Charles coming in did not wake them. It was the last time; he came to bid her farewell. The aromatic herbs were still smoking, and spirals of bluish vapour blended at the window-sash with the fog that was coming in. There were few stars, and the night was warm. The wax of the candles fell in great drops upon the sheets of the bed. Charles watched them burn, tiring his eyes against the glare of their yellow flame. The watering on the satin gown shimmered white as moonlight. Emma was lost beneath it; and it seemed to him that, spreading beyond her own self, she blended confusedly with everything around her--the silence, the night, the passing wind, the damp odours rising from the ground. Then suddenly he saw her in the garden at Tostes, on a bench against the thorn hedge, or else at Rouen in the streets, on the threshold of their house, in the yard at Bertaux. He again heard the laughter of the happy boys beneath the apple-trees: the room was filled with the perfume of her hair; and her dress rustled in his arms with a noise like electricity. The dress was still the same. For a long while he thus recalled all his lost joys, her attitudes, her movements, the sound of her voice. Upon one fit of despair followed another, and even others, inexhaustible as the waves of an overflowing sea. A terrible curiosity seized him. Slowly, with the tips of his fingers, palpitating, he lifted her veil. But he uttered a cry of horror that awoke the other two. They dragged him down into the sitting-room. Then Felicite came up to say that he wanted some of her hair. "Cut some off," replied the druggist. And as she did not dare to, he himself stepped forward, scissors in hand. He trembled so that he pierced the skin of the temple in several places. At last, stiffening himself against emotion, Homais gave two or three great cuts at random that left white patches amongst that beautiful black hair. The chemist and the cure plunged anew into their occupations, not without sleeping from time to time, of which they accused each other reciprocally at each fresh awakening. Then Monsieur Bournisien sprinkled the room with holy water and Homais threw a little chlorine water on the floor. Felicite had taken care to put on the chest of drawers, for each of them, a bottle of brandy, some cheese, and a large roll. And the druggist, who could not hold out any longer, about four in the morning sighed-- "My word! I should like to take some sustenance." The priest did not need any persuading; he went out to go and say mass, came back, and then they ate and hobnobbed, giggling a little without knowing why, stimulated by that vague gaiety that comes upon us after times of sadness, and at the last glass the priest said to the druggist, as he clapped him on the shoulder-- "We shall end by understanding one another." In the passage downstairs they met the undertaker's men, who were coming in. Then Charles for two hours had to suffer the torture of hearing the hammer resound against the wood. Next day they lowered her into her oak coffin, that was fitted into the other two; but as the bier was too large, they had to fill up the gaps with the wool of a mattress. At last, when the three lids had been planed down, nailed, soldered, it was placed outside in front of the door; the house was thrown open, and the people of Yonville began to flock round. Old Rouault arrived, and fainted on the Place when he saw the black cloth!

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for part 3, chapter 10 based on the provided context.

part 3, chapter 10|part 3, chapter 3|part 3, chapter 4

Monsieur Rouault received a letter from the pharmacist after the fact - so Homais attempted to soften the blow by not exactly telling him that his daughter was dead. As a result, Rouault rode desperately to try and see Emma before she died - and arrived far too late. He and Charles cry together, and attempt to be strong for each other. The whole town turns out for the funeral, including Hippolyte and his fancy leg, as well as the dastardly Monsieur Lheureux. After an elaborate procession, Emma is buried by Lestiboudois. On the way back, Homais amuses himself by noting the improper behavior of his fellow townsfolk. After everything's over, Monsieur Rouault heavily says good bye to his son-in-law and the elder Madame Bovary. He immediately goes home to Les Bertaux, and even refuses to see Berthe, since she would make him even sadder. That night, Charles and his mother stay up talking. They make plans for her to move in, and she rejoices inwardly - she's finally defeated Emma. Rodolphe and Leon both sleep calmly in their respective homes, but those who loved Emma, Charles, her father, and Justin, stay awake, thinking of her.

----------PART 3, CHAPTER 10--------- He had only received the chemist's letter thirty-six hours after the event; and, from consideration for his feelings, Homais had so worded it that it was impossible to make out what it was all about. First, the old fellow had fallen as if struck by apoplexy. Next, he understood that she was not dead, but she might be. At last, he had put on his blouse, taken his hat, fastened his spurs to his boots, and set out at full speed; and the whole of the way old Rouault, panting, was torn by anguish. Once even he was obliged to dismount. He was dizzy; he heard voices round about him; he felt himself going mad. Day broke. He saw three black hens asleep in a tree. He shuddered, horrified at this omen. Then he promised the Holy Virgin three chasubles for the church, and that he would go barefooted from the cemetery at Bertaux to the chapel of Vassonville. He entered Maromme shouting for the people of the inn, burst open the door with a thrust of his shoulder, made for a sack of oats, emptied a bottle of sweet cider into the manger, and again mounted his nag, whose feet struck fire as it dashed along. He said to himself that no doubt they would save her; the doctors would discover some remedy surely. He remembered all the miraculous cures he had been told about. Then she appeared to him dead. She was there; before his eyes, lying on her back in the middle of the road. He reined up, and the hallucination disappeared. At Quincampoix, to give himself heart, he drank three cups of coffee one after the other. He fancied they had made a mistake in the name in writing. He looked for the letter in his pocket, felt it there, but did not dare to open it. At last he began to think it was all a joke; someone's spite, the jest of some wag; and besides, if she were dead, one would have known it. But no! There was nothing extraordinary about the country; the sky was blue, the trees swayed; a flock of sheep passed. He saw the village; he was seen coming bending forward upon his horse, belabouring it with great blows, the girths dripping with blood. When he had recovered consciousness, he fell, weeping, into Bovary's arms: "My girl! Emma! my child! tell me--" The other replied, sobbing, "I don't know! I don't know! It's a curse!" The druggist separated them. "These horrible details are useless. I will tell this gentleman all about it. Here are the people coming. Dignity! Come now! Philosophy!" The poor fellow tried to show himself brave, and repeated several times. "Yes! courage!" "Oh," cried the old man, "so I will have, by God! I'll go along o' her to the end!" The bell began tolling. All was ready; they had to start. And seated in a stall of the choir, side by side, they saw pass and repass in front of them continually the three chanting choristers. The serpent-player was blowing with all his might. Monsieur Bournisien, in full vestments, was singing in a shrill voice. He bowed before the tabernacle, raising his hands, stretched out his arms. Lestiboudois went about the church with his whalebone stick. The bier stood near the lectern, between four rows of candles. Charles felt inclined to get up and put them out. Yet he tried to stir himself to a feeling of devotion, to throw himself into the hope of a future life in which he should see her again. He imagined to himself she had gone on a long journey, far away, for a long time. But when he thought of her lying there, and that all was over, that they would lay her in the earth, he was seized with a fierce, gloomy, despairful rage. At times he thought he felt nothing more, and he enjoyed this lull in his pain, whilst at the same time he reproached himself for being a wretch. The sharp noise of an iron-ferruled stick was heard on the stones, striking them at irregular intervals. It came from the end of the church, and stopped short at the lower aisles. A man in a coarse brown jacket knelt down painfully. It was Hippolyte, the stable-boy at the "Lion d'Or." He had put on his new leg. One of the choristers went round the nave making a collection, and the coppers chinked one after the other on the silver plate. "Oh, make haste! I am in pain!" cried Bovary, angrily throwing him a five-franc piece. The churchman thanked him with a deep bow. They sang, they knelt, they stood up; it was endless! He remembered that once, in the early times, they had been to mass together, and they had sat down on the other side, on the right, by the wall. The bell began again. There was a great moving of chairs; the bearers slipped their three staves under the coffin, and everyone left the church. Then Justin appeared at the door of the shop. He suddenly went in again, pale, staggering. People were at the windows to see the procession pass. Charles at the head walked erect. He affected a brave air, and saluted with a nod those who, coming out from the lanes or from their doors, stood amidst the crowd. The six men, three on either side, walked slowly, panting a little. The priests, the choristers, and the two choirboys recited the De profundis*, and their voices echoed over the fields, rising and falling with their undulations. Sometimes they disappeared in the windings of the path; but the great silver cross rose always before the trees. *Psalm CXXX. The women followed in black cloaks with turned-down hoods; each of them carried in her hands a large lighted candle, and Charles felt himself growing weaker at this continual repetition of prayers and torches, beneath this oppressive odour of wax and of cassocks. A fresh breeze was blowing; the rye and colza were sprouting, little dewdrops trembled at the roadsides and on the hawthorn hedges. All sorts of joyous sounds filled the air; the jolting of a cart rolling afar off in the ruts, the crowing of a cock, repeated again and again, or the gambling of a foal running away under the apple-trees: The pure sky was fretted with rosy clouds; a bluish haze rested upon the cots covered with iris. Charles as he passed recognised each courtyard. He remembered mornings like this, when, after visiting some patient, he came out from one and returned to her. The black cloth bestrewn with white beads blew up from time to time, laying bare the coffin. The tired bearers walked more slowly, and it advanced with constant jerks, like a boat that pitches with every wave. They reached the cemetery. The men went right down to a place in the grass where a grave was dug. They ranged themselves all round; and while the priest spoke, the red soil thrown up at the sides kept noiselessly slipping down at the corners. Then when the four ropes were arranged the coffin was placed upon them. He watched it descend; it seemed descending for ever. At last a thud was heard; the ropes creaked as they were drawn up. Then Bournisien took the spade handed to him by Lestiboudois; with his left hand all the time sprinkling water, with the right he vigorously threw in a large spadeful; and the wood of the coffin, struck by the pebbles, gave forth that dread sound that seems to us the reverberation of eternity. The ecclesiastic passed the holy water sprinkler to his neighbour. This was Homais. He swung it gravely, then handed it to Charles, who sank to his knees in the earth and threw in handfuls of it, crying, "Adieu!" He sent her kisses; he dragged himself towards the grave, to engulf himself with her. They led him away, and he soon grew calmer, feeling perhaps, like the others, a vague satisfaction that it was all over. Old Rouault on his way back began quietly smoking a pipe, which Homais in his innermost conscience thought not quite the thing. He also noticed that Monsieur Binet had not been present, and that Tuvache had "made off" after mass, and that Theodore, the notary's servant wore a blue coat, "as if one could not have got a black coat, since that is the custom, by Jove!" And to share his observations with others he went from group to group. They were deploring Emma's death, especially Lheureux, who had not failed to come to the funeral. "Poor little woman! What a trouble for her husband!" The druggist continued, "Do you know that but for me he would have committed some fatal attempt upon himself?" "Such a good woman! To think that I saw her only last Saturday in my shop." "I haven't had leisure," said Homais, "to prepare a few words that I would have cast upon her tomb." Charles on getting home undressed, and old Rouault put on his blue blouse. It was a new one, and as he had often during the journey wiped his eyes on the sleeves, the dye had stained his face, and the traces of tears made lines in the layer of dust that covered it. Madame Bovary senior was with them. All three were silent. At last the old fellow sighed-- "Do you remember, my friend, that I went to Tostes once when you had just lost your first deceased? I consoled you at that time. I thought of something to say then, but now--" Then, with a loud groan that shook his whole chest, "Ah! this is the end for me, do you see! I saw my wife go, then my son, and now to-day it's my daughter." He wanted to go back at once to Bertaux, saying that he could not sleep in this house. He even refused to see his granddaughter. "No, no! It would grieve me too much. Only you'll kiss her many times for me. Good-bye! you're a good fellow! And then I shall never forget that," he said, slapping his thigh. "Never fear, you shall always have your turkey." But when he reached the top of the hill he turned back, as he had turned once before on the road of Saint-Victor when he had parted from her. The windows of the village were all on fire beneath the slanting rays of the sun sinking behind the field. He put his hand over his eyes, and saw in the horizon an enclosure of walls, where trees here and there formed black clusters between white stones; then he went on his way at a gentle trot, for his nag had gone lame. Despite their fatigue, Charles and his mother stayed very long that evening talking together. They spoke of the days of the past and of the future. She would come to live at Yonville; she would keep house for him; they would never part again. She was ingenious and caressing, rejoicing in her heart at gaining once more an affection that had wandered from her for so many years. Midnight struck. The village as usual was silent, and Charles, awake, thought always of her. Rodolphe, who, to distract himself, had been rambling about the wood all day, was sleeping quietly in his chateau, and Leon, down yonder, always slept. There was another who at that hour was not asleep. On the grave between the pine-trees a child was on his knees weeping, and his heart, rent by sobs, was beating in the shadow beneath the load of an immense regret, sweeter than the moon and fathomless as the night. The gate suddenly grated. It was Lestiboudois; he came to fetch his spade, that he had forgotten. He recognised Justin climbing over the wall, and at last knew who was the culprit who stole his potatoes. ----------PART 3, CHAPTER 3--------- They were three full, exquisite days--a true honeymoon. They were at the Hotel-de-Boulogne, on the harbour; and they lived there, with drawn blinds and closed doors, with flowers on the floor, and iced syrups were brought them early in the morning. Towards evening they took a covered boat and went to dine on one of the islands. It was the time when one hears by the side of the dockyard the caulking-mallets sounding against the hull of vessels. The smoke of the tar rose up between the trees; there were large fatty drops on the water, undulating in the purple colour of the sun, like floating plaques of Florentine bronze. They rowed down in the midst of moored boats, whose long oblique cables grazed lightly against the bottom of the boat. The din of the town gradually grew distant; the rolling of carriages, the tumult of voices, the yelping of dogs on the decks of vessels. She took off her bonnet, and they landed on their island. They sat down in the low-ceilinged room of a tavern, at whose door hung black nets. They ate fried smelts, cream and cherries. They lay down upon the grass; they kissed behind the poplars; and they would fain, like two Robinsons, have lived for ever in this little place, which seemed to them in their beatitude the most magnificent on earth. It was not the first time that they had seen trees, a blue sky, meadows; that they had heard the water flowing and the wind blowing in the leaves; but, no doubt, they had never admired all this, as if Nature had not existed before, or had only begun to be beautiful since the gratification of their desires. At night they returned. The boat glided along the shores of the islands. They sat at the bottom, both hidden by the shade, in silence. The square oars rang in the iron thwarts, and, in the stillness, seemed to mark time, like the beating of a metronome, while at the stern the rudder that trailed behind never ceased its gentle splash against the water. Once the moon rose; they did not fail to make fine phrases, finding the orb melancholy and full of poetry. She even began to sing-- "One night, do you remember, we were sailing," etc. Her musical but weak voice died away along the waves, and the winds carried off the trills that Leon heard pass like the flapping of wings about him. She was opposite him, leaning against the partition of the shallop, through one of whose raised blinds the moon streamed in. Her black dress, whose drapery spread out like a fan, made her seem more slender, taller. Her head was raised, her hands clasped, her eyes turned towards heaven. At times the shadow of the willows hid her completely; then she reappeared suddenly, like a vision in the moonlight. Leon, on the floor by her side, found under his hand a ribbon of scarlet silk. The boatman looked at it, and at last said-- "Perhaps it belongs to the party I took out the other day. A lot of jolly folk, gentlemen and ladies, with cakes, champagne, cornets--everything in style! There was one especially, a tall handsome man with small moustaches, who was that funny! And they all kept saying, 'Now tell us something, Adolphe--Dolpe,' I think." She shivered. "You are in pain?" asked Leon, coming closer to her. "Oh, it's nothing! No doubt, it is only the night air." "And who doesn't want for women, either," softly added the sailor, thinking he was paying the stranger a compliment. Then, spitting on his hands, he took the oars again. Yet they had to part. The adieux were sad. He was to send his letters to Mere Rollet, and she gave him such precise instructions about a double envelope that he admired greatly her amorous astuteness. "So you can assure me it is all right?" she said with her last kiss. "Yes, certainly." "But why," he thought afterwards as he came back through the streets alone, "is she so very anxious to get this power of attorney?" ----------PART 3, CHAPTER 4--------- Leon soon put on an air of superiority before his comrades, avoided their company, and completely neglected his work. He waited for her letters; he re-read them; he wrote to her. He called her to mind with all the strength of his desires and of his memories. Instead of lessening with absence, this longing to see her again grew, so that at last on Saturday morning he escaped from his office. When, from the summit of the hill, he saw in the valley below the church-spire with its tin flag swinging in the wind, he felt that delight mingled with triumphant vanity and egoistic tenderness that millionaires must experience when they come back to their native village. He went rambling round her house. A light was burning in the kitchen. He watched for her shadow behind the curtains, but nothing appeared. Mere Lefrancois, when she saw him, uttered many exclamations. She thought he "had grown and was thinner," while Artemise, on the contrary, thought him stouter and darker. He dined in the little room as of yore, but alone, without the tax-gatherer; for Binet, tired of waiting for the "Hirondelle," had definitely put forward his meal one hour, and now he dined punctually at five, and yet he declared usually the rickety old concern "was late." Leon, however, made up his mind, and knocked at the doctor's door. Madame was in her room, and did not come down for a quarter of an hour. The doctor seemed delighted to see him, but he never stirred out that evening, nor all the next day. He saw her alone in the evening, very late, behind the garden in the lane; in the lane, as she had the other one! It was a stormy night, and they talked under an umbrella by lightning flashes. Their separation was becoming intolerable. "I would rather die!" said Emma. She was writhing in his arms, weeping. "Adieu! adieu! When shall I see you again?" They came back again to embrace once more, and it was then that she promised him to find soon, by no matter what means, a regular opportunity for seeing one another in freedom at least once a week. Emma never doubted she should be able to do this. Besides, she was full of hope. Some money was coming to her. On the strength of it she bought a pair of yellow curtains with large stripes for her room, whose cheapness Monsieur Lheureux had commended; she dreamed of getting a carpet, and Lheureux, declaring that it wasn't "drinking the sea," politely undertook to supply her with one. She could no longer do without his services. Twenty times a day she sent for him, and he at once put by his business without a murmur. People could not understand either why Mere Rollet breakfasted with her every day, and even paid her private visits. It was about this time, that is to say, the beginning of winter, that she seemed seized with great musical fervour. One evening when Charles was listening to her, she began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried-- "Bravo! very goodl You are wrong to stop. Go on!" "Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty." The next day he begged her to play him something again. "Very well; to please you!" And Charles confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short-- "Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but--" She bit her lips and added, "Twenty francs a lesson, that's too dear!" "Yes, so it is--rather," said Charles, giggling stupidly. "But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities." "Find them!" said Emma. The next day when he came home he looked at her shyly, and at last could no longer keep back the words. "How obstinate you are sometimes! I went to Barfucheres to-day. Well, Madame Liegard assured me that her three young ladies who are at La Misericorde have lessons at fifty sous apiece, and that from an excellent mistress!" She shrugged her shoulders and did not open her piano again. But when she passed by it (if Bovary were there), she sighed-- "Ah! my poor piano!" And when anyone came to see her, she did not fail to inform them she had given up music, and could not begin again now for important reasons. Then people commiserated her-- "What a pity! she had so much talent!" They even spoke to Bovary about it. They put him to shame, and especially the chemist. "You are wrong. One should never let any of the faculties of nature lie fallow. Besides, just think, my good friend, that by inducing madame to study; you are economising on the subsequent musical education of your child. For my own part, I think that mothers ought themselves to instruct their children. That is an idea of Rousseau's, still rather new perhaps, but that will end by triumphing, I am certain of it, like mothers nursing their own children and vaccination." So Charles returned once more to this question of the piano. Emma replied bitterly that it would be better to sell it. This poor piano, that had given her vanity so much satisfaction--to see it go was to Bovary like the indefinable suicide of a part of herself. "If you liked," he said, "a lesson from time to time, that wouldn't after all be very ruinous." "But lessons," she replied, "are only of use when followed up." And thus it was she set about obtaining her husband's permission to go to town once a week to see her lover. At the end of a month she was even considered to have made considerable progress.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of part 3, chapter 10 using the context provided.

Charles dissolves into tears. Homais returns to the pharmacy, puts off the blind man and tells the gathered crowd that Madame Bovary died of accidental poisoning. Initially resistant, Charles finally agrees to order the funeral arrangements. Against the advice of Homais and his mother, he insists that Emma be buried expensively in three coffins and with a velvet cover. That night Monsieur Homais and Monsieur Bournisien sit with the corpse and engage in a spirited argument concerning the efficacy of religion. Charles, who cannot stay away from his dead wife, interrupts them. The next night the townfolk call on Monsieur Bovary to offer condolences and Madame Lefranois and the elder Madame Bovary prepare the body for burial. That night Homais and the priest continue their vigil and their argument but eventually both men fall peacefully asleep. Charles comes to look upon his wife and screams when he lifts the veil. The priest and the pharmacist decide to partake of the brandy, cheese and bread left for them by Flicit and soon they are friendly. The coffin makers arrive and once Emma is secure inside the three coffins the doors of the house are opened to the town. Monsieur Rouault arrives and faints at the sight of the black cloth

----------PART 3, CHAPTER 9--------- There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction; so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign ourselves to believe in it. But still, when he saw that she did not move, Charles threw himself upon her, crying-- "Farewell! farewell!" Homais and Canivet dragged him from the room. "Restrain yourself!" "Yes." said he, struggling, "I'll be quiet. I'll not do anything. But leave me alone. I want to see her. She is my wife!" And he wept. "Cry," said the chemist; "let nature take her course; that will solace you." Weaker than a child, Charles let himself be led downstairs into the sitting-room, and Monsieur Homais soon went home. On the Place he was accosted by the blind man, who, having dragged himself as far as Yonville, in the hope of getting the antiphlogistic pomade, was asking every passer-by where the druggist lived. "There now! as if I hadn't got other fish to fry. Well, so much the worse; you must come later on." And he entered the shop hurriedly. He had to write two letters, to prepare a soothing potion for Bovary, to invent some lie that would conceal the poisoning, and work it up into an article for the "Fanal," without counting the people who were waiting to get the news from him; and when the Yonvillers had all heard his story of the arsenic that she had mistaken for sugar in making a vanilla cream. Homais once more returned to Bovary's. He found him alone (Monsieur Canivet had left), sitting in an arm-chair near the window, staring with an idiotic look at the flags of the floor. "Now," said the chemist, "you ought yourself to fix the hour for the ceremony." "Why? What ceremony?" Then, in a stammering, frightened voice, "Oh, no! not that. No! I want to see her here." Homais, to keep himself in countenance, took up a water-bottle on the whatnot to water the geraniums. "Ah! thanks," said Charles; "you are good." But he did not finish, choking beneath the crowd of memories that this action of the druggist recalled to him. Then to distract him, Homais thought fit to talk a little horticulture: plants wanted humidity. Charles bowed his head in sign of approbation. "Besides, the fine days will soon be here again." "Ah!" said Bovary. The druggist, at his wit's end, began softly to draw aside the small window-curtain. "Hallo! there's Monsieur Tuvache passing." Charles repeated like a machine--- "Monsieur Tuvache passing!" Homais did not dare to speak to him again about the funeral arrangements; it was the priest who succeeded in reconciling him to them. He shut himself up in his consulting-room, took a pen, and after sobbing for some time, wrote-- "I wish her to be buried in her wedding-dress, with white shoes, and a wreath. Her hair is to be spread out over her shoulders. Three coffins, one of oak, one of mahogany, one of lead. Let no one say anything to me. I shall have strength. Over all there is to be placed a large piece of green velvet. This is my wish; see that it is done." The two men were much surprised at Bovary's romantic ideas. The chemist at once went to him and said-- "This velvet seems to me a superfetation. Besides, the expense--" "What's that to you?" cried Charles. "Leave me! You did not love her. Go!" The priest took him by the arm for a turn in the garden. He discoursed on the vanity of earthly things. God was very great, was very good: one must submit to his decrees without a murmur; nay, must even thank him. Charles burst out into blasphemies: "I hate your God!" "The spirit of rebellion is still upon you," sighed the ecclesiastic. Bovary was far away. He was walking with great strides along by the wall, near the espalier, and he ground his teeth; he raised to heaven looks of malediction, but not so much as a leaf stirred. A fine rain was falling: Charles, whose chest was bare, at last began to shiver; he went in and sat down in the kitchen. At six o'clock a noise like a clatter of old iron was heard on the Place; it was the "Hirondelle" coming in, and he remained with his forehead against the windowpane, watching all the passengers get out, one after the other. Felicite put down a mattress for him in the drawing-room. He threw himself upon it and fell asleep. Although a philosopher, Monsieur Homais respected the dead. So bearing no grudge to poor Charles, he came back again in the evening to sit up with the body; bringing with him three volumes and a pocket-book for taking notes. Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning at the head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove. The druggist, on whom the silence weighed, was not long before he began formulating some regrets about this "unfortunate young woman." and the priest replied that there was nothing to do now but pray for her. "Yet," Homais went on, "one of two things; either she died in a state of grace (as the Church has it), and then she has no need of our prayers; or else she departed impertinent (that is, I believe, the ecclesiastical expression), and then--" Bournisien interrupted him, replying testily that it was none the less necessary to pray. "But," objected the chemist, "since God knows all our needs, what can be the good of prayer?" "What!" cried the ecclesiastic, "prayer! Why, aren't you a Christian?" "Excuse me," said Homais; "I admire Christianity. To begin with, it enfranchised the slaves, introduced into the world a morality--" "That isn't the question. All the texts-" "Oh! oh! As to texts, look at history; it, is known that all the texts have been falsified by the Jesuits." Charles came in, and advancing towards the bed, slowly drew the curtains. Emma's head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner of her mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lower part of her face; her two thumbs were bent into the palms of her hands; a kind of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyes were beginning to disappear in that viscous pallor that looks like a thin web, as if spiders had spun it over. The sheet sunk in from her breast to her knees, and then rose at the tips of her toes, and it seemed to Charles that infinite masses, an enormous load, were weighing upon her. The church clock struck two. They could hear the loud murmur of the river flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace. Monsieur Bournisien from time to time blew his nose noisily, and Homais' pen was scratching over the paper. "Come, my good friend," he said, "withdraw; this spectacle is tearing you to pieces." Charles once gone, the chemist and the cure recommenced their discussions. "Read Voltaire," said the one, "read D'Holbach, read the 'Encyclopaedia'!" "Read the 'Letters of some Portuguese Jews,'" said the other; "read 'The Meaning of Christianity,' by Nicolas, formerly a magistrate." They grew warm, they grew red, they both talked at once without listening to each other. Bournisien was scandalized at such audacity; Homais marvelled at such stupidity; and they were on the point of insulting one another when Charles suddenly reappeared. A fascination drew him. He was continually coming upstairs. He stood opposite her, the better to see her, and he lost himself in a contemplation so deep that it was no longer painful. He recalled stories of catalepsy, the marvels of magnetism, and he said to himself that by willing it with all his force he might perhaps succeed in reviving her. Once he even bent towards he, and cried in a low voice, "Emma! Emma!" His strong breathing made the flames of the candles tremble against the wall. At daybreak Madame Bovary senior arrived. Charles as he embraced her burst into another flood of tears. She tried, as the chemist had done, to make some remarks to him on the expenses of the funeral. He became so angry that she was silent, and he even commissioned her to go to town at once and buy what was necessary. Charles remained alone the whole afternoon; they had taken Berthe to Madame Homais'; Felicite was in the room upstairs with Madame Lefrancois. In the evening he had some visitors. He rose, pressed their hands, unable to speak. Then they sat down near one another, and formed a large semicircle in front of the fire. With lowered faces, and swinging one leg crossed over the other knee, they uttered deep sighs at intervals; each one was inordinately bored, and yet none would be the first to go. Homais, when he returned at nine o'clock (for the last two days only Homais seemed to have been on the Place), was laden with a stock of camphor, of benzine, and aromatic herbs. He also carried a large jar full of chlorine water, to keep off all miasmata. Just then the servant, Madame Lefrancois, and Madame Bovary senior were busy about Emma, finishing dressing her, and they were drawing down the long stiff veil that covered her to her satin shoes. Felicite was sobbing--"Ah! my poor mistress! my poor mistress!" "Look at her," said the landlady, sighing; "how pretty she still is! Now, couldn't you swear she was going to get up in a minute?" Then they bent over her to put on her wreath. They had to raise the head a little, and a rush of black liquid issued, as if she were vomiting, from her mouth. "Oh, goodness! The dress; take care!" cried Madame Lefrancois. "Now, just come and help," she said to the chemist. "Perhaps you're afraid?" "I afraid?" replied he, shrugging his shoulders. "I dare say! I've seen all sorts of things at the hospital when I was studying pharmacy. We used to make punch in the dissecting room! Nothingness does not terrify a philosopher; and, as I often say, I even intend to leave my body to the hospitals, in order, later on, to serve science." The cure on his arrival inquired how Monsieur Bovary was, and, on the reply of the druggist, went on--"The blow, you see, is still too recent." Then Homais congratulated him on not being exposed, like other people, to the loss of a beloved companion; whence there followed a discussion on the celibacy of priests. "For," said the chemist, "it is unnatural that a man should do without women! There have been crimes--" "But, good heaven!" cried the ecclesiastic, "how do you expect an individual who is married to keep the secrets of the confessional, for example?" Homais fell foul of the confessional. Bournisien defended it; he enlarged on the acts of restitution that it brought about. He cited various anecdotes about thieves who had suddenly become honest. Military men on approaching the tribunal of penitence had felt the scales fall from their eyes. At Fribourg there was a minister-- His companion was asleep. Then he felt somewhat stifled by the over-heavy atmosphere of the room; he opened the window; this awoke the chemist. "Come, take a pinch of snuff," he said to him. "Take it; it'll relieve you." A continual barking was heard in the distance. "Do you hear that dog howling?" said the chemist. "They smell the dead," replied the priest. "It's like bees; they leave their hives on the decease of any person." Homais made no remark upon these prejudices, for he had again dropped asleep. Monsieur Bournisien, stronger than he, went on moving his lips gently for some time, then insensibly his chin sank down, he let fall his big black boot, and began to snore. They sat opposite one another, with protruding stomachs, puffed-up faces, and frowning looks, after so much disagreement uniting at last in the same human weakness, and they moved no more than the corpse by their side, that seemed to be sleeping. Charles coming in did not wake them. It was the last time; he came to bid her farewell. The aromatic herbs were still smoking, and spirals of bluish vapour blended at the window-sash with the fog that was coming in. There were few stars, and the night was warm. The wax of the candles fell in great drops upon the sheets of the bed. Charles watched them burn, tiring his eyes against the glare of their yellow flame. The watering on the satin gown shimmered white as moonlight. Emma was lost beneath it; and it seemed to him that, spreading beyond her own self, she blended confusedly with everything around her--the silence, the night, the passing wind, the damp odours rising from the ground. Then suddenly he saw her in the garden at Tostes, on a bench against the thorn hedge, or else at Rouen in the streets, on the threshold of their house, in the yard at Bertaux. He again heard the laughter of the happy boys beneath the apple-trees: the room was filled with the perfume of her hair; and her dress rustled in his arms with a noise like electricity. The dress was still the same. For a long while he thus recalled all his lost joys, her attitudes, her movements, the sound of her voice. Upon one fit of despair followed another, and even others, inexhaustible as the waves of an overflowing sea. A terrible curiosity seized him. Slowly, with the tips of his fingers, palpitating, he lifted her veil. But he uttered a cry of horror that awoke the other two. They dragged him down into the sitting-room. Then Felicite came up to say that he wanted some of her hair. "Cut some off," replied the druggist. And as she did not dare to, he himself stepped forward, scissors in hand. He trembled so that he pierced the skin of the temple in several places. At last, stiffening himself against emotion, Homais gave two or three great cuts at random that left white patches amongst that beautiful black hair. The chemist and the cure plunged anew into their occupations, not without sleeping from time to time, of which they accused each other reciprocally at each fresh awakening. Then Monsieur Bournisien sprinkled the room with holy water and Homais threw a little chlorine water on the floor. Felicite had taken care to put on the chest of drawers, for each of them, a bottle of brandy, some cheese, and a large roll. And the druggist, who could not hold out any longer, about four in the morning sighed-- "My word! I should like to take some sustenance." The priest did not need any persuading; he went out to go and say mass, came back, and then they ate and hobnobbed, giggling a little without knowing why, stimulated by that vague gaiety that comes upon us after times of sadness, and at the last glass the priest said to the druggist, as he clapped him on the shoulder-- "We shall end by understanding one another." In the passage downstairs they met the undertaker's men, who were coming in. Then Charles for two hours had to suffer the torture of hearing the hammer resound against the wood. Next day they lowered her into her oak coffin, that was fitted into the other two; but as the bier was too large, they had to fill up the gaps with the wool of a mattress. At last, when the three lids had been planed down, nailed, soldered, it was placed outside in front of the door; the house was thrown open, and the people of Yonville began to flock round. Old Rouault arrived, and fainted on the Place when he saw the black cloth! ----------PART 3, CHAPTER 10--------- He had only received the chemist's letter thirty-six hours after the event; and, from consideration for his feelings, Homais had so worded it that it was impossible to make out what it was all about. First, the old fellow had fallen as if struck by apoplexy. Next, he understood that she was not dead, but she might be. At last, he had put on his blouse, taken his hat, fastened his spurs to his boots, and set out at full speed; and the whole of the way old Rouault, panting, was torn by anguish. Once even he was obliged to dismount. He was dizzy; he heard voices round about him; he felt himself going mad. Day broke. He saw three black hens asleep in a tree. He shuddered, horrified at this omen. Then he promised the Holy Virgin three chasubles for the church, and that he would go barefooted from the cemetery at Bertaux to the chapel of Vassonville. He entered Maromme shouting for the people of the inn, burst open the door with a thrust of his shoulder, made for a sack of oats, emptied a bottle of sweet cider into the manger, and again mounted his nag, whose feet struck fire as it dashed along. He said to himself that no doubt they would save her; the doctors would discover some remedy surely. He remembered all the miraculous cures he had been told about. Then she appeared to him dead. She was there; before his eyes, lying on her back in the middle of the road. He reined up, and the hallucination disappeared. At Quincampoix, to give himself heart, he drank three cups of coffee one after the other. He fancied they had made a mistake in the name in writing. He looked for the letter in his pocket, felt it there, but did not dare to open it. At last he began to think it was all a joke; someone's spite, the jest of some wag; and besides, if she were dead, one would have known it. But no! There was nothing extraordinary about the country; the sky was blue, the trees swayed; a flock of sheep passed. He saw the village; he was seen coming bending forward upon his horse, belabouring it with great blows, the girths dripping with blood. When he had recovered consciousness, he fell, weeping, into Bovary's arms: "My girl! Emma! my child! tell me--" The other replied, sobbing, "I don't know! I don't know! It's a curse!" The druggist separated them. "These horrible details are useless. I will tell this gentleman all about it. Here are the people coming. Dignity! Come now! Philosophy!" The poor fellow tried to show himself brave, and repeated several times. "Yes! courage!" "Oh," cried the old man, "so I will have, by God! I'll go along o' her to the end!" The bell began tolling. All was ready; they had to start. And seated in a stall of the choir, side by side, they saw pass and repass in front of them continually the three chanting choristers. The serpent-player was blowing with all his might. Monsieur Bournisien, in full vestments, was singing in a shrill voice. He bowed before the tabernacle, raising his hands, stretched out his arms. Lestiboudois went about the church with his whalebone stick. The bier stood near the lectern, between four rows of candles. Charles felt inclined to get up and put them out. Yet he tried to stir himself to a feeling of devotion, to throw himself into the hope of a future life in which he should see her again. He imagined to himself she had gone on a long journey, far away, for a long time. But when he thought of her lying there, and that all was over, that they would lay her in the earth, he was seized with a fierce, gloomy, despairful rage. At times he thought he felt nothing more, and he enjoyed this lull in his pain, whilst at the same time he reproached himself for being a wretch. The sharp noise of an iron-ferruled stick was heard on the stones, striking them at irregular intervals. It came from the end of the church, and stopped short at the lower aisles. A man in a coarse brown jacket knelt down painfully. It was Hippolyte, the stable-boy at the "Lion d'Or." He had put on his new leg. One of the choristers went round the nave making a collection, and the coppers chinked one after the other on the silver plate. "Oh, make haste! I am in pain!" cried Bovary, angrily throwing him a five-franc piece. The churchman thanked him with a deep bow. They sang, they knelt, they stood up; it was endless! He remembered that once, in the early times, they had been to mass together, and they had sat down on the other side, on the right, by the wall. The bell began again. There was a great moving of chairs; the bearers slipped their three staves under the coffin, and everyone left the church. Then Justin appeared at the door of the shop. He suddenly went in again, pale, staggering. People were at the windows to see the procession pass. Charles at the head walked erect. He affected a brave air, and saluted with a nod those who, coming out from the lanes or from their doors, stood amidst the crowd. The six men, three on either side, walked slowly, panting a little. The priests, the choristers, and the two choirboys recited the De profundis*, and their voices echoed over the fields, rising and falling with their undulations. Sometimes they disappeared in the windings of the path; but the great silver cross rose always before the trees. *Psalm CXXX. The women followed in black cloaks with turned-down hoods; each of them carried in her hands a large lighted candle, and Charles felt himself growing weaker at this continual repetition of prayers and torches, beneath this oppressive odour of wax and of cassocks. A fresh breeze was blowing; the rye and colza were sprouting, little dewdrops trembled at the roadsides and on the hawthorn hedges. All sorts of joyous sounds filled the air; the jolting of a cart rolling afar off in the ruts, the crowing of a cock, repeated again and again, or the gambling of a foal running away under the apple-trees: The pure sky was fretted with rosy clouds; a bluish haze rested upon the cots covered with iris. Charles as he passed recognised each courtyard. He remembered mornings like this, when, after visiting some patient, he came out from one and returned to her. The black cloth bestrewn with white beads blew up from time to time, laying bare the coffin. The tired bearers walked more slowly, and it advanced with constant jerks, like a boat that pitches with every wave. They reached the cemetery. The men went right down to a place in the grass where a grave was dug. They ranged themselves all round; and while the priest spoke, the red soil thrown up at the sides kept noiselessly slipping down at the corners. Then when the four ropes were arranged the coffin was placed upon them. He watched it descend; it seemed descending for ever. At last a thud was heard; the ropes creaked as they were drawn up. Then Bournisien took the spade handed to him by Lestiboudois; with his left hand all the time sprinkling water, with the right he vigorously threw in a large spadeful; and the wood of the coffin, struck by the pebbles, gave forth that dread sound that seems to us the reverberation of eternity. The ecclesiastic passed the holy water sprinkler to his neighbour. This was Homais. He swung it gravely, then handed it to Charles, who sank to his knees in the earth and threw in handfuls of it, crying, "Adieu!" He sent her kisses; he dragged himself towards the grave, to engulf himself with her. They led him away, and he soon grew calmer, feeling perhaps, like the others, a vague satisfaction that it was all over. Old Rouault on his way back began quietly smoking a pipe, which Homais in his innermost conscience thought not quite the thing. He also noticed that Monsieur Binet had not been present, and that Tuvache had "made off" after mass, and that Theodore, the notary's servant wore a blue coat, "as if one could not have got a black coat, since that is the custom, by Jove!" And to share his observations with others he went from group to group. They were deploring Emma's death, especially Lheureux, who had not failed to come to the funeral. "Poor little woman! What a trouble for her husband!" The druggist continued, "Do you know that but for me he would have committed some fatal attempt upon himself?" "Such a good woman! To think that I saw her only last Saturday in my shop." "I haven't had leisure," said Homais, "to prepare a few words that I would have cast upon her tomb." Charles on getting home undressed, and old Rouault put on his blue blouse. It was a new one, and as he had often during the journey wiped his eyes on the sleeves, the dye had stained his face, and the traces of tears made lines in the layer of dust that covered it. Madame Bovary senior was with them. All three were silent. At last the old fellow sighed-- "Do you remember, my friend, that I went to Tostes once when you had just lost your first deceased? I consoled you at that time. I thought of something to say then, but now--" Then, with a loud groan that shook his whole chest, "Ah! this is the end for me, do you see! I saw my wife go, then my son, and now to-day it's my daughter." He wanted to go back at once to Bertaux, saying that he could not sleep in this house. He even refused to see his granddaughter. "No, no! It would grieve me too much. Only you'll kiss her many times for me. Good-bye! you're a good fellow! And then I shall never forget that," he said, slapping his thigh. "Never fear, you shall always have your turkey." But when he reached the top of the hill he turned back, as he had turned once before on the road of Saint-Victor when he had parted from her. The windows of the village were all on fire beneath the slanting rays of the sun sinking behind the field. He put his hand over his eyes, and saw in the horizon an enclosure of walls, where trees here and there formed black clusters between white stones; then he went on his way at a gentle trot, for his nag had gone lame. Despite their fatigue, Charles and his mother stayed very long that evening talking together. They spoke of the days of the past and of the future. She would come to live at Yonville; she would keep house for him; they would never part again. She was ingenious and caressing, rejoicing in her heart at gaining once more an affection that had wandered from her for so many years. Midnight struck. The village as usual was silent, and Charles, awake, thought always of her. Rodolphe, who, to distract himself, had been rambling about the wood all day, was sleeping quietly in his chateau, and Leon, down yonder, always slept. There was another who at that hour was not asleep. On the grave between the pine-trees a child was on his knees weeping, and his heart, rent by sobs, was beating in the shadow beneath the load of an immense regret, sweeter than the moon and fathomless as the night. The gate suddenly grated. It was Lestiboudois; he came to fetch his spade, that he had forgotten. He recognised Justin climbing over the wall, and at last knew who was the culprit who stole his potatoes.

Maggie A Girl of the Stre

cliffnotes

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

chapter 1|chapter 2|chapter 3

Jimmie and the old woman listen until the noise from the fight fades. The old woman is a beggar who has practiced her trade on Fifth Avenue for many years. She earns a few pennies every day. Once she retrieved a dropped purse but even this seeming good luck had turned foul when the police caught her with the supposedly stolen goods. As such, she has nothing good to say about the police. She gives Jimmie seven pennies and a bucket to fetch beer. She tells Jimmie that if his mother continues on her rampage he can stay with her that night. Jimmie goes to a nearby saloon, gets the bucket filled with beer and is on his way back to the old woman's apartment when he encounters his drunken father. Despite Jimmie's protests the father grabs the bucket and drinks it off in one long draught. Jimmie curses his father but the man laughs, throws the empty bucket at him and promises to beat him soon. The father staggers toward home and Jimmie cautiously returns to the tenement building. He creeps past the old woman's dooer and then listens at his family's door. He hears his parents arguing and his father yells "Go teh hell". Something crashes loudly against the door and Jimmie runs downstairs where he cowers and listens to the sounds of struggle coming from the apartment. He sees other residents of the building poke their heads out of their doors and more than one of them remarks "Ol' Johnson's raising hell agin." Jimmie waits until long after the noise has died down and then he creeps back to the apartment. In the red glare of the stove he sees the broken furniture strewn about the apartment. His mother is asleep in the middle of the floor and his father's sleeping body hangs limply across a chair. He cautiously approaches his mother, terrified she will awake, and observes her face swollen from drinking, her painful breathing and her harsh expression. Fascinated, he looks directly into her face and to his horror Mary's eyes open. Jimmie falls back howling with fear but the woman flounders and then renews her snoring. Jimmie hears his sister meekly calling to him from the other room and he sees that she shivers with fear. Maggie's eyes are red with weeping. As the two children crouch together on the floor and stare wordlessly at their sleeping mother until dawn, afraid that she will awake.

----------CHAPTER 1--------- A very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honor of Rum Alley. He was throwing stones at howling urchins from Devil's Row who were circling madly about the heap and pelting at him. His infantile countenance was livid with fury. His small body was writhing in the delivery of great, crimson oaths. "Run, Jimmie, run! Dey'll get yehs," screamed a retreating Rum Alley child. "Naw," responded Jimmie with a valiant roar, "dese micks can't make me run." Howls of renewed wrath went up from Devil's Row throats. Tattered gamins on the right made a furious assault on the gravel heap. On their small, convulsed faces there shone the grins of true assassins. As they charged, they threw stones and cursed in shrill chorus. The little champion of Rum Alley stumbled precipitately down the other side. His coat had been torn to shreds in a scuffle, and his hat was gone. He had bruises on twenty parts of his body, and blood was dripping from a cut in his head. His wan features wore a look of a tiny, insane demon. On the ground, children from Devil's Row closed in on their antagonist. He crooked his left arm defensively about his head and fought with cursing fury. The little boys ran to and fro, dodging, hurling stones and swearing in barbaric trebles. From a window of an apartment house that upreared its form from amid squat, ignorant stables, there leaned a curious woman. Some laborers, unloading a scow at a dock at the river, paused for a moment and regarded the fight. The engineer of a passive tugboat hung lazily to a railing and watched. Over on the Island, a worm of yellow convicts came from the shadow of a building and crawled slowly along the river's bank. A stone had smashed into Jimmie's mouth. Blood was bubbling over his chin and down upon his ragged shirt. Tears made furrows on his dirt-stained cheeks. His thin legs had begun to tremble and turn weak, causing his small body to reel. His roaring curses of the first part of the fight had changed to a blasphemous chatter. In the yells of the whirling mob of Devil's Row children there were notes of joy like songs of triumphant savagery. The little boys seemed to leer gloatingly at the blood upon the other child's face. Down the avenue came boastfully sauntering a lad of sixteen years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal manhood already sat upon his lips. His hat was tipped with an air of challenge over his eye. Between his teeth, a cigar stump was tilted at the angle of defiance. He walked with a certain swing of the shoulders which appalled the timid. He glanced over into the vacant lot in which the little raving boys from Devil's Row seethed about the shrieking and tearful child from Rum Alley. "Gee!" he murmured with interest. "A scrap. Gee!" He strode over to the cursing circle, swinging his shoulders in a manner which denoted that he held victory in his fists. He approached at the back of one of the most deeply engaged of the Devil's Row children. "Ah, what deh hell," he said, and smote the deeply-engaged one on the back of the head. The little boy fell to the ground and gave a hoarse, tremendous howl. He scrambled to his feet, and perceiving, evidently, the size of his assailant, ran quickly off, shouting alarms. The entire Devil's Row party followed him. They came to a stand a short distance away and yelled taunting oaths at the boy with the chronic sneer. The latter, momentarily, paid no attention to them. "What deh hell, Jimmie?" he asked of the small champion. Jimmie wiped his blood-wet features with his sleeve. "Well, it was dis way, Pete, see! I was goin' teh lick dat Riley kid and dey all pitched on me." Some Rum Alley children now came forward. The party stood for a moment exchanging vainglorious remarks with Devil's Row. A few stones were thrown at long distances, and words of challenge passed between small warriors. Then the Rum Alley contingent turned slowly in the direction of their home street. They began to give, each to each, distorted versions of the fight. Causes of retreat in particular cases were magnified. Blows dealt in the fight were enlarged to catapultian power, and stones thrown were alleged to have hurtled with infinite accuracy. Valor grew strong again, and the little boys began to swear with great spirit. "Ah, we blokies kin lick deh hull damn Row," said a child, swaggering. Little Jimmie was striving to stanch the flow of blood from his cut lips. Scowling, he turned upon the speaker. "Ah, where deh hell was yeh when I was doin' all deh fightin?" he demanded. "Youse kids makes me tired." "Ah, go ahn," replied the other argumentatively. Jimmie replied with heavy contempt. "Ah, youse can't fight, Blue Billie! I kin lick yeh wid one han'." "Ah, go ahn," replied Billie again. "Ah," said Jimmie threateningly. "Ah," said the other in the same tone. They struck at each other, clinched, and rolled over on the cobble stones. "Smash 'im, Jimmie, kick deh damn guts out of 'im," yelled Pete, the lad with the chronic sneer, in tones of delight. The small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore. They began to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with sobs. The other little boys clasped their hands and wriggled their legs in excitement. They formed a bobbing circle about the pair. A tiny spectator was suddenly agitated. "Cheese it, Jimmie, cheese it! Here comes yer fader," he yelled. The circle of little boys instantly parted. They drew away and waited in ecstatic awe for that which was about to happen. The two little boys fighting in the modes of four thousand years ago, did not hear the warning. Up the avenue there plodded slowly a man with sullen eyes. He was carrying a dinner pail and smoking an apple-wood pipe. As he neared the spot where the little boys strove, he regarded them listlessly. But suddenly he roared an oath and advanced upon the rolling fighters. "Here, you Jim, git up, now, while I belt yer life out, you damned disorderly brat." He began to kick into the chaotic mass on the ground. The boy Billie felt a heavy boot strike his head. He made a furious effort and disentangled himself from Jimmie. He tottered away, damning. Jimmie arose painfully from the ground and confronting his father, began to curse him. His parent kicked him. "Come home, now," he cried, "an' stop yer jawin', er I'll lam the everlasting head off yehs." They departed. The man paced placidly along with the apple-wood emblem of serenity between his teeth. The boy followed a dozen feet in the rear. He swore luridly, for he felt that it was degradation for one who aimed to be some vague soldier, or a man of blood with a sort of sublime license, to be taken home by a father. ----------CHAPTER 2--------- Eventually they entered into a dark region where, from a careening building, a dozen gruesome doorways gave up loads of babies to the street and the gutter. A wind of early autumn raised yellow dust from cobbles and swirled it against an hundred windows. Long streamers of garments fluttered from fire-escapes. In all unhandy places there were buckets, brooms, rags and bottles. In the street infants played or fought with other infants or sat stupidly in the way of vehicles. Formidable women, with uncombed hair and disordered dress, gossiped while leaning on railings, or screamed in frantic quarrels. Withered persons, in curious postures of submission to something, sat smoking pipes in obscure corners. A thousand odors of cooking food came forth to the street. The building quivered and creaked from the weight of humanity stamping about in its bowels. A small ragged girl dragged a red, bawling infant along the crowded ways. He was hanging back, baby-like, bracing his wrinkled, bare legs. The little girl cried out: "Ah, Tommie, come ahn. Dere's Jimmie and fader. Don't be a-pullin' me back." She jerked the baby's arm impatiently. He fell on his face, roaring. With a second jerk she pulled him to his feet, and they went on. With the obstinacy of his order, he protested against being dragged in a chosen direction. He made heroic endeavors to keep on his legs, denounce his sister and consume a bit of orange peeling which he chewed between the times of his infantile orations. As the sullen-eyed man, followed by the blood-covered boy, drew near, the little girl burst into reproachful cries. "Ah, Jimmie, youse bin fightin' agin." The urchin swelled disdainfully. "Ah, what deh hell, Mag. See?" The little girl upbraided him, "Youse allus fightin', Jimmie, an' yeh knows it puts mudder out when yehs come home half dead, an' it's like we'll all get a poundin'." She began to weep. The babe threw back his head and roared at his prospects. "Ah, what deh hell!" cried Jimmie. "Shut up er I'll smack yer mout'. See?" As his sister continued her lamentations, he suddenly swore and struck her. The little girl reeled and, recovering herself, burst into tears and quaveringly cursed him. As she slowly retreated her brother advanced dealing her cuffs. The father heard and turned about. "Stop that, Jim, d'yeh hear? Leave yer sister alone on the street. It's like I can never beat any sense into yer damned wooden head." The urchin raised his voice in defiance to his parent and continued his attacks. The babe bawled tremendously, protesting with great violence. During his sister's hasty manoeuvres, he was dragged by the arm. Finally the procession plunged into one of the gruesome doorways. They crawled up dark stairways and along cold, gloomy halls. At last the father pushed open a door and they entered a lighted room in which a large woman was rampant. She stopped in a career from a seething stove to a pan-covered table. As the father and children filed in she peered at them. "Eh, what? Been fightin' agin, by Gawd!" She threw herself upon Jimmie. The urchin tried to dart behind the others and in the scuffle the babe, Tommie, was knocked down. He protested with his usual vehemence, because they had bruised his tender shins against a table leg. The mother's massive shoulders heaved with anger. Grasping the urchin by the neck and shoulder she shook him until he rattled. She dragged him to an unholy sink, and, soaking a rag in water, began to scrub his lacerated face with it. Jimmie screamed in pain and tried to twist his shoulders out of the clasp of the huge arms. The babe sat on the floor watching the scene, his face in contortions like that of a woman at a tragedy. The father, with a newly-ladened pipe in his mouth, crouched on a backless chair near the stove. Jimmie's cries annoyed him. He turned about and bellowed at his wife: "Let the damned kid alone for a minute, will yeh, Mary? Yer allus poundin' 'im. When I come nights I can't git no rest 'cause yer allus poundin' a kid. Let up, d'yeh hear? Don't be allus poundin' a kid." The woman's operations on the urchin instantly increased in violence. At last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and weeping. The wife put her immense hands on her hips and with a chieftain-like stride approached her husband. "Ho," she said, with a great grunt of contempt. "An' what in the devil are you stickin' your nose for?" The babe crawled under the table and, turning, peered out cautiously. The ragged girl retreated and the urchin in the corner drew his legs carefully beneath him. The man puffed his pipe calmly and put his great mudded boots on the back part of the stove. "Go teh hell," he murmured, tranquilly. The woman screamed and shook her fists before her husband's eyes. The rough yellow of her face and neck flared suddenly crimson. She began to howl. He puffed imperturbably at his pipe for a time, but finally arose and began to look out at the window into the darkening chaos of back yards. "You've been drinkin', Mary," he said. "You'd better let up on the bot', ol' woman, or you'll git done." "You're a liar. I ain't had a drop," she roared in reply. They had a lurid altercation, in which they damned each other's souls with frequence. The babe was staring out from under the table, his small face working in his excitement. The ragged girl went stealthily over to the corner where the urchin lay. "Are yehs hurted much, Jimmie?" she whispered timidly. "Not a damn bit! See?" growled the little boy. "Will I wash deh blood?" "Naw!" "Will I--" "When I catch dat Riley kid I'll break 'is face! Dat's right! See?" He turned his face to the wall as if resolved to grimly bide his time. In the quarrel between husband and wife, the woman was victor. The man grabbed his hat and rushed from the room, apparently determined upon a vengeful drunk. She followed to the door and thundered at him as he made his way down stairs. She returned and stirred up the room until her children were bobbing about like bubbles. "Git outa deh way," she persistently bawled, waving feet with their dishevelled shoes near the heads of her children. She shrouded herself, puffing and snorting, in a cloud of steam at the stove, and eventually extracted a frying-pan full of potatoes that hissed. She flourished it. "Come teh yer suppers, now," she cried with sudden exasperation. "Hurry up, now, er I'll help yeh!" The children scrambled hastily. With prodigious clatter they arranged themselves at table. The babe sat with his feet dangling high from a precarious infant chair and gorged his small stomach. Jimmie forced, with feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces between his wounded lips. Maggie, with side glances of fear of interruption, ate like a small pursued tigress. The mother sat blinking at them. She delivered reproaches, swallowed potatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle. After a time her mood changed and she wept as she carried little Tommie into another room and laid him to sleep with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red and green grandeur. Then she came and moaned by the stove. She rocked to and fro upon a chair, shedding tears and crooning miserably to the two children about their "poor mother" and "yer fader, damn 'is soul." The little girl plodded between the table and the chair with a dish-pan on it. She tottered on her small legs beneath burdens of dishes. Jimmie sat nursing his various wounds. He cast furtive glances at his mother. His practised eye perceived her gradually emerge from a muddled mist of sentiment until her brain burned in drunken heat. He sat breathless. Maggie broke a plate. The mother started to her feet as if propelled. "Good Gawd," she howled. Her eyes glittered on her child with sudden hatred. The fervent red of her face turned almost to purple. The little boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in an earthquake. He floundered about in darkness until he found the stairs. He stumbled, panic-stricken, to the next floor. An old woman opened a door. A light behind her threw a flare on the urchin's quivering face. "Eh, Gawd, child, what is it dis time? Is yer fader beatin' yer mudder, or yer mudder beatin' yer fader?" ----------CHAPTER 3--------- Jimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall. Above the muffled roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at night, the thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled with the sound of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the rattling of wheels over cobbles, they heard the screams of the child and the roars of the mother die away to a feeble moaning and a subdued bass muttering. The old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at will, an expression of great virtue. She possessed a small music-box capable of one tune, and a collection of "God bless yehs" pitched in assorted keys of fervency. Each day she took a position upon the stones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under her and crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. She received daily a small sum in pennies. It was contributed, for the most part, by persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity. Once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the gnarled woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity beneath her cloak. When she was arrested she had cursed the lady into a partial swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had almost kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman whose conduct upon that occasion she referred to when she said: "The police, damn 'em." "Eh, Jimmie, it's cursed shame," she said. "Go, now, like a dear an' buy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs can sleep here." Jimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed. He passed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar. Straining up on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high as his arms would let him. He saw two hands thrust down and take them. Directly the same hands let down the filled pail and he left. In front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure. It was his father, swaying about on uncertain legs. "Give me deh can. See?" said the man, threateningly. "Ah, come off! I got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be dirt teh swipe it. See?" cried Jimmie. The father wrenched the pail from the urchin. He grasped it in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. He glued his lips to the under edge and tilted his head. His hairy throat swelled until it seemed to grow near his chin. There was a tremendous gulping movement and the beer was gone. The man caught his breath and laughed. He hit his son on the head with the empty pail. As it rolled clanging into the street, Jimmie began to scream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins. "Look at deh dirt what yeh done me," he yelled. "Deh ol' woman 'ill be raisin' hell." He retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not pursue. He staggered toward the door. "I'll club hell outa yeh when I ketch yeh," he shouted, and disappeared. During the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking whiskies and declaring to all comers, confidentially: "My home reg'lar livin' hell! Damndes' place! Reg'lar hell! Why do I come an' drin' whisk' here thish way? 'Cause home reg'lar livin' hell!" Jimmie waited a long time in the street and then crept warily up through the building. He passed with great caution the door of the gnarled woman, and finally stopped outside his home and listened. He could hear his mother moving heavily about among the furniture of the room. She was chanting in a mournful voice, occasionally interjecting bursts of volcanic wrath at the father, who, Jimmie judged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner. "Why deh blazes don' chere try teh keep Jim from fightin'? I'll break her jaw," she suddenly bellowed. The man mumbled with drunken indifference. "Ah, wha' deh hell. W'a's odds? Wha' makes kick?" "Because he tears 'is clothes, yeh damn fool," cried the woman in supreme wrath. The husband seemed to become aroused. "Go teh hell," he thundered fiercely in reply. There was a crash against the door and something broke into clattering fragments. Jimmie partially suppressed a howl and darted down the stairway. Below he paused and listened. He heard howls and curses, groans and shrieks, confusingly in chorus as if a battle were raging. With all was the crash of splintering furniture. The eyes of the urchin glared in fear that one of them would discover him. Curious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments passed to and fro. "Ol' Johnson's raisin' hell agin." Jimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants of the tenement had all yawned and shut their doors. Then he crawled upstairs with the caution of an invader of a panther den. Sounds of labored breathing came through the broken door-panels. He pushed the door open and entered, quaking. A glow from the fire threw red hues over the bare floor, the cracked and soiled plastering, and the overturned and broken furniture. In the middle of the floor lay his mother asleep. In one corner of the room his father's limp body hung across the seat of a chair. The urchin stole forward. He began to shiver in dread of awakening his parents. His mother's great chest was heaving painfully. Jimmie paused and looked down at her. Her face was inflamed and swollen from drinking. Her yellow brows shaded eyelids that had brown blue. Her tangled hair tossed in waves over her forehead. Her mouth was set in the same lines of vindictive hatred that it had, perhaps, borne during the fight. Her bare, red arms were thrown out above her head in positions of exhaustion, something, mayhap, like those of a sated villain. The urchin bended over his mother. He was fearful lest she should open her eyes, and the dread within him was so strong, that he could not forbear to stare, but hung as if fascinated over the woman's grim face. Suddenly her eyes opened. The urchin found himself looking straight into that expression, which, it would seem, had the power to change his blood to salt. He howled piercingly and fell backward. The woman floundered for a moment, tossed her arms about her head as if in combat, and again began to snore. Jimmie crawled back in the shadows and waited. A noise in the next room had followed his cry at the discovery that his mother was awake. He grovelled in the gloom, the eyes from out his drawn face riveted upon the intervening door. He heard it creak, and then the sound of a small voice came to him. "Jimmie! Jimmie! Are yehs dere?" it whispered. The urchin started. The thin, white face of his sister looked at him from the door-way of the other room. She crept to him across the floor. The father had not moved, but lay in the same death-like sleep. The mother writhed in uneasy slumber, her chest wheezing as if she were in the agonies of strangulation. Out at the window a florid moon was peering over dark roofs, and in the distance the waters of a river glimmered pallidly. The small frame of the ragged girl was quivering. Her features were haggard from weeping, and her eyes gleamed from fear. She grasped the urchin's arm in her little trembling hands and they huddled in a corner. The eyes of both were drawn, by some force, to stare at the woman's face, for they thought she need only to awake and all fiends would come from below. They crouched until the ghost-mists of dawn appeared at the window, drawing close to the panes, and looking in at the prostrate, heaving body of the mother.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 6 based on the provided context.

chapter 4|chapter 5|chapter 6|chapter 7

Pete continues to tell Jimmie about his triumphant fights. Pete notices that Maggie is paying close attention and his descriptions become more boastful. He says to Maggie: "Say, Mag, I'm stuck on your shape. It's outa sight." As he walks back and forth in the small apartment Maggie begins to think that he is truly a great person and very much out of place in her family's apartment. Pete details an experience in which a nicely dressed man bumped into him on the street and called him an "insolen' ruffin" to which Pete responded "Go teh hell an' git off deh eart'. " This upset the fellow who insisted on giving Pete a lecture so Pete struck him to the ground and went about his business. After Pete and Jimmie leave to go to the boxing match Maggie comes to the conclusion that Pete is a gentleman who knows the ways of the better classes. She knows only a world full of hardship and struggle and Pete, she believes, is a man who can stand against it. She imagines that Pete's job at the bar must bring him into contact with interesting people and lots of pretty girls who admire him because he has money to spend. She believes that Pete will return for another visit so she spends some of her precious earnings on a flowered lambrequin. She hangs it on the mantle above the stove and deludes herself that it adds an element of refinement to the apartment. The following Sunday Pete fails to appear and Maggie is ashamed at her feeble attempt to beautify the apartment. A few days later, however, Pete does appear - in a new suit. "Say, Mag," he prompts, "put on her bes' duds Friday night an' I'll take yehs teh deh show. See?" He departs immediately. Maggie spends the next three days at the collar factory dreaming of Pete's life and the various women who must vie for his attention. She imagines that there must be one woman among the many who Pete favors. Maggie imagines Pete's favorite girl to be charming but with a contemptible disposition. She also imagines the place he intends to take her. She is very afraid that she will seem small and ugly, "mouse-like" in comparison to what she is sure will be glamorous surroundings. When Maggie arrives home from work Friday evening she finds that her mother has been on a whiskey binge and has broken all the furniture and torn down the lambrequin before collapsing on the floor. Mary wakes up long enough to curse at Maggie. Later that evening Pete arrives to find Maggie dressed in a worn black dress and waiting for him in the cold room among the rubble of the apartment. Mary, still lying on the floor swears at her daughter. Maggie and Pete depart.

----------CHAPTER 4--------- The babe, Tommie, died. He went away in a white, insignificant coffin, his small waxen hand clutching a flower that the girl, Maggie, had stolen from an Italian. She and Jimmie lived. The inexperienced fibres of the boy's eyes were hardened at an early age. He became a young man of leather. He lived some red years without laboring. During that time his sneer became chronic. He studied human nature in the gutter, and found it no worse than he thought he had reason to believe it. He never conceived a respect for the world, because he had begun with no idols that it had smashed. He clad his soul in armor by means of happening hilariously in at a mission church where a man composed his sermons of "yous." While they got warm at the stove, he told his hearers just where he calculated they stood with the Lord. Many of the sinners were impatient over the pictured depths of their degradation. They were waiting for soup-tickets. A reader of words of wind-demons might have been able to see the portions of a dialogue pass to and fro between the exhorter and his hearers. "You are damned," said the preacher. And the reader of sounds might have seen the reply go forth from the ragged people: "Where's our soup?" Jimmie and a companion sat in a rear seat and commented upon the things that didn't concern them, with all the freedom of English gentlemen. When they grew thirsty and went out their minds confused the speaker with Christ. Momentarily, Jimmie was sullen with thoughts of a hopeless altitude where grew fruit. His companion said that if he should ever meet God he would ask for a million dollars and a bottle of beer. Jimmie's occupation for a long time was to stand on streetcorners and watch the world go by, dreaming blood-red dreams at the passing of pretty women. He menaced mankind at the intersections of streets. On the corners he was in life and of life. The world was going on and he was there to perceive it. He maintained a belligerent attitude toward all well-dressed men. To him fine raiment was allied to weakness, and all good coats covered faint hearts. He and his order were kings, to a certain extent, over the men of untarnished clothes, because these latter dreaded, perhaps, to be either killed or laughed at. Above all things he despised obvious Christians and ciphers with the chrysanthemums of aristocracy in their button-holes. He considered himself above both of these classes. He was afraid of neither the devil nor the leader of society. When he had a dollar in his pocket his satisfaction with existence was the greatest thing in the world. So, eventually, he felt obliged to work. His father died and his mother's years were divided up into periods of thirty days. He became a truck driver. He was given the charge of a painstaking pair of horses and a large rattling truck. He invaded the turmoil and tumble of the down-town streets and learned to breathe maledictory defiance at the police who occasionally used to climb up, drag him from his perch and beat him. In the lower part of the city he daily involved himself in hideous tangles. If he and his team chanced to be in the rear he preserved a demeanor of serenity, crossing his legs and bursting forth into yells when foot passengers took dangerous dives beneath the noses of his champing horses. He smoked his pipe calmly for he knew that his pay was marching on. If in the front and the key-truck of chaos, he entered terrifically into the quarrel that was raging to and fro among the drivers on their high seats, and sometimes roared oaths and violently got himself arrested. After a time his sneer grew so that it turned its glare upon all things. He became so sharp that he believed in nothing. To him the police were always actuated by malignant impulses and the rest of the world was composed, for the most part, of despicable creatures who were all trying to take advantage of him and with whom, in defense, he was obliged to quarrel on all possible occasions. He himself occupied a down-trodden position that had a private but distinct element of grandeur in its isolation. The most complete cases of aggravated idiocy were, to his mind, rampant upon the front platforms of all the street cars. At first his tongue strove with these beings, but he eventually was superior. He became immured like an African cow. In him grew a majestic contempt for those strings of street cars that followed him like intent bugs. He fell into the habit, when starting on a long journey, of fixing his eye on a high and distant object, commanding his horses to begin, and then going into a sort of a trance of observation. Multitudes of drivers might howl in his rear, and passengers might load him with opprobrium, he would not awaken until some blue policeman turned red and began to frenziedly tear bridles and beat the soft noses of the responsible horses. When he paused to contemplate the attitude of the police toward himself and his fellows, he believed that they were the only men in the city who had no rights. When driving about, he felt that he was held liable by the police for anything that might occur in the streets, and was the common prey of all energetic officials. In revenge, he resolved never to move out of the way of anything, until formidable circumstances, or a much larger man than himself forced him to it. Foot-passengers were mere pestering flies with an insane disregard for their legs and his convenience. He could not conceive their maniacal desires to cross the streets. Their madness smote him with eternal amazement. He was continually storming at them from his throne. He sat aloft and denounced their frantic leaps, plunges, dives and straddles. When they would thrust at, or parry, the noses of his champing horses, making them swing their heads and move their feet, disturbing a solid dreamy repose, he swore at the men as fools, for he himself could perceive that Providence had caused it clearly to be written, that he and his team had the unalienable right to stand in the proper path of the sun chariot, and if they so minded, obstruct its mission or take a wheel off. And, perhaps, if the god-driver had an ungovernable desire to step down, put up his flame-colored fists and manfully dispute the right of way, he would have probably been immediately opposed by a scowling mortal with two sets of very hard knuckles. It is possible, perhaps, that this young man would have derided, in an axle-wide alley, the approach of a flying ferry boat. Yet he achieved a respect for a fire engine. As one charged toward his truck, he would drive fearfully upon a sidewalk, threatening untold people with annihilation. When an engine would strike a mass of blocked trucks, splitting it into fragments, as a blow annihilates a cake of ice, Jimmie's team could usually be observed high and safe, with whole wheels, on the sidewalk. The fearful coming of the engine could break up the most intricate muddle of heavy vehicles at which the police had been swearing for the half of an hour. A fire engine was enshrined in his heart as an appalling thing that he loved with a distant dog-like devotion. They had been known to overturn street-cars. Those leaping horses, striking sparks from the cobbles in their forward lunge, were creatures to be ineffably admired. The clang of the gong pierced his breast like a noise of remembered war. When Jimmie was a little boy, he began to be arrested. Before he reached a great age, he had a fair record. He developed too great a tendency to climb down from his truck and fight with other drivers. He had been in quite a number of miscellaneous fights, and in some general barroom rows that had become known to the police. Once he had been arrested for assaulting a Chinaman. Two women in different parts of the city, and entirely unknown to each other, caused him considerable annoyance by breaking forth, simultaneously, at fateful intervals, into wailings about marriage and support and infants. Nevertheless, he had, on a certain star-lit evening, said wonderingly and quite reverently: "Deh moon looks like hell, don't it?" ----------CHAPTER 5--------- The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle. She grew to be a most rare and wonderful production of a tenement district, a pretty girl. None of the dirt of Rum Alley seemed to be in her veins. The philosophers up-stairs, down-stairs and on the same floor, puzzled over it. When a child, playing and fighting with gamins in the street, dirt disguised her. Attired in tatters and grime, she went unseen. There came a time, however, when the young men of the vicinity said: "Dat Johnson goil is a puty good looker." About this period her brother remarked to her: "Mag, I'll tell yeh dis! See? Yeh've edder got teh go teh hell or go teh work!" Whereupon she went to work, having the feminine aversion of going to hell. By a chance, she got a position in an establishment where they made collars and cuffs. She received a stool and a machine in a room where sat twenty girls of various shades of yellow discontent. She perched on the stool and treadled at her machine all day, turning out collars, the name of whose brand could be noted for its irrelevancy to anything in connection with collars. At night she returned home to her mother. Jimmie grew large enough to take the vague position of head of the family. As incumbent of that office, he stumbled up-stairs late at night, as his father had done before him. He reeled about the room, swearing at his relations, or went to sleep on the floor. The mother had gradually arisen to that degree of fame that she could bandy words with her acquaintances among the police-justices. Court-officials called her by her first name. When she appeared they pursued a course which had been theirs for months. They invariably grinned and cried out: "Hello, Mary, you here again?" Her grey head wagged in many a court. She always besieged the bench with voluble excuses, explanations, apologies and prayers. Her flaming face and rolling eyes were a sort of familiar sight on the island. She measured time by means of sprees, and was eternally swollen and dishevelled. One day the young man, Pete, who as a lad had smitten the Devil's Row urchin in the back of the head and put to flight the antagonists of his friend, Jimmie, strutted upon the scene. He met Jimmie one day on the street, promised to take him to a boxing match in Williamsburg, and called for him in the evening. Maggie observed Pete. He sat on a table in the Johnson home and dangled his checked legs with an enticing nonchalance. His hair was curled down over his forehead in an oiled bang. His rather pugged nose seemed to revolt from contact with a bristling moustache of short, wire-like hairs. His blue double-breasted coat, edged with black braid, buttoned close to a red puff tie, and his patent-leather shoes looked like murder-fitted weapons. His mannerisms stamped him as a man who had a correct sense of his personal superiority. There was valor and contempt for circumstances in the glance of his eye. He waved his hands like a man of the world, who dismisses religion and philosophy, and says "Fudge." He had certainly seen everything and with each curl of his lip, he declared that it amounted to nothing. Maggie thought he must be a very elegant and graceful bartender. He was telling tales to Jimmie. Maggie watched him furtively, with half-closed eyes, lit with a vague interest. "Hully gee! Dey makes me tired," he said. "Mos' e'ry day some farmer comes in an' tries teh run deh shop. See? But dey gits t'rowed right out! I jolt dem right out in deh street before dey knows where dey is! See?" "Sure," said Jimmie. "Dere was a mug come in deh place deh odder day wid an idear he wus goin' teh own deh place! Hully gee, he wus goin' teh own deh place! I see he had a still on an' I didn' wanna giv 'im no stuff, so I says: 'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble,' I says like dat! See? 'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble'; like dat. 'Git deh hell outa here,' I says. See?" Jimmie nodded understandingly. Over his features played an eager desire to state the amount of his valor in a similar crisis, but the narrator proceeded. "Well, deh blokie he says: 'T'hell wid it! I ain' lookin' for no scrap,' he says (See?), 'but' he says, 'I'm 'spectable cit'zen an' I wanna drink an' purtydamnsoon, too.' See? 'Deh hell,' I says. Like dat! 'Deh hell,' I says. See? 'Don' make no trouble,' I says. Like dat. 'Don' make no trouble.' See? Den deh mug he squared off an' said he was fine as silk wid his dukes (See?) an' he wanned a drink damnquick. Dat's what he said. See?" "Sure," repeated Jimmie. Pete continued. "Say, I jes' jumped deh bar an' deh way I plunked dat blokie was great. See? Dat's right! In deh jaw! See? Hully gee, he t'rowed a spittoon true deh front windee. Say, I taut I'd drop dead. But deh boss, he comes in after an' he says, 'Pete, yehs done jes' right! Yeh've gota keep order an' it's all right.' See? 'It's all right,' he says. Dat's what he said." The two held a technical discussion. "Dat bloke was a dandy," said Pete, in conclusion, "but he hadn' oughta made no trouble. Dat's what I says teh dem: 'Don' come in here an' make no trouble,' I says, like dat. 'Don' make no trouble.' See?" As Jimmie and his friend exchanged tales descriptive of their prowess, Maggie leaned back in the shadow. Her eyes dwelt wonderingly and rather wistfully upon Pete's face. The broken furniture, grimey walls, and general disorder and dirt of her home of a sudden appeared before her and began to take a potential aspect. Pete's aristocratic person looked as if it might soil. She looked keenly at him, occasionally, wondering if he was feeling contempt. But Pete seemed to be enveloped in reminiscence. "Hully gee," said he, "dose mugs can't phase me. Dey knows I kin wipe up deh street wid any t'ree of dem." When he said, "Ah, what deh hell," his voice was burdened with disdain for the inevitable and contempt for anything that fate might compel him to endure. Maggie perceived that here was the beau ideal of a man. Her dim thoughts were often searching for far away lands where, as God says, the little hills sing together in the morning. Under the trees of her dream-gardens there had always walked a lover. ----------CHAPTER 6--------- Pete took note of Maggie. "Say, Mag, I'm stuck on yer shape. It's outa sight," he said, parenthetically, with an affable grin. As he became aware that she was listening closely, he grew still more eloquent in his descriptions of various happenings in his career. It appeared that he was invincible in fights. "Why," he said, referring to a man with whom he had had a misunderstanding, "dat mug scrapped like a damn dago. Dat's right. He was dead easy. See? He tau't he was a scrapper. But he foun' out diff'ent! Hully gee." He walked to and fro in the small room, which seemed then to grow even smaller and unfit to hold his dignity, the attribute of a supreme warrior. That swing of the shoulders that had frozen the timid when he was but a lad had increased with his growth and education at the ratio of ten to one. It, combined with the sneer upon his mouth, told mankind that there was nothing in space which could appall him. Maggie marvelled at him and surrounded him with greatness. She vaguely tried to calculate the altitude of the pinnacle from which he must have looked down upon her. "I met a chump deh odder day way up in deh city," he said. "I was goin' teh see a frien' of mine. When I was a-crossin' deh street deh chump runned plump inteh me, an' den he turns aroun' an' says, 'Yer insolen' ruffin,' he says, like dat. 'Oh, gee,' I says, 'oh, gee, go teh hell and git off deh eart',' I says, like dat. See? 'Go teh hell an' git off deh eart',' like dat. Den deh blokie he got wild. He says I was a contempt'ble scoun'el, er somet'ing like dat, an' he says I was doom' teh everlastin' pe'dition an' all like dat. 'Gee,' I says, 'gee! Deh hell I am,' I says. 'Deh hell I am,' like dat. An' den I slugged 'im. See?" With Jimmie in his company, Pete departed in a sort of a blaze of glory from the Johnson home. Maggie, leaning from the window, watched him as he walked down the street. Here was a formidable man who disdained the strength of a world full of fists. Here was one who had contempt for brass-clothed power; one whose knuckles could defiantly ring against the granite of law. He was a knight. The two men went from under the glimmering street-lamp and passed into shadows. Turning, Maggie contemplated the dark, dust-stained walls, and the scant and crude furniture of her home. A clock, in a splintered and battered oblong box of varnished wood, she suddenly regarded as an abomination. She noted that it ticked raspingly. The almost vanished flowers in the carpet-pattern, she conceived to be newly hideous. Some faint attempts she had made with blue ribbon, to freshen the appearance of a dingy curtain, she now saw to be piteous. She wondered what Pete dined on. She reflected upon the collar and cuff factory. It began to appear to her mind as a dreary place of endless grinding. Pete's elegant occupation brought him, no doubt, into contact with people who had money and manners. It was probable that he had a large acquaintance of pretty girls. He must have great sums of money to spend. To her the earth was composed of hardships and insults. She felt instant admiration for a man who openly defied it. She thought that if the grim angel of death should clutch his heart, Pete would shrug his shoulders and say: "Oh, ev'ryt'ing goes." She anticipated that he would come again shortly. She spent some of her week's pay in the purchase of flowered cretonne for a lambrequin. She made it with infinite care and hung it to the slightly-careening mantel, over the stove, in the kitchen. She studied it with painful anxiety from different points in the room. She wanted it to look well on Sunday night when, perhaps, Jimmie's friend would come. On Sunday night, however, Pete did not appear. Afterward the girl looked at it with a sense of humiliation. She was now convinced that Pete was superior to admiration for lambrequins. A few evenings later Pete entered with fascinating innovations in his apparel. As she had seen him twice and he had different suits on each time, Maggie had a dim impression that his wardrobe was prodigiously extensive. "Say, Mag," he said, "put on yer bes' duds Friday night an' I'll take yehs teh deh show. See?" He spent a few moments in flourishing his clothes and then vanished, without having glanced at the lambrequin. Over the eternal collars and cuffs in the factory Maggie spent the most of three days in making imaginary sketches of Pete and his daily environment. She imagined some half dozen women in love with him and thought he must lean dangerously toward an indefinite one, whom she pictured with great charms of person, but with an altogether contemptible disposition. She thought he must live in a blare of pleasure. He had friends, and people who were afraid of him. She saw the golden glitter of the place where Pete was to take her. An entertainment of many hues and many melodies where she was afraid she might appear small and mouse-colored. Her mother drank whiskey all Friday morning. With lurid face and tossing hair she cursed and destroyed furniture all Friday afternoon. When Maggie came home at half-past six her mother lay asleep amidst the wreck of chairs and a table. Fragments of various household utensils were scattered about the floor. She had vented some phase of drunken fury upon the lambrequin. It lay in a bedraggled heap in the corner. "Hah," she snorted, sitting up suddenly, "where deh hell yeh been? Why deh hell don' yeh come home earlier? Been loafin' 'round deh streets. Yer gettin' teh be a reg'lar devil." When Pete arrived Maggie, in a worn black dress, was waiting for him in the midst of a floor strewn with wreckage. The curtain at the window had been pulled by a heavy hand and hung by one tack, dangling to and fro in the draft through the cracks at the sash. The knots of blue ribbons appeared like violated flowers. The fire in the stove had gone out. The displaced lids and open doors showed heaps of sullen grey ashes. The remnants of a meal, ghastly, like dead flesh, lay in a corner. Maggie's red mother, stretched on the floor, blasphemed and gave her daughter a bad name. ----------CHAPTER 7--------- An orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men on an elevated stage near the centre of a great green-hued hall, played a popular waltz. The place was crowded with people grouped about little tables. A battalion of waiters slid among the throng, carrying trays of beer glasses and making change from the inexhaustible vaults of their trousers pockets. Little boys, in the costumes of French chefs, paraded up and down the irregular aisles vending fancy cakes. There was a low rumble of conversation and a subdued clinking of glasses. Clouds of tobacco smoke rolled and wavered high in air about the dull gilt of the chandeliers. The vast crowd had an air throughout of having just quitted labor. Men with calloused hands and attired in garments that showed the wear of an endless trudge for a living, smoked their pipes contentedly and spent five, ten, or perhaps fifteen cents for beer. There was a mere sprinkling of kid-gloved men who smoked cigars purchased elsewhere. The great body of the crowd was composed of people who showed that all day they strove with their hands. Quiet Germans, with maybe their wives and two or three children, sat listening to the music, with the expressions of happy cows. An occasional party of sailors from a war-ship, their faces pictures of sturdy health, spent the earlier hours of the evening at the small round tables. Very infrequent tipsy men, swollen with the value of their opinions, engaged their companions in earnest and confidential conversation. In the balcony, and here and there below, shone the impassive faces of women. The nationalities of the Bowery beamed upon the stage from all directions. Pete aggressively walked up a side aisle and took seats with Maggie at a table beneath the balcony. "Two beehs!" Leaning back he regarded with eyes of superiority the scene before them. This attitude affected Maggie strongly. A man who could regard such a sight with indifference must be accustomed to very great things. It was obvious that Pete had been to this place many times before, and was very familiar with it. A knowledge of this fact made Maggie feel little and new. He was extremely gracious and attentive. He displayed the consideration of a cultured gentleman who knew what was due. "Say, what deh hell? Bring deh lady a big glass! What deh hell use is dat pony?" "Don't be fresh, now," said the waiter, with some warmth, as he departed. "Ah, git off deh eart'," said Pete, after the other's retreating form. Maggie perceived that Pete brought forth all his elegance and all his knowledge of high-class customs for her benefit. Her heart warmed as she reflected upon his condescension. The orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men gave vent to a few bars of anticipatory music and a girl, in a pink dress with short skirts, galloped upon the stage. She smiled upon the throng as if in acknowledgment of a warm welcome, and began to walk to and fro, making profuse gesticulations and singing, in brazen soprano tones, a song, the words of which were inaudible. When she broke into the swift rattling measures of a chorus some half-tipsy men near the stage joined in the rollicking refrain and glasses were pounded rhythmically upon the tables. People leaned forward to watch her and to try to catch the words of the song. When she vanished there were long rollings of applause. Obedient to more anticipatory bars, she reappeared amidst the half-suppressed cheering of the tipsy men. The orchestra plunged into dance music and the laces of the dancer fluttered and flew in the glare of gas jets. She divulged the fact that she was attired in some half dozen skirts. It was patent that any one of them would have proved adequate for the purpose for which skirts are intended. An occasional man bent forward, intent upon the pink stockings. Maggie wondered at the splendor of the costume and lost herself in calculations of the cost of the silks and laces. The dancer's smile of stereotyped enthusiasm was turned for ten minutes upon the faces of her audience. In the finale she fell into some of those grotesque attitudes which were at the time popular among the dancers in the theatres up-town, giving to the Bowery public the phantasies of the aristocratic theatre-going public, at reduced rates. "Say, Pete," said Maggie, leaning forward, "dis is great." "Sure," said Pete, with proper complacence. A ventriloquist followed the dancer. He held two fantastic dolls on his knees. He made them sing mournful ditties and say funny things about geography and Ireland. "Do dose little men talk?" asked Maggie. "Naw," said Pete, "it's some damn fake. See?" Two girls, on the bills as sisters, came forth and sang a duet that is heard occasionally at concerts given under church auspices. They supplemented it with a dance which of course can never be seen at concerts given under church auspices. After the duettists had retired, a woman of debatable age sang a negro melody. The chorus necessitated some grotesque waddlings supposed to be an imitation of a plantation darkey, under the influence, probably, of music and the moon. The audience was just enthusiastic enough over it to have her return and sing a sorrowful lay, whose lines told of a mother's love and a sweetheart who waited and a young man who was lost at sea under the most harrowing circumstances. From the faces of a score or so in the crowd, the self-contained look faded. Many heads were bent forward with eagerness and sympathy. As the last distressing sentiment of the piece was brought forth, it was greeted by that kind of applause which rings as sincere. As a final effort, the singer rendered some verses which described a vision of Britain being annihilated by America, and Ireland bursting her bonds. A carefully prepared crisis was reached in the last line of the last verse, where the singer threw out her arms and cried, "The star-spangled banner." Instantly a great cheer swelled from the throats of the assemblage of the masses. There was a heavy rumble of booted feet thumping the floor. Eyes gleamed with sudden fire, and calloused hands waved frantically in the air. After a few moments' rest, the orchestra played crashingly, and a small fat man burst out upon the stage. He began to roar a song and stamp back and forth before the foot-lights, wildly waving a glossy silk hat and throwing leers, or smiles, broadcast. He made his face into fantastic grimaces until he looked like a pictured devil on a Japanese kite. The crowd laughed gleefully. His short, fat legs were never still a moment. He shouted and roared and bobbed his shock of red wig until the audience broke out in excited applause. Pete did not pay much attention to the progress of events upon the stage. He was drinking beer and watching Maggie. Her cheeks were blushing with excitement and her eyes were glistening. She drew deep breaths of pleasure. No thoughts of the atmosphere of the collar and cuff factory came to her. When the orchestra crashed finally, they jostled their way to the sidewalk with the crowd. Pete took Maggie's arm and pushed a way for her, offering to fight with a man or two. They reached Maggie's home at a late hour and stood for a moment in front of the gruesome doorway. "Say, Mag," said Pete, "give us a kiss for takin' yeh teh deh show, will yer?" Maggie laughed, as if startled, and drew away from him. "Naw, Pete," she said, "dat wasn't in it." "Ah, what deh hell?" urged Pete. The girl retreated nervously. "Ah, what deh hell?" repeated he. Maggie darted into the hall, and up the stairs. She turned and smiled at him, then disappeared. Pete walked slowly down the street. He had something of an astonished expression upon his features. He paused under a lamp-post and breathed a low breath of surprise. "Gawd," he said, "I wonner if I've been played fer a duffer."

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 9, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 8|chapter 9|chapter 10

This chapter opens with a group of street urchins who witness Mary's expulsion from a bar. She stumbles down the steps, cursing the owner of the establishment and begins her walk home. Along the way the urchins taunt her and she pauses from time to time to hurl maledictions at them. Finally she reaches the tenement house and makes her way upstairs. She notices that several of the doors in the hall are open and curious faces are watching her noisy arrival but when she steps toward one of the doors it closes in her face. Despite her cursing and kicking the owner of the door refuses to open though the other doors in the hallway creak open so the residents can watch her fuming effort. She becomes the subject of catcalls and several people throw things at her. Jimmie arrives home to find his mother thus engaged. " Shet yer face, an' come home, yeh damned old fool," her yells at her. Much to the delight of the other residents Mary lands a powerful blow on her son's backside and the two begin to struggle. Eventually Jimmie is able to throw his mother into their apartment. A great struggle ensues and Maggie flees to the other room. When she returns Jimmie is covered in bloody bruises, her mother is weeping and cursing on the floor and the apartment is a shambles. Pete arrives and seeing the mess exclaims: "Oh, Gawd." Then he whispers in Maggie's ear: "Ah, what deh hell Mag? Come ahn and we'll have a hell of a time. " This arouses Mary who proclaims that Maggie has "gone teh deh devil" and tells her she's a disgrace to the family. Maggie begins to tremble and Pete assures her that it will blow over and she should come with him and have some fun. Jimmie is concerned only with his wounds and pays no heed when Mary tells Maggie "Go teh hell an' good riddance" and Maggie leaves.

----------CHAPTER 8--------- As thoughts of Pete came to Maggie's mind, she began to have an intense dislike for all of her dresses. "What deh hell ails yeh? What makes yeh be allus fixin' and fussin'? Good Gawd," her mother would frequently roar at her. She began to note, with more interest, the well-dressed women she met on the avenues. She envied elegance and soft palms. She craved those adornments of person which she saw every day on the street, conceiving them to be allies of vast importance to women. Studying faces, she thought many of the women and girls she chanced to meet, smiled with serenity as though forever cherished and watched over by those they loved. The air in the collar and cuff establishment strangled her. She knew she was gradually and surely shrivelling in the hot, stuffy room. The begrimed windows rattled incessantly from the passing of elevated trains. The place was filled with a whirl of noises and odors. She wondered as she regarded some of the grizzled women in the room, mere mechanical contrivances sewing seams and grinding out, with heads bended over their work, tales of imagined or real girlhood happiness, past drunks, the baby at home, and unpaid wages. She speculated how long her youth would endure. She began to see the bloom upon her cheeks as valuable. She imagined herself, in an exasperating future, as a scrawny woman with an eternal grievance. Too, she thought Pete to be a very fastidious person concerning the appearance of women. She felt she would love to see somebody entangle their fingers in the oily beard of the fat foreigner who owned the establishment. He was a detestable creature. He wore white socks with low shoes. He sat all day delivering orations, in the depths of a cushioned chair. His pocketbook deprived them of the power to retort. "What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn!" Maggie was anxious for a friend to whom she could talk about Pete. She would have liked to discuss his admirable mannerisms with a reliable mutual friend. At home, she found her mother often drunk and always raving. It seems that the world had treated this woman very badly, and she took a deep revenge upon such portions of it as came within her reach. She broke furniture as if she were at last getting her rights. She swelled with virtuous indignation as she carried the lighter articles of household use, one by one under the shadows of the three gilt balls, where Hebrews chained them with chains of interest. Jimmie came when he was obliged to by circumstances over which he had no control. His well-trained legs brought him staggering home and put him to bed some nights when he would rather have gone elsewhere. Swaggering Pete loomed like a golden sun to Maggie. He took her to a dime museum where rows of meek freaks astonished her. She contemplated their deformities with awe and thought them a sort of chosen tribe. "What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn!" Maggie was anxious for a friend to whom she could talk about Pete. She would have liked to discuss his admirable mannerisms with a reliable mutual friend. At home, she found her mother often drunk and always raving. It seems that the world had treated this woman very badly, and she took a deep revenge upon such portions of it as came within her reach. She broke furniture as if she were at last getting her rights. She swelled with virtuous indignation as she carried the lighter articles of household use, one by one under the shadows of the three gilt balls, where Hebrews chained them with chains of interest. Jimmie came when he was obliged to by circumstances over which he had no control. His well-trained legs brought him staggering home and put him to bed some nights when he would rather have gone elsewhere. Swaggering Pete loomed like a golden sun to Maggie. He took her to a dime museum where rows of meek freaks astonished her. She contemplated their deformities with awe and thought them a sort of chosen tribe. Pete, raking his brains for amusement, discovered the Central Park Menagerie and the Museum of Arts. Sunday afternoons would sometimes find them at these places. Pete did not appear to be particularly interested in what he saw. He stood around looking heavy, while Maggie giggled in glee. Once at the Menagerie he went into a trance of admiration before the spectacle of a very small monkey threatening to thrash a cageful because one of them had pulled his tail and he had not wheeled about quickly enough to discover who did it. Ever after Pete knew that monkey by sight and winked at him, trying to induce hime to fight with other and larger monkeys. At the Museum, Maggie said, "Dis is outa sight." "Oh hell," said Pete, "wait 'till next summer an' I'll take yehs to a picnic." While the girl wandered in the vaulted rooms, Pete occupied himself in returning stony stare for stony stare, the appalling scrutiny of the watch-dogs of the treasures. Occasionally he would remark in loud tones: "Dat jay has got glass eyes," and sentences of the sort. When he tired of this amusement he would go to the mummies and moralize over them. Usually he submitted with silent dignity to all which he had to go through, but, at times, he was goaded into comment. "What deh hell," he demanded once. "Look at all dese little jugs! Hundred jugs in a row! Ten rows in a case an' 'bout a t'ousand cases! What deh blazes use is dem?" Evenings during the week he took her to see plays in which the brain-clutching heroine was rescued from the palatial home of her guardian, who is cruelly after her bonds, by the hero with the beautiful sentiments. The latter spent most of his time out at soak in pale-green snow storms, busy with a nickel-plated revolver, rescuing aged strangers from villains. Maggie lost herself in sympathy with the wanderers swooning in snow storms beneath happy-hued church windows. And a choir within singing "Joy to the World." To Maggie and the rest of the audience this was transcendental realism. Joy always within, and they, like the actor, inevitably without. Viewing it, they hugged themselves in ecstatic pity of their imagined or real condition. The girl thought the arrogance and granite-heartedness of the magnate of the play was very accurately drawn. She echoed the maledictions that the occupants of the gallery showered on this individual when his lines compelled him to expose his extreme selfishness. Shady persons in the audience revolted from the pictured villainy of the drama. With untiring zeal they hissed vice and applauded virtue. Unmistakably bad men evinced an apparently sincere admiration for virtue. The loud gallery was overwhelmingly with the unfortunate and the oppressed. They encouraged the struggling hero with cries, and jeered the villain, hooting and calling attention to his whiskers. When anybody died in the pale-green snow storms, the gallery mourned. They sought out the painted misery and hugged it as akin. In the hero's erratic march from poverty in the first act, to wealth and triumph in the final one, in which he forgives all the enemies that he has left, he was assisted by the gallery, which applauded his generous and noble sentiments and confounded the speeches of his opponents by making irrelevant but very sharp remarks. Those actors who were cursed with villainy parts were confronted at every turn by the gallery. If one of them rendered lines containing the most subtile distinctions between right and wrong, the gallery was immediately aware if the actor meant wickedness, and denounced him accordingly. The last act was a triumph for the hero, poor and of the masses, the representative of the audience, over the villain and the rich man, his pockets stuffed with bonds, his heart packed with tyrannical purposes, imperturbable amid suffering. Maggie always departed with raised spirits from the showing places of the melodrama. She rejoiced at the way in which the poor and virtuous eventually surmounted the wealthy and wicked. The theatre made her think. She wondered if the culture and refinement she had seen imitated, perhaps grotesquely, by the heroine on the stage, could be acquired by a girl who lived in a tenement house and worked in a shirt factory. ----------CHAPTER 9--------- A group of urchins were intent upon the side door of a saloon. Expectancy gleamed from their eyes. They were twisting their fingers in excitement. "Here she comes," yelled one of them suddenly. The group of urchins burst instantly asunder and its individual fragments were spread in a wide, respectable half circle about the point of interest. The saloon door opened with a crash, and the figure of a woman appeared upon the threshold. Her grey hair fell in knotted masses about her shoulders. Her face was crimsoned and wet with perspiration. Her eyes had a rolling glare. "Not a damn cent more of me money will yehs ever get, not a damn cent. I spent me money here fer t'ree years an' now yehs tells me yeh'll sell me no more stuff! T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie Murckre! 'Disturbance'? Disturbance be damned! T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie--" The door received a kick of exasperation from within and the woman lurched heavily out on the sidewalk. The gamins in the half-circle became violently agitated. They began to dance about and hoot and yell and jeer. Wide dirty grins spread over each face. The woman made a furious dash at a particularly outrageous cluster of little boys. They laughed delightedly and scampered off a short distance, calling out over their shoulders to her. She stood tottering on the curb-stone and thundered at them. "Yeh devil's kids," she howled, shaking red fists. The little boys whooped in glee. As she started up the street they fell in behind and marched uproariously. Occasionally she wheeled about and made charges on them. They ran nimbly out of reach and taunted her. In the frame of a gruesome doorway she stood for a moment cursing them. Her hair straggled, giving her crimson features a look of insanity. Her great fists quivered as she shook them madly in the air. The urchins made terrific noises until she turned and disappeared. Then they filed quietly in the way they had come. The woman floundered about in the lower hall of the tenement house and finally stumbled up the stairs. On an upper hall a door was opened and a collection of heads peered curiously out, watching her. With a wrathful snort the woman confronted the door, but it was slammed hastily in her face and the key was turned. She stood for a few minutes, delivering a frenzied challenge at the panels. "Come out in deh hall, Mary Murphy, damn yeh, if yehs want a row. Come ahn, yeh overgrown terrier, come ahn." She began to kick the door with her great feet. She shrilly defied the universe to appear and do battle. Her cursing trebles brought heads from all doors save the one she threatened. Her eyes glared in every direction. The air was full of her tossing fists. "Come ahn, deh hull damn gang of yehs, come ahn," she roared at the spectators. An oath or two, cat-calls, jeers and bits of facetious advice were given in reply. Missiles clattered about her feet. "What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" said a voice in the gathered gloom, and Jimmie came forward. He carried a tin dinner-pail in his hand and under his arm a brown truckman's apron done in a bundle. "What deh hell's wrong?" he demanded. "Come out, all of yehs, come out," his mother was howling. "Come ahn an' I'll stamp her damn brains under me feet." "Shet yer face, an' come home, yeh damned old fool," roared Jimmie at her. She strided up to him and twirled her fingers in his face. Her eyes were darting flames of unreasoning rage and her frame trembled with eagerness for a fight. "T'hell wid yehs! An' who deh hell are yehs? I ain't givin' a snap of me fingers fer yehs," she bawled at him. She turned her huge back in tremendous disdain and climbed the stairs to the next floor. Jimmie followed, cursing blackly. At the top of the flight he seized his mother's arm and started to drag her toward the door of their room. "Come home, damn yeh," he gritted between his teeth. "Take yer hands off me! Take yer hands off me," shrieked his mother. She raised her arm and whirled her great fist at her son's face. Jimmie dodged his head and the blow struck him in the back of the neck. "Damn yeh," gritted he again. He threw out his left hand and writhed his fingers about her middle arm. The mother and the son began to sway and struggle like gladiators. "Whoop!" said the Rum Alley tenement house. The hall filled with interested spectators. "Hi, ol' lady, dat was a dandy!" "T'ree to one on deh red!" "Ah, stop yer damn scrappin'!" The door of the Johnson home opened and Maggie looked out. Jimmie made a supreme cursing effort and hurled his mother into the room. He quickly followed and closed the door. The Rum Alley tenement swore disappointedly and retired. The mother slowly gathered herself up from the floor. Her eyes glittered menacingly upon her children. "Here, now," said Jimmie, "we've had enough of dis. Sit down, an' don' make no trouble." He grasped her arm, and twisting it, forced her into a creaking chair. "Keep yer hands off me," roared his mother again. "Damn yer ol' hide," yelled Jimmie, madly. Maggie shrieked and ran into the other room. To her there came the sound of a storm of crashes and curses. There was a great final thump and Jimmie's voice cried: "Dere, damn yeh, stay still." Maggie opened the door now, and went warily out. "Oh, Jimmie." He was leaning against the wall and swearing. Blood stood upon bruises on his knotty fore-arms where they had scraped against the floor or the walls in the scuffle. The mother lay screeching on the floor, the tears running down her furrowed face. Maggie, standing in the middle of the room, gazed about her. The usual upheaval of the tables and chairs had taken place. Crockery was strewn broadcast in fragments. The stove had been disturbed on its legs, and now leaned idiotically to one side. A pail had been upset and water spread in all directions. The door opened and Pete appeared. He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, Gawd," he observed. He walked over to Maggie and whispered in her ear. "Ah, what deh hell, Mag? Come ahn and we'll have a hell of a time." The mother in the corner upreared her head and shook her tangled locks. "Teh hell wid him and you," she said, glowering at her daughter in the gloom. Her eyes seemed to burn balefully. "Yeh've gone teh deh devil, Mag Johnson, yehs knows yehs have gone teh deh devil. Yer a disgrace teh yer people, damn yeh. An' now, git out an' go ahn wid dat doe-faced jude of yours. Go teh hell wid him, damn yeh, an' a good riddance. Go teh hell an' see how yeh likes it." Maggie gazed long at her mother. "Go teh hell now, an' see how yeh likes it. Git out. I won't have sech as yehs in me house! Get out, d'yeh hear! Damn yeh, git out!" The girl began to tremble. At this instant Pete came forward. "Oh, what deh hell, Mag, see," whispered he softly in her ear. "Dis all blows over. See? Deh ol' woman 'ill be all right in deh mornin'. Come ahn out wid me! We'll have a hell of a time." The woman on the floor cursed. Jimmie was intent upon his bruised fore-arms. The girl cast a glance about the room filled with a chaotic mass of debris, and at the red, writhing body of her mother. "Go teh hell an' good riddance." She went. ----------CHAPTER 10--------- Jimmie had an idea it wasn't common courtesy for a friend to come to one's home and ruin one's sister. But he was not sure how much Pete knew about the rules of politeness. The following night he returned home from work at rather a late hour in the evening. In passing through the halls he came upon the gnarled and leathery old woman who possessed the music box. She was grinning in the dim light that drifted through dust-stained panes. She beckoned to him with a smudged forefinger. "Ah, Jimmie, what do yehs t'ink I got onto las' night. It was deh funnies' t'ing I ever saw," she cried, coming close to him and leering. She was trembling with eagerness to tell her tale. "I was by me door las' night when yer sister and her jude feller came in late, oh, very late. An' she, the dear, she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break, she was. It was deh funnies' t'ing I ever saw. An' right out here by me door she asked him did he love her, did he. An' she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break, poor t'ing. An' him, I could see by deh way what he said it dat she had been askin' orften, he says: 'Oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he, 'Oh, hell, yes.'" Storm-clouds swept over Jimmie's face, but he turned from the leathery old woman and plodded on up-stairs. "Oh, hell, yes," called she after him. She laughed a laugh that was like a prophetic croak. "'Oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he, 'Oh, hell, yes.'" There was no one in at home. The rooms showed that attempts had been made at tidying them. Parts of the wreckage of the day before had been repaired by an unskilful hand. A chair or two and the table, stood uncertainly upon legs. The floor had been newly swept. Too, the blue ribbons had been restored to the curtains, and the lambrequin, with its immense sheaves of yellow wheat and red roses of equal size, had been returned, in a worn and sorry state, to its position at the mantel. Maggie's jacket and hat were gone from the nail behind the door. Jimmie walked to the window and began to look through the blurred glass. It occurred to him to vaguely wonder, for an instant, if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. Suddenly, however, he began to swear. "But he was me frien'! I brought 'im here! Dat's deh hell of it!" He fumed about the room, his anger gradually rising to the furious pitch. "I'll kill deh jay! Dat's what I'll do! I'll kill deh jay!" He clutched his hat and sprang toward the door. But it opened and his mother's great form blocked the passage. "What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" exclaimed she, coming into the rooms. Jimmie gave vent to a sardonic curse and then laughed heavily. "Well, Maggie's gone teh deh devil! Dat's what! See?" "Eh?" said his mother. "Maggie's gone teh deh devil! Are yehs deaf?" roared Jimmie, impatiently. "Deh hell she has," murmured the mother, astounded. Jimmie grunted, and then began to stare out at the window. His mother sat down in a chair, but a moment later sprang erect and delivered a maddened whirl of oaths. Her son turned to look at her as she reeled and swayed in the middle of the room, her fierce face convulsed with passion, her blotched arms raised high in imprecation. "May Gawd curse her forever," she shrieked. "May she eat nothin' but stones and deh dirt in deh street. May she sleep in deh gutter an' never see deh sun shine agin. Deh damn--" "Here, now," said her son. "Take a drop on yourself." The mother raised lamenting eyes to the ceiling. "She's deh devil's own chil', Jimmie," she whispered. "Ah, who would t'ink such a bad girl could grow up in our fambly, Jimmie, me son. Many deh hour I've spent in talk wid dat girl an' tol' her if she ever went on deh streets I'd see her damned. An' after all her bringin' up an' what I tol' her and talked wid her, she goes teh deh bad, like a duck teh water." The tears rolled down her furrowed face. Her hands trembled. "An' den when dat Sadie MacMallister next door to us was sent teh deh devil by dat feller what worked in deh soap-factory, didn't I tell our Mag dat if she--" "Ah, dat's annuder story," interrupted the brother. "Of course, dat Sadie was nice an' all dat--but--see--it ain't dessame as if--well, Maggie was diff'ent--see--she was diff'ent." He was trying to formulate a theory that he had always unconsciously held, that all sisters, excepting his own, could advisedly be ruined. He suddenly broke out again. "I'll go t'ump hell outa deh mug what did her deh harm. I'll kill 'im! He t'inks he kin scrap, but when he gits me a-chasin' 'im he'll fin' out where he's wrong, deh damned duffer. I'll wipe up deh street wid 'im." In a fury he plunged out of the doorway. As he vanished the mother raised her head and lifted both hands, entreating. "May Gawd curse her forever," she cried. In the darkness of the hallway Jimmie discerned a knot of women talking volubly. When he strode by they paid no attention to him. "She allus was a bold thing," he heard one of them cry in an eager voice. "Dere wasn't a feller come teh deh house but she'd try teh mash 'im. My Annie says deh shameless t'ing tried teh ketch her feller, her own feller, what we useter know his fader." "I could a' tol' yehs dis two years ago," said a woman, in a key of triumph. "Yessir, it was over two years ago dat I says teh my ol' man, I says, 'Dat Johnson girl ain't straight,' I says. 'Oh, hell,' he says. 'Oh, hell.' 'Dat's all right,' I says, 'but I know what I knows,' I says, 'an' it 'ill come out later. You wait an' see,' I says, 'you see.'" "Anybody what had eyes could see dat dere was somethin' wrong wid dat girl. I didn't like her actions." On the street Jimmie met a friend. "What deh hell?" asked the latter. Jimmie explained. "An' I'll t'ump 'im till he can't stand." "Oh, what deh hell," said the friend. "What's deh use! Yeh'll git pulled in! Everybody 'ill be onto it! An' ten plunks! Gee!" Jimmie was determined. "He t'inks he kin scrap, but he'll fin' out diff'ent." "Gee," remonstrated the friend. "What deh hell?"

cliffnotes

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

chapter 11|chapter 12|chapter 13

After his fight with Pete Jimmie stays away from home for several days. Maggie does not return home. When Jimmie finally does return he finds his mother raving that her daughter has betrayed all of them. She cannot conceive of any reason why Maggie has fallen so low. The neighbors made the most of the woman's misfortune by taunting her with questions about her absent daughter. Jimmie also is dumfounded by the turn of events and cannot fathom what his sister has done. In a long passionate speech filled with rhetorical questions, Mary wonders aloud how her daughter could have gone to the devil with a mother like herself. One day Jimmie returns home in a perturbed state of mind and asks if maybe things wouldn't be better if he fetched his sister home. Mary is visibly offended that Jimmie would ask her to welcome her sinful daughter and declares that even if she were to come home and beg for forgiveness "she kin cry 'er two eyes out on deh stones of deh street before I'll dirty deh place wid her." Mary describes how she will deny comfort to her daughter when Maggie comes crawling home with her miseries. Jimmie, who cannot comprehend that his sister should succumb to passions like other women, agrees that his sister is damned. Mary makes it known to the neighbors that she did everything she could to protect the girl from sin but Maggie was evil to the core and will deserve her unlucky fate. From that time forth, every time Mary is arrested she uses her daughter's downfall as an excuse and to good effect with the magistrates until one notes that her record shows forty two daughters that have fallen from grace. Thus, Mary goes through life loudly shedding tears while Jimmie, in order to stay in good social standing with his peers, denounces his sister though in private moments he would briefly consider and then discard the notion that Maggie was never shown a better way.

----------CHAPTER 11--------- On a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the pavements. The open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage. The interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of imitation leather. A shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended down the side of the room. Behind it a great mahogany-appearing sideboard reached the ceiling. Upon its shelves rested pyramids of shimmering glasses that were never disturbed. Mirrors set in the face of the sideboard multiplied them. Lemons, oranges and paper napkins, arranged with mathematical precision, sat among the glasses. Many-hued decanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves. A nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact centre of the general effect. The elementary senses of it all seemed to be opulence and geometrical accuracy. Across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham, dishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar. An odor of grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded. Pete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending expectantly toward a quiet stranger. "A beeh," said the man. Pete drew a foam-topped glassful and set it dripping upon the bar. At this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and crashed against the siding. Jimmie and a companion entered. They swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at Pete with bleared and blinking eyes. "Gin," said Jimmie. "Gin," said the companion. Pete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar. He bended his head sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming wood. He had a look of watchfulness upon his features. Jimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and conversed loudly in tones of contempt. "He's a dindy masher, ain't he, by Gawd?" laughed Jimmie. "Oh, hell, yes," said the companion, sneering widely. "He's great, he is. Git onto deh mug on deh blokie. Dat's enough to make a feller turn hand-springs in 'is sleep." The quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away and maintained an attitude of oblivion. "Gee! ain't he hot stuff!" "Git onto his shape! Great Gawd!" "Hey," cried Jimmie, in tones of command. Pete came along slowly, with a sullen dropping of the under lip. "Well," he growled, "what's eatin' yehs?" "Gin," said Jimmie. "Gin," said the companion. As Pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they laughed in his face. Jimmie's companion, evidently overcome with merriment, pointed a grimy forefinger in Pete's direction. "Say, Jimmie," demanded he, "what deh hell is dat behind deh bar?" "Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie. They laughed loudly. Pete put down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them. He disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly. "You fellers can't guy me," he said. "Drink yer stuff an' git out an' don' make no trouble." Instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and expressions of offended dignity immediately came. "Who deh hell has said anyt'ing teh you," cried they in the same breath. The quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly. "Ah, come off," said Pete to the two men. "Don't pick me up for no jay. Drink yer rum an' git out an' don' make no trouble." "Oh, deh hell," airily cried Jimmie. "Oh, deh hell," airily repeated his companion. "We goes when we git ready! See!" continued Jimmie. "Well," said Pete in a threatening voice, "don' make no trouble." Jimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side. He snarled like a wild animal. "Well, what if we does? See?" said he. Dark blood flushed into Pete's face, and he shot a lurid glance at Jimmie. "Well, den we'll see whose deh bes' man, you or me," he said. The quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door. Jimmie began to swell with valor. "Don' pick me up fer no tenderfoot. When yeh tackles me yeh tackles one of deh bes' men in deh city. See? I'm a scrapper, I am. Ain't dat right, Billie?" "Sure, Mike," responded his companion in tones of conviction. "Oh, hell," said Pete, easily. "Go fall on yerself." The two men again began to laugh. "What deh hell is dat talkin'?" cried the companion. "Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie with exaggerated contempt. Pete made a furious gesture. "Git outa here now, an' don' make no trouble. See? Youse fellers er lookin' fer a scrap an' it's damn likely yeh'll fin' one if yeh keeps on shootin' off yer mout's. I know yehs! See? I kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes. Dat's right! See? Don' pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted out in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is. When I comes from behind dis bar, I t'rows yehs bote inteh deh street. See?" "Oh, hell," cried the two men in chorus. The glare of a panther came into Pete's eyes. "Dat's what I said! Unnerstan'?" He came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon the two men. They stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him. They bristled like three roosters. They moved their heads pugnaciously and kept their shoulders braced. The nervous muscles about each mouth twitched with a forced smile of mockery. "Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" gritted Jimmie. Pete stepped warily back, waving his hands before him to keep the men from coming too near. "Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" repeated Jimmie's ally. They kept close to him, taunting and leering. They strove to make him attempt the initial blow. "Keep back, now! Don' crowd me," ominously said Pete. Again they chorused in contempt. "Oh, hell!" In a small, tossing group, the three men edged for positions like frigates contemplating battle. "Well, why deh hell don' yeh try teh t'row us out?" cried Jimmie and his ally with copious sneers. The bravery of bull-dogs sat upon the faces of the men. Their clenched fists moved like eager weapons. The allied two jostled the bartender's elbows, glaring at him with feverish eyes and forcing him toward the wall. Suddenly Pete swore redly. The flash of action gleamed from his eyes. He threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous, lightning-like blow at Jimmie's face. His foot swung a step forward and the weight of his body was behind his fist. Jimmie ducked his head, Bowery-like, with the quickness of a cat. The fierce, answering blows of him and his ally crushed on Pete's bowed head. The quiet stranger vanished. The arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails. The faces of the men, at first flushed to flame-colored anger, now began to fade to the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a battle. Their lips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums in ghoul-like grins. Through their white, gripped teeth struggled hoarse whisperings of oaths. Their eyes glittered with murderous fire. Each head was huddled between its owner's shoulders, and arms were swinging with marvelous rapidity. Feet scraped to and fro with a loud scratching sound upon the sanded floor. Blows left crimson blotches upon pale skin. The curses of the first quarter minute of the fight died away. The breaths of the fighters came wheezingly from their lips and the three chests were straining and heaving. Pete at intervals gave vent to low, labored hisses, that sounded like a desire to kill. Jimmie's ally gibbered at times like a wounded maniac. Jimmie was silent, fighting with the face of a sacrificial priest. The rage of fear shone in all their eyes and their blood-colored fists swirled. At a tottering moment a blow from Pete's hand struck the ally and he crashed to the floor. He wriggled instantly to his feet and grasping the quiet stranger's beer glass from the bar, hurled it at Pete's head. High on the wall it burst like a bomb, shivering fragments flying in all directions. Then missiles came to every man's hand. The place had heretofore appeared free of things to throw, but suddenly glass and bottles went singing through the air. They were thrown point blank at bobbing heads. The pyramid of shimmering glasses, that had never been disturbed, changed to cascades as heavy bottles were flung into them. Mirrors splintered to nothing. The three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in a frenzy for blood. There followed in the wake of missiles and fists some unknown prayers, perhaps for death. The quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on the sidewalk. A laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half of a block. "Dey've trowed a bloke inteh deh street." People heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet within the saloon and came running. A small group, bending down to look under the bamboo doors, watching the fall of glass, and three pairs of violent legs, changed in a moment to a crowd. A policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced through the doors into the saloon. The crowd bended and surged in absorbing anxiety to see. Jimmie caught first sight of the on-coming interruption. On his feet he had the same regard for a policeman that, when on his truck, he had for a fire engine. He howled and ran for the side door. The officer made a terrific advance, club in hand. One comprehensive sweep of the long night stick threw the ally to the floor and forced Pete to a corner. With his disengaged hand he made a furious effort at Jimmie's coat-tails. Then he regained his balance and paused. "Well, well, you are a pair of pictures. What in hell yeh been up to?" Jimmie, with his face drenched in blood, escaped up a side street, pursued a short distance by some of the more law-loving, or excited individuals of the crowd. Later, from a corner safely dark, he saw the policeman, the ally and the bartender emerge from the saloon. Pete locked the doors and then followed up the avenue in the rear of the crowd-encompassed policeman and his charge. On first thoughts Jimmie, with his heart throbbing at battle heat, started to go desperately to the rescue of his friend, but he halted. "Ah, what deh hell?" he demanded of himself. ----------CHAPTER 12--------- In a hall of irregular shape sat Pete and Maggie drinking beer. A submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress suit, industriously followed the bobs of his head and the waves of his baton. A ballad singer, in a dress of flaming scarlet, sang in the inevitable voice of brass. When she vanished, men seated at the tables near the front applauded loudly, pounding the polished wood with their beer glasses. She returned attired in less gown, and sang again. She received another enthusiastic encore. She reappeared in still less gown and danced. The deafening rumble of glasses and clapping of hands that followed her exit indicated an overwhelming desire to have her come on for the fourth time, but the curiosity of the audience was not gratified. Maggie was pale. From her eyes had been plucked all look of self-reliance. She leaned with a dependent air toward her companion. She was timid, as if fearing his anger or displeasure. She seemed to beseech tenderness of him. Pete's air of distinguished valor had grown upon him until it threatened stupendous dimensions. He was infinitely gracious to the girl. It was apparent to her that his condescension was a marvel. He could appear to strut even while sitting still and he showed that he was a lion of lordly characteristics by the air with which he spat. With Maggie gazing at him wonderingly, he took pride in commanding the waiters who were, however, indifferent or deaf. "Hi, you, git a russle on yehs! What deh hell yehs lookin' at? Two more beehs, d'yeh hear?" He leaned back and critically regarded the person of a girl with a straw-colored wig who upon the stage was flinging her heels in somewhat awkward imitation of a well-known danseuse. At times Maggie told Pete long confidential tales of her former home life, dwelling upon the escapades of the other members of the family and the difficulties she had to combat in order to obtain a degree of comfort. He responded in tones of philanthropy. He pressed her arm with an air of reassuring proprietorship. "Dey was damn jays," he said, denouncing the mother and brother. The sound of the music which, by the efforts of the frowsy-headed leader, drifted to her ears through the smoke-filled atmosphere, made the girl dream. She thought of her former Rum Alley environment and turned to regard Pete's strong protecting fists. She thought of the collar and cuff manufactory and the eternal moan of the proprietor: "What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn." She contemplated Pete's man-subduing eyes and noted that wealth and prosperity was indicated by his clothes. She imagined a future, rose-tinted, because of its distance from all that she previously had experienced. As to the present she perceived only vague reasons to be miserable. Her life was Pete's and she considered him worthy of the charge. She would be disturbed by no particular apprehensions, so long as Pete adored her as he now said he did. She did not feel like a bad woman. To her knowledge she had never seen any better. At times men at other tables regarded the girl furtively. Pete, aware of it, nodded at her and grinned. He felt proud. "Mag, yer a bloomin' good-looker," he remarked, studying her face through the haze. The men made Maggie fear, but she blushed at Pete's words as it became apparent to her that she was the apple of his eye. Grey-headed men, wonderfully pathetic in their dissipation, stared at her through clouds. Smooth-cheeked boys, some of them with faces of stone and mouths of sin, not nearly so pathetic as the grey heads, tried to find the girl's eyes in the smoke wreaths. Maggie considered she was not what they thought her. She confined her glances to Pete and the stage. The orchestra played negro melodies and a versatile drummer pounded, whacked, clattered and scratched on a dozen machines to make noise. Those glances of the men, shot at Maggie from under half-closed lids, made her tremble. She thought them all to be worse men than Pete. "Come, let's go," she said. As they went out Maggie perceived two women seated at a table with some men. They were painted and their cheeks had lost their roundness. As she passed them the girl, with a shrinking movement, drew back her skirts. ----------CHAPTER 13--------- Jimmie did not return home for a number of days after the fight with Pete in the saloon. When he did, he approached with extreme caution. He found his mother raving. Maggie had not returned home. The parent continually wondered how her daughter could come to such a pass. She had never considered Maggie as a pearl dropped unstained into Rum Alley from Heaven, but she could not conceive how it was possible for her daughter to fall so low as to bring disgrace upon her family. She was terrific in denunciation of the girl's wickedness. The fact that the neighbors talked of it, maddened her. When women came in, and in the course of their conversation casually asked, "Where's Maggie dese days?" the mother shook her fuzzy head at them and appalled them with curses. Cunning hints inviting confidence she rebuffed with violence. "An' wid all deh bringin' up she had, how could she?" moaningly she asked of her son. "Wid all deh talkin' wid her I did an' deh t'ings I tol' her to remember? When a girl is bringed up deh way I bringed up Maggie, how kin she go teh deh devil?" Jimmie was transfixed by these questions. He could not conceive how under the circumstances his mother's daughter and his sister could have been so wicked. His mother took a drink from a squdgy bottle that sat on the table. She continued her lament. "She had a bad heart, dat girl did, Jimmie. She was wicked teh deh heart an' we never knowed it." Jimmie nodded, admitting the fact. "We lived in deh same house wid her an' I brought her up an' we never knowed how bad she was." Jimmie nodded again. "Wid a home like dis an' a mudder like me, she went teh deh bad," cried the mother, raising her eyes. One day, Jimmie came home, sat down in a chair and began to wriggle about with a new and strange nervousness. At last he spoke shamefacedly. "Well, look-a-here, dis t'ing queers us! See? We're queered! An' maybe it 'ud be better if I--well, I t'ink I kin look 'er up an'--maybe it 'ud be better if I fetched her home an'--" The mother started from her chair and broke forth into a storm of passionate anger. "What! Let 'er come an' sleep under deh same roof wid her mudder agin! Oh, yes, I will, won't I? Sure? Shame on yehs, Jimmie Johnson, for sayin' such a t'ing teh yer own mudder--teh yer own mudder! Little did I t'ink when yehs was a babby playin' about me feet dat ye'd grow up teh say sech a t'ing teh yer mudder--yer own mudder. I never taut--" Sobs choked her and interrupted her reproaches. "Dere ain't nottin' teh raise sech hell about," said Jimmie. "I on'y says it 'ud be better if we keep dis t'ing dark, see? It queers us! See?" His mother laughed a laugh that seemed to ring through the city and be echoed and re-echoed by countless other laughs. "Oh, yes, I will, won't I! Sure!" "Well, yeh must take me fer a damn fool," said Jimmie, indignant at his mother for mocking him. "I didn't say we'd make 'er inteh a little tin angel, ner nottin', but deh way it is now she can queer us! Don' che see?" "Aye, she'll git tired of deh life atter a while an' den she'll wanna be a-comin' home, won' she, deh beast! I'll let 'er in den, won' I?" "Well, I didn' mean none of dis prod'gal bus'ness anyway," explained Jimmie. "It wasn't no prod'gal dauter, yeh damn fool," said the mother. "It was prod'gal son, anyhow." "I know dat," said Jimmie. For a time they sat in silence. The mother's eyes gloated on a scene her imagination could call before her. Her lips were set in a vindictive smile. "Aye, she'll cry, won' she, an' carry on, an' tell how Pete, or some odder feller, beats 'er an' she'll say she's sorry an' all dat an' she ain't happy, she ain't, an' she wants to come home agin, she does." With grim humor, the mother imitated the possible wailing notes of the daughter's voice. "Den I'll take 'er in, won't I, deh beast. She kin cry 'er two eyes out on deh stones of deh street before I'll dirty deh place wid her. She abused an' ill-treated her own mudder--her own mudder what loved her an' she'll never git anodder chance dis side of hell." Jimmie thought he had a great idea of women's frailty, but he could not understand why any of his kin should be victims. "Damn her," he fervidly said. Again he wondered vaguely if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. Nevertheless, his mind did not for an instant confuse himself with those brothers nor his sister with theirs. After the mother had, with great difficulty, suppressed the neighbors, she went among them and proclaimed her grief. "May Gawd forgive dat girl," was her continual cry. To attentive ears she recited the whole length and breadth of her woes. "I bringed 'er up deh way a dauter oughta be bringed up an' dis is how she served me! She went teh deh devil deh first chance she got! May Gawd forgive her." When arrested for drunkenness she used the story of her daughter's downfall with telling effect upon the police justices. Finally one of them said to her, peering down over his spectacles: "Mary, the records of this and other courts show that you are the mother of forty-two daughters who have been ruined. The case is unparalleled in the annals of this court, and this court thinks--" The mother went through life shedding large tears of sorrow. Her red face was a picture of agony. Of course Jimmie publicly damned his sister that he might appear on a higher social plane. But, arguing with himself, stumbling about in ways that he knew not, he, once, almost came to a conclusion that his sister would have been more firmly good had she better known why. However, he felt that he could not hold such a view. He threw it hastily aside.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 17 with the given context.

chapter 14|chapter 15|chapter 16|chapter 17

On a rainy night several months later the respectable theaters are letting out from the evening show. Numerous carriages and cabs sit waiting in the street for the flood of humanity exiting the well-lit theaters. Flower vendors and other merchants make their wares known in the hustle and bustle of men and women walking through the downpour. Everywhere people are talking and socializing and basking in the memory of the theater. The streets are full of upturned umbrellas and the happy confidence of well-to-do people making their way home from the theaters - "the places of forgetfulness" in the narrator's words. In an adjacent park a dejected group of homeless souls sit upon the benches. A girl with painted cheeks passes among the throng. She gives meaningful glances to those men whom she deems of unsophisticated tastes and rural tendencies while she studiously avoids contact with men of more cosmopolitan demeanor. The girl walks purposefully through the crowd and takes care to lift the skirts of her fine cloak away from the puddles. A debonair young man with a cigarette looks back interestedly at the girl as she passes but then noticing that she is somewhat worn out and certainly not exotic, he quickly looks away. A large man with a bushy beard passes her and makes a great point of ignoring her. A businessman rushing across the street mistakes the girl for her mother and calls her Mary. From the theaters to the saloons and onto the darker avenues the girl continues walking. A young man refutes her gaze and reminds her that he is not a farmer. An even younger man, a farm boy from the looks of him, passes and the girl gives him a long pointed look but he says: "Not this eve-some other eve!" An inebriated man sees the girl and begins to loudly bemoan his lack of funds. The girl proceeds to the factory district near the river where many of the streets are shrouded in inky darkness. From a saloon she hears the sound of a violin and the noise of riotous laughter. One pockmarked man refuses the girl, claiming he's already got another, and a second man claims to be short of money. Finally the girl enter the last block before the river. The sounds of the city are far off and the light is lost in the darkness. Near the river the girl sees a fat man in ragged clothes. His hair is gray and his eyes peer out from his fat face and encompass the girl. His laughter is maniacal. He follows the girl to the river where the sounds of life cease.

----------CHAPTER 14--------- In a hilarious hall there were twenty-eight tables and twenty-eight women and a crowd of smoking men. Valiant noise was made on a stage at the end of the hall by an orchestra composed of men who looked as if they had just happened in. Soiled waiters ran to and fro, swooping down like hawks on the unwary in the throng; clattering along the aisles with trays covered with glasses; stumbling over women's skirts and charging two prices for everything but beer, all with a swiftness that blurred the view of the cocoanut palms and dusty monstrosities painted upon the walls of the room. A bouncer, with an immense load of business upon his hands, plunged about in the crowd, dragging bashful strangers to prominent chairs, ordering waiters here and there and quarreling furiously with men who wanted to sing with the orchestra. The usual smoke cloud was present, but so dense that heads and arms seemed entangled in it. The rumble of conversation was replaced by a roar. Plenteous oaths heaved through the air. The room rang with the shrill voices of women bubbling o'er with drink-laughter. The chief element in the music of the orchestra was speed. The musicians played in intent fury. A woman was singing and smiling upon the stage, but no one took notice of her. The rate at which the piano, cornet and violins were going, seemed to impart wildness to the half-drunken crowd. Beer glasses were emptied at a gulp and conversation became a rapid chatter. The smoke eddied and swirled like a shadowy river hurrying toward some unseen falls. Pete and Maggie entered the hall and took chairs at a table near the door. The woman who was seated there made an attempt to occupy Pete's attention and, failing, went away. Three weeks had passed since the girl had left home. The air of spaniel-like dependence had been magnified and showed its direct effect in the peculiar off-handedness and ease of Pete's ways toward her. She followed Pete's eyes with hers, anticipating with smiles gracious looks from him. A woman of brilliance and audacity, accompanied by a mere boy, came into the place and took seats near them. At once Pete sprang to his feet, his face beaming with glad surprise. "By Gawd, there's Nellie," he cried. He went over to the table and held out an eager hand to the woman. "Why, hello, Pete, me boy, how are you," said she, giving him her fingers. Maggie took instant note of the woman. She perceived that her black dress fitted her to perfection. Her linen collar and cuffs were spotless. Tan gloves were stretched over her well-shaped hands. A hat of a prevailing fashion perched jauntily upon her dark hair. She wore no jewelry and was painted with no apparent paint. She looked clear-eyed through the stares of the men. "Sit down, and call your lady-friend over," she said cordially to Pete. At his beckoning Maggie came and sat between Pete and the mere boy. "I thought yeh were gone away fer good," began Pete, at once. "When did yeh git back? How did dat Buff'lo bus'ness turn out?" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Well, he didn't have as many stamps as he tried to make out, so I shook him, that's all." "Well, I'm glad teh see yehs back in deh city," said Pete, with awkward gallantry. He and the woman entered into a long conversation, exchanging reminiscences of days together. Maggie sat still, unable to formulate an intelligent sentence upon the conversation and painfully aware of it. She saw Pete's eyes sparkle as he gazed upon the handsome stranger. He listened smilingly to all she said. The woman was familiar with all his affairs, asked him about mutual friends, and knew the amount of his salary. She paid no attention to Maggie, looking toward her once or twice and apparently seeing the wall beyond. The mere boy was sulky. In the beginning he had welcomed with acclamations the additions. "Let's all have a drink! What'll you take, Nell? And you, Miss what's-your-name. Have a drink, Mr. -----, you, I mean." He had shown a sprightly desire to do the talking for the company and tell all about his family. In a loud voice he declaimed on various topics. He assumed a patronizing air toward Pete. As Maggie was silent, he paid no attention to her. He made a great show of lavishing wealth upon the woman of brilliance and audacity. "Do keep still, Freddie! You gibber like an ape, dear," said the woman to him. She turned away and devoted her attention to Pete. "We'll have many a good time together again, eh?" "Sure, Mike," said Pete, enthusiastic at once. "Say," whispered she, leaning forward, "let's go over to Billie's and have a heluva time." "Well, it's dis way! See?" said Pete. "I got dis lady frien' here." "Oh, t'hell with her," argued the woman. Pete appeared disturbed. "All right," said she, nodding her head at him. "All right for you! We'll see the next time you ask me to go anywheres with you." Pete squirmed. "Say," he said, beseechingly, "come wid me a minit an' I'll tell yer why." The woman waved her hand. "Oh, that's all right, you needn't explain, you know. You wouldn't come merely because you wouldn't come, that's all there is of it." To Pete's visible distress she turned to the mere boy, bringing him speedily from a terrific rage. He had been debating whether it would be the part of a man to pick a quarrel with Pete, or would he be justified in striking him savagely with his beer glass without warning. But he recovered himself when the woman turned to renew her smilings. He beamed upon her with an expression that was somewhat tipsy and inexpressibly tender. "Say, shake that Bowery jay," requested he, in a loud whisper. "Freddie, you are so droll," she replied. Pete reached forward and touched the woman on the arm. "Come out a minit while I tells yeh why I can't go wid yer. Yer doin' me dirt, Nell! I never taut ye'd do me dirt, Nell. Come on, will yer?" He spoke in tones of injury. "Why, I don't see why I should be interested in your explanations," said the woman, with a coldness that seemed to reduce Pete to a pulp. His eyes pleaded with her. "Come out a minit while I tells yeh." The woman nodded slightly at Maggie and the mere boy, "'Scuse me." The mere boy interrupted his loving smile and turned a shrivelling glare upon Pete. His boyish countenance flushed and he spoke, in a whine, to the woman: "Oh, I say, Nellie, this ain't a square deal, you know. You aren't goin' to leave me and go off with that duffer, are you? I should think--" "Why, you dear boy, of course I'm not," cried the woman, affectionately. She bended over and whispered in his ear. He smiled again and settled in his chair as if resolved to wait patiently. As the woman walked down between the rows of tables, Pete was at her shoulder talking earnestly, apparently in explanation. The woman waved her hands with studied airs of indifference. The doors swung behind them, leaving Maggie and the mere boy seated at the table. Maggie was dazed. She could dimly perceive that something stupendous had happened. She wondered why Pete saw fit to remonstrate with the woman, pleading for forgiveness with his eyes. She thought she noted an air of submission about her leonine Pete. She was astounded. The mere boy occupied himself with cock-tails and a cigar. He was tranquilly silent for half an hour. Then he bestirred himself and spoke. "Well," he said, sighing, "I knew this was the way it would be." There was another stillness. The mere boy seemed to be musing. "She was pulling m'leg. That's the whole amount of it," he said, suddenly. "It's a bloomin' shame the way that girl does. Why, I've spent over two dollars in drinks to-night. And she goes off with that plug-ugly who looks as if he had been hit in the face with a coin-die. I call it rocky treatment for a fellah like me. Here, waiter, bring me a cock-tail and make it damned strong." Maggie made no reply. She was watching the doors. "It's a mean piece of business," complained the mere boy. He explained to her how amazing it was that anybody should treat him in such a manner. "But I'll get square with her, you bet. She won't get far ahead of yours truly, you know," he added, winking. "I'll tell her plainly that it was bloomin' mean business. And she won't come it over me with any of her 'now-Freddie-dears.' She thinks my name is Freddie, you know, but of course it ain't. I always tell these people some name like that, because if they got onto your right name they might use it sometime. Understand? Oh, they don't fool me much." Maggie was paying no attention, being intent upon the doors. The mere boy relapsed into a period of gloom, during which he exterminated a number of cock-tails with a determined air, as if replying defiantly to fate. He occasionally broke forth into sentences composed of invectives joined together in a long string. The girl was still staring at the doors. After a time the mere boy began to see cobwebs just in front of his nose. He spurred himself into being agreeable and insisted upon her having a charlotte-russe and a glass of beer. "They's gone," he remarked, "they's gone." He looked at her through the smoke wreaths. "Shay, lil' girl, we mightish well make bes' of it. You ain't such bad-lookin' girl, y'know. Not half bad. Can't come up to Nell, though. No, can't do it! Well, I should shay not! Nell fine-lookin' girl! F--i--n--ine. You look damn bad longsider her, but by y'self ain't so bad. Have to do anyhow. Nell gone. On'y you left. Not half bad, though." Maggie stood up. "I'm going home," she said. The mere boy started. "Eh? What? Home," he cried, struck with amazement. "I beg pardon, did hear say home?" "I'm going home," she repeated. "Great Gawd, what hava struck," demanded the mere boy of himself, stupefied. In a semi-comatose state he conducted her on board an up-town car, ostentatiously paid her fare, leered kindly at her through the rear window and fell off the steps. ----------CHAPTER 15--------- A forlorn woman went along a lighted avenue. The street was filled with people desperately bound on missions. An endless crowd darted at the elevated station stairs and the horse cars were thronged with owners of bundles. The pace of the forlorn woman was slow. She was apparently searching for some one. She loitered near the doors of saloons and watched men emerge from them. She scanned furtively the faces in the rushing stream of pedestrians. Hurrying men, bent on catching some boat or train, jostled her elbows, failing to notice her, their thoughts fixed on distant dinners. The forlorn woman had a peculiar face. Her smile was no smile. But when in repose her features had a shadowy look that was like a sardonic grin, as if some one had sketched with cruel forefinger indelible lines about her mouth. Jimmie came strolling up the avenue. The woman encountered him with an aggrieved air. "Oh, Jimmie, I've been lookin' all over fer yehs--," she began. Jimmie made an impatient gesture and quickened his pace. "Ah, don't bodder me! Good Gawd!" he said, with the savageness of a man whose life is pestered. The woman followed him along the sidewalk in somewhat the manner of a suppliant. "But, Jimmie," she said, "yehs told me ye'd--" Jimmie turned upon her fiercely as if resolved to make a last stand for comfort and peace. "Say, fer Gawd's sake, Hattie, don' foller me from one end of deh city teh deh odder. Let up, will yehs! Give me a minute's res', can't yehs? Yehs makes me tired, allus taggin' me. See? Ain' yehs got no sense. Do yehs want people teh get onto me? Go chase yerself, fer Gawd's sake." The woman stepped closer and laid her fingers on his arm. "But, look-a-here--" Jimmie snarled. "Oh, go teh hell." He darted into the front door of a convenient saloon and a moment later came out into the shadows that surrounded the side door. On the brilliantly lighted avenue he perceived the forlorn woman dodging about like a scout. Jimmie laughed with an air of relief and went away. When he arrived home he found his mother clamoring. Maggie had returned. She stood shivering beneath the torrent of her mother's wrath. "Well, I'm damned," said Jimmie in greeting. His mother, tottering about the room, pointed a quivering forefinger. "Lookut her, Jimmie, lookut her. Dere's yer sister, boy. Dere's yer sister. Lookut her! Lookut her!" She screamed in scoffing laughter. The girl stood in the middle of the room. She edged about as if unable to find a place on the floor to put her feet. "Ha, ha, ha," bellowed the mother. "Dere she stands! Ain' she purty? Lookut her! Ain' she sweet, deh beast? Lookut her! Ha, ha, lookut her!" She lurched forward and put her red and seamed hands upon her daughter's face. She bent down and peered keenly up into the eyes of the girl. "Oh, she's jes' dessame as she ever was, ain' she? She's her mudder's purty darlin' yit, ain' she? Lookut her, Jimmie! Come here, fer Gawd's sake, and lookut her." The loud, tremendous sneering of the mother brought the denizens of the Rum Alley tenement to their doors. Women came in the hallways. Children scurried to and fro. "What's up? Dat Johnson party on anudder tear?" "Naw! Young Mag's come home!" "Deh hell yeh say?" Through the open door curious eyes stared in at Maggie. Children ventured into the room and ogled her, as if they formed the front row at a theatre. Women, without, bended toward each other and whispered, nodding their heads with airs of profound philosophy. A baby, overcome with curiosity concerning this object at which all were looking, sidled forward and touched her dress, cautiously, as if investigating a red-hot stove. Its mother's voice rang out like a warning trumpet. She rushed forward and grabbed her child, casting a terrible look of indignation at the girl. Maggie's mother paced to and fro, addressing the doorful of eyes, expounding like a glib showman at a museum. Her voice rang through the building. "Dere she stands," she cried, wheeling suddenly and pointing with dramatic finger. "Dere she stands! Lookut her! Ain' she a dindy? An' she was so good as to come home teh her mudder, she was! Ain' she a beaut'? Ain' she a dindy? Fer Gawd's sake!" The jeering cries ended in another burst of shrill laughter. The girl seemed to awaken. "Jimmie--" He drew hastily back from her. "Well, now, yer a hell of a t'ing, ain' yeh?" he said, his lips curling in scorn. Radiant virtue sat upon his brow and his repelling hands expressed horror of contamination. Maggie turned and went. The crowd at the door fell back precipitately. A baby falling down in front of the door, wrenched a scream like a wounded animal from its mother. Another woman sprang forward and picked it up, with a chivalrous air, as if rescuing a human being from an oncoming express train. As the girl passed down through the hall, she went before open doors framing more eyes strangely microscopic, and sending broad beams of inquisitive light into the darkness of her path. On the second floor she met the gnarled old woman who possessed the music box. "So," she cried, "'ere yehs are back again, are yehs? An' dey've kicked yehs out? Well, come in an' stay wid me teh-night. I ain' got no moral standin'." From above came an unceasing babble of tongues, over all of which rang the mother's derisive laughter. ----------CHAPTER 16--------- Pete did not consider that he had ruined Maggie. If he had thought that her soul could never smile again, he would have believed the mother and brother, who were pyrotechnic over the affair, to be responsible for it. Besides, in his world, souls did not insist upon being able to smile. "What deh hell?" He felt a trifle entangled. It distressed him. Revelations and scenes might bring upon him the wrath of the owner of the saloon, who insisted upon respectability of an advanced type. "What deh hell do dey wanna raise such a smoke about it fer?" demanded he of himself, disgusted with the attitude of the family. He saw no necessity for anyone's losing their equilibrium merely because their sister or their daughter had stayed away from home. Searching about in his mind for possible reasons for their conduct, he came upon the conclusion that Maggie's motives were correct, but that the two others wished to snare him. He felt pursued. The woman of brilliance and audacity whom he had met in the hilarious hall showed a disposition to ridicule him. "A little pale thing with no spirit," she said. "Did you note the expression of her eyes? There was something in them about pumpkin pie and virtue. That is a peculiar way the left corner of her mouth has of twitching, isn't it? Dear, dear, my cloud-compelling Pete, what are you coming to?" Pete asserted at once that he never was very much interested in the girl. The woman interrupted him, laughing. "Oh, it's not of the slightest consequence to me, my dear young man. You needn't draw maps for my benefit. Why should I be concerned about it?" But Pete continued with his explanations. If he was laughed at for his tastes in women, he felt obliged to say that they were only temporary or indifferent ones. The morning after Maggie had departed from home, Pete stood behind the bar. He was immaculate in white jacket and apron and his hair was plastered over his brow with infinite correctness. No customers were in the place. Pete was twisting his napkined fist slowly in a beer glass, softly whistling to himself and occasionally holding the object of his attention between his eyes and a few weak beams of sunlight that had found their way over the thick screens and into the shaded room. With lingering thoughts of the woman of brilliance and audacity, the bartender raised his head and stared through the varying cracks between the swaying bamboo doors. Suddenly the whistling pucker faded from his lips. He saw Maggie walking slowly past. He gave a great start, fearing for the previously-mentioned eminent respectability of the place. He threw a swift, nervous glance about him, all at once feeling guilty. No one was in the room. He went hastily over to the side door. Opening it and looking out, he perceived Maggie standing, as if undecided, on the corner. She was searching the place with her eyes. As she turned her face toward him Pete beckoned to her hurriedly, intent upon returning with speed to a position behind the bar and to the atmosphere of respectability upon which the proprietor insisted. Maggie came to him, the anxious look disappearing from her face and a smile wreathing her lips. "Oh, Pete--," she began brightly. The bartender made a violent gesture of impatience. "Oh, my Gawd," cried he, vehemently. "What deh hell do yeh wanna hang aroun' here fer? Do yeh wanna git me inteh trouble?" he demanded with an air of injury. Astonishment swept over the girl's features. "Why, Pete! yehs tol' me--" Pete glanced profound irritation. His countenance reddened with the anger of a man whose respectability is being threatened. "Say, yehs makes me tired. See? What deh hell deh yeh wanna tag aroun' atter me fer? Yeh'll git me inteh trouble wid deh ol' man an' dey'll be hell teh pay! If he sees a woman roun' here he'll go crazy an' I'll lose me job! See? Yer brudder come in here an' raised hell an' deh ol' man hada put up fer it! An' now I'm done! See? I'm done." The girl's eyes stared into his face. "Pete, don't yeh remem--" "Oh, hell," interrupted Pete, anticipating. The girl seemed to have a struggle with herself. She was apparently bewildered and could not find speech. Finally she asked in a low voice: "But where kin I go?" The question exasperated Pete beyond the powers of endurance. It was a direct attempt to give him some responsibility in a matter that did not concern him. In his indignation he volunteered information. "Oh, go teh hell," cried he. He slammed the door furiously and returned, with an air of relief, to his respectability. Maggie went away. She wandered aimlessly for several blocks. She stopped once and asked aloud a question of herself: "Who?" A man who was passing near her shoulder, humorously took the questioning word as intended for him. "Eh? What? Who? Nobody! I didn't say anything," he laughingly said, and continued his way. Soon the girl discovered that if she walked with such apparent aimlessness, some men looked at her with calculating eyes. She quickened her step, frightened. As a protection, she adopted a demeanor of intentness as if going somewhere. After a time she left rattling avenues and passed between rows of houses with sternness and stolidity stamped upon their features. She hung her head for she felt their eyes grimly upon her. Suddenly she came upon a stout gentleman in a silk hat and a chaste black coat, whose decorous row of buttons reached from his chin to his knees. The girl had heard of the Grace of God and she decided to approach this man. His beaming, chubby face was a picture of benevolence and kind-heartedness. His eyes shone good-will. But as the girl timidly accosted him, he gave a convulsive movement and saved his respectability by a vigorous side-step. He did not risk it to save a soul. For how was he to know that there was a soul before him that needed saving? ----------CHAPTER 17--------- Upon a wet evening, several months after the last chapter, two interminable rows of cars, pulled by slipping horses, jangled along a prominent side-street. A dozen cabs, with coat-enshrouded drivers, clattered to and fro. Electric lights, whirring softly, shed a blurred radiance. A flower dealer, his feet tapping impatiently, his nose and his wares glistening with rain-drops, stood behind an array of roses and chrysanthemums. Two or three theatres emptied a crowd upon the storm-swept pavements. Men pulled their hats over their eyebrows and raised their collars to their ears. Women shrugged impatient shoulders in their warm cloaks and stopped to arrange their skirts for a walk through the storm. People having been comparatively silent for two hours burst into a roar of conversation, their hearts still kindling from the glowings of the stage. The pavements became tossing seas of umbrellas. Men stepped forth to hail cabs or cars, raising their fingers in varied forms of polite request or imperative demand. An endless procession wended toward elevated stations. An atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity seemed to hang over the throng, born, perhaps, of good clothes and of having just emerged from a place of forgetfulness. In the mingled light and gloom of an adjacent park, a handful of wet wanderers, in attitudes of chronic dejection, was scattered among the benches. A girl of the painted cohorts of the city went along the street. She threw changing glances at men who passed her, giving smiling invitations to men of rural or untaught pattern and usually seeming sedately unconscious of the men with a metropolitan seal upon their faces. Crossing glittering avenues, she went into the throng emerging from the places of forgetfulness. She hurried forward through the crowd as if intent upon reaching a distant home, bending forward in her handsome cloak, daintily lifting her skirts and picking for her well-shod feet the dryer spots upon the pavements. The restless doors of saloons, clashing to and fro, disclosed animated rows of men before bars and hurrying barkeepers. A concert hall gave to the street faint sounds of swift, machine-like music, as if a group of phantom musicians were hastening. A tall young man, smoking a cigarette with a sublime air, strolled near the girl. He had on evening dress, a moustache, a chrysanthemum, and a look of ennui, all of which he kept carefully under his eye. Seeing the girl walk on as if such a young man as he was not in existence, he looked back transfixed with interest. He stared glassily for a moment, but gave a slight convulsive start when he discerned that she was neither new, Parisian, nor theatrical. He wheeled about hastily and turned his stare into the air, like a sailor with a search-light. A stout gentleman, with pompous and philanthropic whiskers, went stolidly by, the broad of his back sneering at the girl. A belated man in business clothes, and in haste to catch a car, bounced against her shoulder. "Hi, there, Mary, I beg your pardon! Brace up, old girl." He grasped her arm to steady her, and then was away running down the middle of the street. The girl walked on out of the realm of restaurants and saloons. She passed more glittering avenues and went into darker blocks than those where the crowd travelled. A young man in light overcoat and derby hat received a glance shot keenly from the eyes of the girl. He stopped and looked at her, thrusting his hands in his pockets and making a mocking smile curl his lips. "Come, now, old lady," he said, "you don't mean to tel me that you sized me up for a farmer?" A labouring man marched along; with bundles under his arms. To her remarks, he replied, "It's a fine evenin', ain't it?" She smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his hands buried in his overcoat pockets, his blonde locks bobbing on his youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips. He turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands. "Not this eve--some other eve!" A drunken man, reeling in her pathway, began to roar at her. "I ain' ga no money!" he shouted, in a dismal voice. He lurched on up the street, wailing to himself: "I ain' ga no money. Ba' luck. Ain' ga no more money." The girl went into gloomy districts near the river, where the tall black factories shut in the street and only occasional broad beams of light fell across the pavements from saloons. In front of one of these places, whence came the sound of a violin vigorously scraped, the patter of feet on boards and the ring of loud laughter, there stood a man with blotched features. Further on in the darkness she met a ragged being with shifting, bloodshot eyes and grimy hands. She went into the blackness of the final block. The shutters of the tall buildings were closed like grim lips. The structures seemed to have eyes that looked over them, beyond them, at other things. Afar off the lights of the avenues glittered as if from an impossible distance. Street-car bells jingled with a sound of merriment. At the feet of the tall buildings appeared the deathly black hue of the river. Some hidden factory sent up a yellow glare, that lit for a moment the waters lapping oilily against timbers. The varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 18 based on the provided context.

Pete sits in a sectioned off portion of a saloon surrounded by half a dozen mirthfully laughing women. Pete is drunk and full of affection for himself and the world. "I'm a good f'ler ," he says to the girls, "An'body treats me right, I allus trea's zem right! See?" The girls loudly agree that Pete is the kind of man they like and he promises to buy them whatever they want to drink. He is overcome by a sense of his own benevolence and regard for his friends. Pete noisily summons a waiter and orders him to bring drinks for the girls. The waiter takes their orders but is obviously disgusted by Pete's overly intoxicated manner. While the waiter is gone Pete loudly proclaims the excellence of himself and his drinking companions and reassures the girls that he has very high regard for them and knows that they are not merely trying to work him for drinks. The waiter returns and while he disperses the drinks Pete delivers a tearful soliloquy about his tender regard for all living things. As the waiter is about to depart Pete presents the man with a quarter but the waiter refuses. "Put yer money in yer pocket," he says to Pete, "Yer loaded an' yehs on'ly makes a damn fool of yerself." The waiter leaves and Pete is visibly depressed. The ladies, including Nell, the woman of "brilliance and audacity" comfort him and promise to stick by him. Pete comforts himself by reminding himself that he is a "damn goo' f'ler" and the women heartily agree. Pete turns to Nell and drunkenly questions her with regards to his own worth. She readily agrees to everything he says and the whole group raises their glasses to Pete's health. Pete decides that they should have another drink and the women encourage his spending. Pete beats the wooden table in an effort to summon the waiter but he does not come. Finally, after much pounding and shouting the waiter appears, takes the order and leaves quickly. Pete is suddenly apprehensive and suspects that the waiter has insulted him but the women convince him that the waiter is a good fellow who has done Pete no harm. Pete becomes confused and when the waiter returns he dramatically rises to his feet, says that the girls have told him that the waiter has insulted him but he doesn't agree and apologizes. After the waiter leaves Pete sits down heavily and though he is tired he feels a strong desire to straighten everything out. He closely questions Nell and she assures him, again, that he is a good fellow. Overcome by affection, Pete pulls three bills from his pocket and tells Nell she can have all his money because he is stuck on her. Soon afterward Pete falls asleep in his chair. The women continue with their party until Pete pitches forward onto the floor groaning. The women are disgusted and begin to leave. Nell picks up the money from the table and looking at the snoring man on the floor she says: "What a damn fool." .

----------CHAPTER 18--------- In a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him. The man had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe. "I'm good f'ler, girls," he said, convincingly. "I'm damn good f'ler. An'body treats me right, I allus trea's zem right! See?" The women nodded their heads approvingly. "To be sure," they cried out in hearty chorus. "You're the kind of a man we like, Pete. You're outa sight! What yeh goin' to buy this time, dear?" "An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," said the man in an abandonment of good will. His countenance shone with the true spirit of benevolence. He was in the proper mode of missionaries. He would have fraternized with obscure Hottentots. And above all, he was overwhelmed in tenderness for his friends, who were all illustrious. "An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," repeated he, waving his hands with beneficent recklessness. "I'm good f'ler, girls, an' if an'body treats me right I--here," called he through an open door to a waiter, "bring girls drinks, damn it. What 'ill yehs have, girls? An't'ing yehs wants, damn it!" The waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves intoxicants for the man who takes too much of them. He nodded his head shortly at the order from each individual, and went. "Damn it," said the man, "we're havin' heluva time. I like you girls! Damn'd if I don't! Yer right sort! See?" He spoke at length and with feeling, concerning the excellencies of his assembled friends. "Don' try pull man's leg, but have a heluva time! Das right! Das way teh do! Now, if I sawght yehs tryin' work me fer drinks, wouldn' buy damn t'ing! But yer right sort, damn it! Yehs know how ter treat a f'ler, an' I stays by yehs 'til spen' las' cent! Das right! I'm good f'ler an' I knows when an'body treats me right!" Between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man discoursed to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living things. He laid stress upon the purity of his motives in all dealings with men in the world and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for those who were amiable. Tears welled slowly from his eyes. His voice quavered when he spoke to them. Once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth. "Here," said he, quite magnificently, "here's quar'." The waiter kept his hands on his tray. "I don' want yer money," he said. The other put forth the coin with tearful insistence. "Here, damn it," cried he, "tak't! Yer damn goo' f'ler an' I wan' yehs tak't!" "Come, come, now," said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is forced into giving advice. "Put yer mon in yer pocket! Yer loaded an' yehs on'y makes a damn fool of yerself." As the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the women. "He don' know I'm damn goo' f'ler," cried he, dismally. "Never you mind, Pete, dear," said a woman of brilliance and audacity, laying her hand with great affection upon his arm. "Never you mind, old boy! We'll stay by you, dear!" "Das ri'," cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of the woman's voice. "Das ri', I'm damn goo' f'ler an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I treats zem ri'! Shee!" "Sure!" cried the women. "And we're not goin' back on you, old man." The man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity. He felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action he would die. "Shay, Nell, damn it, I allus trea's yehs shquare, didn' I? I allus been goo' f'ler wi' yehs, ain't I, Nell?" "Sure you have, Pete," assented the woman. She delivered an oration to her companions. "Yessir, that's a fact. Pete's a square fellah, he is. He never goes back on a friend. He's the right kind an' we stay by him, don't we, girls?" "Sure," they exclaimed. Looking lovingly at him they raised their glasses and drank his health. "Girlsh," said the man, beseechingly, "I allus trea's yehs ri', didn' I? I'm goo' f'ler, ain' I, girlsh?" "Sure," again they chorused. "Well," said he finally, "le's have nozzer drink, zen." "That's right," hailed a woman, "that's right. Yer no bloomin' jay! Yer spends yer money like a man. Dat's right." The man pounded the table with his quivering fists. "Yessir," he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him. "I'm damn goo' f'ler, an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I allus trea's--le's have nozzer drink." He began to beat the wood with his glass. "Shay," howled he, growing suddenly impatient. As the waiter did not then come, the man swelled with wrath. "Shay," howled he again. The waiter appeared at the door. "Bringsh drinksh," said the man. The waiter disappeared with the orders. "Zat f'ler damn fool," cried the man. "He insul' me! I'm ge'man! Can' stan' be insul'! I'm goin' lickim when comes!" "No, no," cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him. "He's all right! He didn't mean anything! Let it go! He's a good fellah!" "Din' he insul' me?" asked the man earnestly. "No," said they. "Of course he didn't! He's all right!" "Sure he didn' insul' me?" demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his voice. "No, no! We know him! He's a good fellah. He didn't mean anything." "Well, zen," said the man, resolutely, "I'm go' 'pol'gize!" When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor. "Girlsh shed you insul' me! I shay damn lie! I 'pol'gize!" "All right," said the waiter. The man sat down. He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody. "Nell, I allus trea's yeh shquare, din' I? Yeh likes me, don' yehs, Nell? I'm goo' f'ler?" "Sure," said the woman of brilliance and audacity. "Yeh knows I'm stuck on yehs, don' yehs, Nell?" "Sure," she repeated, carelessly. Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman. "Yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, 'cause I'm stuck on yehs, Nell, damn't, I--I'm stuck on yehs, Nell--buy drinksh--damn't--we're havin' heluva time--w'en anyone trea's me ri'--I--damn't, Nell--we're havin' heluva--time." Shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest. The women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor. The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts. "Come ahn," cried one, starting up angrily, "let's get out of here." The woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket. A guttural snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him. She laughed. "What a damn fool," she said, and went. The smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little compartment, obscuring the way out. The smell of oil, stifling in its intensity, pervaded the air. The wine from an overturned glass dripped softly down upon the blotches on the man's neck. ----------CHAPTER 19--------- In a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture. A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered. "Well," said he, "Mag's dead." "What?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread. "Mag's dead," repeated the man. "Deh hell she is," said the woman. She continued her meal. When she finished her coffee she began to weep. "I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she weared worsted boots," moaned she. "Well, whata dat?" said the man. "I kin remember when she weared worsted boots," she cried. The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. A dozen women entered and lamented with her. Under their busy hands the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted. Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with outstretched arms. "Ah, poor Mary," she cried, and tenderly embraced the moaning one. "Ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis," continued she. Her vocabulary was derived from mission churches. "Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs! Ah, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chil'." Her good, motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe. "I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no bigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith," she cried, raising her streaming eyes. "Ah, me poor Mary," sobbed the woman in black. With low, coddling cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair, and put her arms about her. The other women began to groan in different keys. "Yer poor misguided chil' is gone now, Mary, an' let us hope it's fer deh bes'. Yeh'll fergive her now, Mary, won't yehs, dear, all her disobed'ence? All her t'ankless behavior to her mudder an' all her badness? She's gone where her ter'ble sins will be judged." The woman in black raised her face and paused. The inevitable sunlight came streaming in at the windows and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon the faded hues of the room. Two or three of the spectators were sniffling, and one was loudly weeping. The mourner arose and staggered into the other room. In a moment she emerged with a pair of faded baby shoes held in the hollow of her hand. "I kin remember when she used to wear dem," cried she. The women burst anew into cries as if they had all been stabbed. The mourner turned to the soiled and unshaven man. "Jimmie, boy, go git yer sister! Go git yer sister an' we'll put deh boots on her feets!" "Dey won't fit her now, yeh damn fool," said the man. "Go git yer sister, Jimmie," shrieked the woman, confronting him fiercely. The man swore sullenly. He went over to a corner and slowly began to put on his coat. He took his hat and went out, with a dragging, reluctant step. The woman in black came forward and again besought the mourner. "Yeh'll fergive her, Mary! Yeh'll fergive yer bad, bad, chil'! Her life was a curse an' her days were black an' yeh'll fergive yer bad girl? She's gone where her sins will be judged." "She's gone where her sins will be judged," cried the other women, like a choir at a funeral. "Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," said the woman in black, raising her eyes to the sunbeams. "Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," responded the others. "Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!" pleaded the woman in black. The mourner essayed to speak but her voice gave way. She shook her great shoulders frantically, in an agony of grief. Hot tears seemed to scald her quivering face. Finally her voice came and arose like a scream of pain. "Oh, yes, I'll fergive her! I'll fergive her!"

Maggie: A Girl of the Str

cliffnotes

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

chapter 1|chapter 2|chapter 3

Home life in the dark and dreary tenement is no treat either. "mall and ragged" Maggie--the big sister--and "bawling" Tommie --the baby brother--are there to greet father and Jimmie in the family's chaotic, filthy apartment. In terms of human wrath, no one compares to Mother Mary. She's Jimmie, Maggie, and Tommie's mom, as well as a raging alcoholic abuser who careens around the apartment and busts up furniture just to make a point. Nothing makes her more abusive than her son's relentless habit of getting into fights, though, and today she comes out swinging. Oh, and Dad's an alcoholic, too, but he likes to seek respite by doing his drinking at a local bar. Jimmie receives some sympathy from a neighbor.

----------CHAPTER 1--------- A very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honor of Rum Alley. He was throwing stones at howling urchins from Devil's Row who were circling madly about the heap and pelting at him. His infantile countenance was livid with fury. His small body was writhing in the delivery of great, crimson oaths. "Run, Jimmie, run! Dey'll get yehs," screamed a retreating Rum Alley child. "Naw," responded Jimmie with a valiant roar, "dese micks can't make me run." Howls of renewed wrath went up from Devil's Row throats. Tattered gamins on the right made a furious assault on the gravel heap. On their small, convulsed faces there shone the grins of true assassins. As they charged, they threw stones and cursed in shrill chorus. The little champion of Rum Alley stumbled precipitately down the other side. His coat had been torn to shreds in a scuffle, and his hat was gone. He had bruises on twenty parts of his body, and blood was dripping from a cut in his head. His wan features wore a look of a tiny, insane demon. On the ground, children from Devil's Row closed in on their antagonist. He crooked his left arm defensively about his head and fought with cursing fury. The little boys ran to and fro, dodging, hurling stones and swearing in barbaric trebles. From a window of an apartment house that upreared its form from amid squat, ignorant stables, there leaned a curious woman. Some laborers, unloading a scow at a dock at the river, paused for a moment and regarded the fight. The engineer of a passive tugboat hung lazily to a railing and watched. Over on the Island, a worm of yellow convicts came from the shadow of a building and crawled slowly along the river's bank. A stone had smashed into Jimmie's mouth. Blood was bubbling over his chin and down upon his ragged shirt. Tears made furrows on his dirt-stained cheeks. His thin legs had begun to tremble and turn weak, causing his small body to reel. His roaring curses of the first part of the fight had changed to a blasphemous chatter. In the yells of the whirling mob of Devil's Row children there were notes of joy like songs of triumphant savagery. The little boys seemed to leer gloatingly at the blood upon the other child's face. Down the avenue came boastfully sauntering a lad of sixteen years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal manhood already sat upon his lips. His hat was tipped with an air of challenge over his eye. Between his teeth, a cigar stump was tilted at the angle of defiance. He walked with a certain swing of the shoulders which appalled the timid. He glanced over into the vacant lot in which the little raving boys from Devil's Row seethed about the shrieking and tearful child from Rum Alley. "Gee!" he murmured with interest. "A scrap. Gee!" He strode over to the cursing circle, swinging his shoulders in a manner which denoted that he held victory in his fists. He approached at the back of one of the most deeply engaged of the Devil's Row children. "Ah, what deh hell," he said, and smote the deeply-engaged one on the back of the head. The little boy fell to the ground and gave a hoarse, tremendous howl. He scrambled to his feet, and perceiving, evidently, the size of his assailant, ran quickly off, shouting alarms. The entire Devil's Row party followed him. They came to a stand a short distance away and yelled taunting oaths at the boy with the chronic sneer. The latter, momentarily, paid no attention to them. "What deh hell, Jimmie?" he asked of the small champion. Jimmie wiped his blood-wet features with his sleeve. "Well, it was dis way, Pete, see! I was goin' teh lick dat Riley kid and dey all pitched on me." Some Rum Alley children now came forward. The party stood for a moment exchanging vainglorious remarks with Devil's Row. A few stones were thrown at long distances, and words of challenge passed between small warriors. Then the Rum Alley contingent turned slowly in the direction of their home street. They began to give, each to each, distorted versions of the fight. Causes of retreat in particular cases were magnified. Blows dealt in the fight were enlarged to catapultian power, and stones thrown were alleged to have hurtled with infinite accuracy. Valor grew strong again, and the little boys began to swear with great spirit. "Ah, we blokies kin lick deh hull damn Row," said a child, swaggering. Little Jimmie was striving to stanch the flow of blood from his cut lips. Scowling, he turned upon the speaker. "Ah, where deh hell was yeh when I was doin' all deh fightin?" he demanded. "Youse kids makes me tired." "Ah, go ahn," replied the other argumentatively. Jimmie replied with heavy contempt. "Ah, youse can't fight, Blue Billie! I kin lick yeh wid one han'." "Ah, go ahn," replied Billie again. "Ah," said Jimmie threateningly. "Ah," said the other in the same tone. They struck at each other, clinched, and rolled over on the cobble stones. "Smash 'im, Jimmie, kick deh damn guts out of 'im," yelled Pete, the lad with the chronic sneer, in tones of delight. The small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore. They began to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with sobs. The other little boys clasped their hands and wriggled their legs in excitement. They formed a bobbing circle about the pair. A tiny spectator was suddenly agitated. "Cheese it, Jimmie, cheese it! Here comes yer fader," he yelled. The circle of little boys instantly parted. They drew away and waited in ecstatic awe for that which was about to happen. The two little boys fighting in the modes of four thousand years ago, did not hear the warning. Up the avenue there plodded slowly a man with sullen eyes. He was carrying a dinner pail and smoking an apple-wood pipe. As he neared the spot where the little boys strove, he regarded them listlessly. But suddenly he roared an oath and advanced upon the rolling fighters. "Here, you Jim, git up, now, while I belt yer life out, you damned disorderly brat." He began to kick into the chaotic mass on the ground. The boy Billie felt a heavy boot strike his head. He made a furious effort and disentangled himself from Jimmie. He tottered away, damning. Jimmie arose painfully from the ground and confronting his father, began to curse him. His parent kicked him. "Come home, now," he cried, "an' stop yer jawin', er I'll lam the everlasting head off yehs." They departed. The man paced placidly along with the apple-wood emblem of serenity between his teeth. The boy followed a dozen feet in the rear. He swore luridly, for he felt that it was degradation for one who aimed to be some vague soldier, or a man of blood with a sort of sublime license, to be taken home by a father. ----------CHAPTER 2--------- Eventually they entered into a dark region where, from a careening building, a dozen gruesome doorways gave up loads of babies to the street and the gutter. A wind of early autumn raised yellow dust from cobbles and swirled it against an hundred windows. Long streamers of garments fluttered from fire-escapes. In all unhandy places there were buckets, brooms, rags and bottles. In the street infants played or fought with other infants or sat stupidly in the way of vehicles. Formidable women, with uncombed hair and disordered dress, gossiped while leaning on railings, or screamed in frantic quarrels. Withered persons, in curious postures of submission to something, sat smoking pipes in obscure corners. A thousand odors of cooking food came forth to the street. The building quivered and creaked from the weight of humanity stamping about in its bowels. A small ragged girl dragged a red, bawling infant along the crowded ways. He was hanging back, baby-like, bracing his wrinkled, bare legs. The little girl cried out: "Ah, Tommie, come ahn. Dere's Jimmie and fader. Don't be a-pullin' me back." She jerked the baby's arm impatiently. He fell on his face, roaring. With a second jerk she pulled him to his feet, and they went on. With the obstinacy of his order, he protested against being dragged in a chosen direction. He made heroic endeavors to keep on his legs, denounce his sister and consume a bit of orange peeling which he chewed between the times of his infantile orations. As the sullen-eyed man, followed by the blood-covered boy, drew near, the little girl burst into reproachful cries. "Ah, Jimmie, youse bin fightin' agin." The urchin swelled disdainfully. "Ah, what deh hell, Mag. See?" The little girl upbraided him, "Youse allus fightin', Jimmie, an' yeh knows it puts mudder out when yehs come home half dead, an' it's like we'll all get a poundin'." She began to weep. The babe threw back his head and roared at his prospects. "Ah, what deh hell!" cried Jimmie. "Shut up er I'll smack yer mout'. See?" As his sister continued her lamentations, he suddenly swore and struck her. The little girl reeled and, recovering herself, burst into tears and quaveringly cursed him. As she slowly retreated her brother advanced dealing her cuffs. The father heard and turned about. "Stop that, Jim, d'yeh hear? Leave yer sister alone on the street. It's like I can never beat any sense into yer damned wooden head." The urchin raised his voice in defiance to his parent and continued his attacks. The babe bawled tremendously, protesting with great violence. During his sister's hasty manoeuvres, he was dragged by the arm. Finally the procession plunged into one of the gruesome doorways. They crawled up dark stairways and along cold, gloomy halls. At last the father pushed open a door and they entered a lighted room in which a large woman was rampant. She stopped in a career from a seething stove to a pan-covered table. As the father and children filed in she peered at them. "Eh, what? Been fightin' agin, by Gawd!" She threw herself upon Jimmie. The urchin tried to dart behind the others and in the scuffle the babe, Tommie, was knocked down. He protested with his usual vehemence, because they had bruised his tender shins against a table leg. The mother's massive shoulders heaved with anger. Grasping the urchin by the neck and shoulder she shook him until he rattled. She dragged him to an unholy sink, and, soaking a rag in water, began to scrub his lacerated face with it. Jimmie screamed in pain and tried to twist his shoulders out of the clasp of the huge arms. The babe sat on the floor watching the scene, his face in contortions like that of a woman at a tragedy. The father, with a newly-ladened pipe in his mouth, crouched on a backless chair near the stove. Jimmie's cries annoyed him. He turned about and bellowed at his wife: "Let the damned kid alone for a minute, will yeh, Mary? Yer allus poundin' 'im. When I come nights I can't git no rest 'cause yer allus poundin' a kid. Let up, d'yeh hear? Don't be allus poundin' a kid." The woman's operations on the urchin instantly increased in violence. At last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and weeping. The wife put her immense hands on her hips and with a chieftain-like stride approached her husband. "Ho," she said, with a great grunt of contempt. "An' what in the devil are you stickin' your nose for?" The babe crawled under the table and, turning, peered out cautiously. The ragged girl retreated and the urchin in the corner drew his legs carefully beneath him. The man puffed his pipe calmly and put his great mudded boots on the back part of the stove. "Go teh hell," he murmured, tranquilly. The woman screamed and shook her fists before her husband's eyes. The rough yellow of her face and neck flared suddenly crimson. She began to howl. He puffed imperturbably at his pipe for a time, but finally arose and began to look out at the window into the darkening chaos of back yards. "You've been drinkin', Mary," he said. "You'd better let up on the bot', ol' woman, or you'll git done." "You're a liar. I ain't had a drop," she roared in reply. They had a lurid altercation, in which they damned each other's souls with frequence. The babe was staring out from under the table, his small face working in his excitement. The ragged girl went stealthily over to the corner where the urchin lay. "Are yehs hurted much, Jimmie?" she whispered timidly. "Not a damn bit! See?" growled the little boy. "Will I wash deh blood?" "Naw!" "Will I--" "When I catch dat Riley kid I'll break 'is face! Dat's right! See?" He turned his face to the wall as if resolved to grimly bide his time. In the quarrel between husband and wife, the woman was victor. The man grabbed his hat and rushed from the room, apparently determined upon a vengeful drunk. She followed to the door and thundered at him as he made his way down stairs. She returned and stirred up the room until her children were bobbing about like bubbles. "Git outa deh way," she persistently bawled, waving feet with their dishevelled shoes near the heads of her children. She shrouded herself, puffing and snorting, in a cloud of steam at the stove, and eventually extracted a frying-pan full of potatoes that hissed. She flourished it. "Come teh yer suppers, now," she cried with sudden exasperation. "Hurry up, now, er I'll help yeh!" The children scrambled hastily. With prodigious clatter they arranged themselves at table. The babe sat with his feet dangling high from a precarious infant chair and gorged his small stomach. Jimmie forced, with feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces between his wounded lips. Maggie, with side glances of fear of interruption, ate like a small pursued tigress. The mother sat blinking at them. She delivered reproaches, swallowed potatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle. After a time her mood changed and she wept as she carried little Tommie into another room and laid him to sleep with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red and green grandeur. Then she came and moaned by the stove. She rocked to and fro upon a chair, shedding tears and crooning miserably to the two children about their "poor mother" and "yer fader, damn 'is soul." The little girl plodded between the table and the chair with a dish-pan on it. She tottered on her small legs beneath burdens of dishes. Jimmie sat nursing his various wounds. He cast furtive glances at his mother. His practised eye perceived her gradually emerge from a muddled mist of sentiment until her brain burned in drunken heat. He sat breathless. Maggie broke a plate. The mother started to her feet as if propelled. "Good Gawd," she howled. Her eyes glittered on her child with sudden hatred. The fervent red of her face turned almost to purple. The little boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in an earthquake. He floundered about in darkness until he found the stairs. He stumbled, panic-stricken, to the next floor. An old woman opened a door. A light behind her threw a flare on the urchin's quivering face. "Eh, Gawd, child, what is it dis time? Is yer fader beatin' yer mudder, or yer mudder beatin' yer fader?" ----------CHAPTER 3--------- Jimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall. Above the muffled roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at night, the thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled with the sound of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the rattling of wheels over cobbles, they heard the screams of the child and the roars of the mother die away to a feeble moaning and a subdued bass muttering. The old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at will, an expression of great virtue. She possessed a small music-box capable of one tune, and a collection of "God bless yehs" pitched in assorted keys of fervency. Each day she took a position upon the stones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under her and crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. She received daily a small sum in pennies. It was contributed, for the most part, by persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity. Once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the gnarled woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity beneath her cloak. When she was arrested she had cursed the lady into a partial swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had almost kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman whose conduct upon that occasion she referred to when she said: "The police, damn 'em." "Eh, Jimmie, it's cursed shame," she said. "Go, now, like a dear an' buy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs can sleep here." Jimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed. He passed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar. Straining up on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high as his arms would let him. He saw two hands thrust down and take them. Directly the same hands let down the filled pail and he left. In front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure. It was his father, swaying about on uncertain legs. "Give me deh can. See?" said the man, threateningly. "Ah, come off! I got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be dirt teh swipe it. See?" cried Jimmie. The father wrenched the pail from the urchin. He grasped it in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. He glued his lips to the under edge and tilted his head. His hairy throat swelled until it seemed to grow near his chin. There was a tremendous gulping movement and the beer was gone. The man caught his breath and laughed. He hit his son on the head with the empty pail. As it rolled clanging into the street, Jimmie began to scream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins. "Look at deh dirt what yeh done me," he yelled. "Deh ol' woman 'ill be raisin' hell." He retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not pursue. He staggered toward the door. "I'll club hell outa yeh when I ketch yeh," he shouted, and disappeared. During the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking whiskies and declaring to all comers, confidentially: "My home reg'lar livin' hell! Damndes' place! Reg'lar hell! Why do I come an' drin' whisk' here thish way? 'Cause home reg'lar livin' hell!" Jimmie waited a long time in the street and then crept warily up through the building. He passed with great caution the door of the gnarled woman, and finally stopped outside his home and listened. He could hear his mother moving heavily about among the furniture of the room. She was chanting in a mournful voice, occasionally interjecting bursts of volcanic wrath at the father, who, Jimmie judged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner. "Why deh blazes don' chere try teh keep Jim from fightin'? I'll break her jaw," she suddenly bellowed. The man mumbled with drunken indifference. "Ah, wha' deh hell. W'a's odds? Wha' makes kick?" "Because he tears 'is clothes, yeh damn fool," cried the woman in supreme wrath. The husband seemed to become aroused. "Go teh hell," he thundered fiercely in reply. There was a crash against the door and something broke into clattering fragments. Jimmie partially suppressed a howl and darted down the stairway. Below he paused and listened. He heard howls and curses, groans and shrieks, confusingly in chorus as if a battle were raging. With all was the crash of splintering furniture. The eyes of the urchin glared in fear that one of them would discover him. Curious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments passed to and fro. "Ol' Johnson's raisin' hell agin." Jimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants of the tenement had all yawned and shut their doors. Then he crawled upstairs with the caution of an invader of a panther den. Sounds of labored breathing came through the broken door-panels. He pushed the door open and entered, quaking. A glow from the fire threw red hues over the bare floor, the cracked and soiled plastering, and the overturned and broken furniture. In the middle of the floor lay his mother asleep. In one corner of the room his father's limp body hung across the seat of a chair. The urchin stole forward. He began to shiver in dread of awakening his parents. His mother's great chest was heaving painfully. Jimmie paused and looked down at her. Her face was inflamed and swollen from drinking. Her yellow brows shaded eyelids that had brown blue. Her tangled hair tossed in waves over her forehead. Her mouth was set in the same lines of vindictive hatred that it had, perhaps, borne during the fight. Her bare, red arms were thrown out above her head in positions of exhaustion, something, mayhap, like those of a sated villain. The urchin bended over his mother. He was fearful lest she should open her eyes, and the dread within him was so strong, that he could not forbear to stare, but hung as if fascinated over the woman's grim face. Suddenly her eyes opened. The urchin found himself looking straight into that expression, which, it would seem, had the power to change his blood to salt. He howled piercingly and fell backward. The woman floundered for a moment, tossed her arms about her head as if in combat, and again began to snore. Jimmie crawled back in the shadows and waited. A noise in the next room had followed his cry at the discovery that his mother was awake. He grovelled in the gloom, the eyes from out his drawn face riveted upon the intervening door. He heard it creak, and then the sound of a small voice came to him. "Jimmie! Jimmie! Are yehs dere?" it whispered. The urchin started. The thin, white face of his sister looked at him from the door-way of the other room. She crept to him across the floor. The father had not moved, but lay in the same death-like sleep. The mother writhed in uneasy slumber, her chest wheezing as if she were in the agonies of strangulation. Out at the window a florid moon was peering over dark roofs, and in the distance the waters of a river glimmered pallidly. The small frame of the ragged girl was quivering. Her features were haggard from weeping, and her eyes gleamed from fear. She grasped the urchin's arm in her little trembling hands and they huddled in a corner. The eyes of both were drawn, by some force, to stare at the woman's face, for they thought she need only to awake and all fiends would come from below. They crouched until the ghost-mists of dawn appeared at the window, drawing close to the panes, and looking in at the prostrate, heaving body of the mother.

cliffnotes

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

chapter 4|chapter 5|chapter 6|chapter 7

The baby, Tommie, and "Ol' Johnson," the father, are dead, which seems to be no big deal. Weird. One can only imagine why. Obviously some time has gone by. Jimmie and Maggie are still around, though. And now Jimmie has a sassy attitude: sneering, hating the world, ready for a fight, and generally being a very ticked-off guy. Best to stay out of his way. He also likes to hang out and just watch life pass him by. Oh, and he hates anyone who practices religion or wears nice clothes. And he also has beef with pedestrians. Yeah, he has become what one might call a hater. Jimmie gets a job as a truck driver. Did someone say road rage? He spends his days driving around New York City looking for trouble--he only has respect for one thing: fire engines. Shockingly, Jimmie has a bit of a rap sheet, what with all of his battles and brawls.

----------CHAPTER 4--------- The babe, Tommie, died. He went away in a white, insignificant coffin, his small waxen hand clutching a flower that the girl, Maggie, had stolen from an Italian. She and Jimmie lived. The inexperienced fibres of the boy's eyes were hardened at an early age. He became a young man of leather. He lived some red years without laboring. During that time his sneer became chronic. He studied human nature in the gutter, and found it no worse than he thought he had reason to believe it. He never conceived a respect for the world, because he had begun with no idols that it had smashed. He clad his soul in armor by means of happening hilariously in at a mission church where a man composed his sermons of "yous." While they got warm at the stove, he told his hearers just where he calculated they stood with the Lord. Many of the sinners were impatient over the pictured depths of their degradation. They were waiting for soup-tickets. A reader of words of wind-demons might have been able to see the portions of a dialogue pass to and fro between the exhorter and his hearers. "You are damned," said the preacher. And the reader of sounds might have seen the reply go forth from the ragged people: "Where's our soup?" Jimmie and a companion sat in a rear seat and commented upon the things that didn't concern them, with all the freedom of English gentlemen. When they grew thirsty and went out their minds confused the speaker with Christ. Momentarily, Jimmie was sullen with thoughts of a hopeless altitude where grew fruit. His companion said that if he should ever meet God he would ask for a million dollars and a bottle of beer. Jimmie's occupation for a long time was to stand on streetcorners and watch the world go by, dreaming blood-red dreams at the passing of pretty women. He menaced mankind at the intersections of streets. On the corners he was in life and of life. The world was going on and he was there to perceive it. He maintained a belligerent attitude toward all well-dressed men. To him fine raiment was allied to weakness, and all good coats covered faint hearts. He and his order were kings, to a certain extent, over the men of untarnished clothes, because these latter dreaded, perhaps, to be either killed or laughed at. Above all things he despised obvious Christians and ciphers with the chrysanthemums of aristocracy in their button-holes. He considered himself above both of these classes. He was afraid of neither the devil nor the leader of society. When he had a dollar in his pocket his satisfaction with existence was the greatest thing in the world. So, eventually, he felt obliged to work. His father died and his mother's years were divided up into periods of thirty days. He became a truck driver. He was given the charge of a painstaking pair of horses and a large rattling truck. He invaded the turmoil and tumble of the down-town streets and learned to breathe maledictory defiance at the police who occasionally used to climb up, drag him from his perch and beat him. In the lower part of the city he daily involved himself in hideous tangles. If he and his team chanced to be in the rear he preserved a demeanor of serenity, crossing his legs and bursting forth into yells when foot passengers took dangerous dives beneath the noses of his champing horses. He smoked his pipe calmly for he knew that his pay was marching on. If in the front and the key-truck of chaos, he entered terrifically into the quarrel that was raging to and fro among the drivers on their high seats, and sometimes roared oaths and violently got himself arrested. After a time his sneer grew so that it turned its glare upon all things. He became so sharp that he believed in nothing. To him the police were always actuated by malignant impulses and the rest of the world was composed, for the most part, of despicable creatures who were all trying to take advantage of him and with whom, in defense, he was obliged to quarrel on all possible occasions. He himself occupied a down-trodden position that had a private but distinct element of grandeur in its isolation. The most complete cases of aggravated idiocy were, to his mind, rampant upon the front platforms of all the street cars. At first his tongue strove with these beings, but he eventually was superior. He became immured like an African cow. In him grew a majestic contempt for those strings of street cars that followed him like intent bugs. He fell into the habit, when starting on a long journey, of fixing his eye on a high and distant object, commanding his horses to begin, and then going into a sort of a trance of observation. Multitudes of drivers might howl in his rear, and passengers might load him with opprobrium, he would not awaken until some blue policeman turned red and began to frenziedly tear bridles and beat the soft noses of the responsible horses. When he paused to contemplate the attitude of the police toward himself and his fellows, he believed that they were the only men in the city who had no rights. When driving about, he felt that he was held liable by the police for anything that might occur in the streets, and was the common prey of all energetic officials. In revenge, he resolved never to move out of the way of anything, until formidable circumstances, or a much larger man than himself forced him to it. Foot-passengers were mere pestering flies with an insane disregard for their legs and his convenience. He could not conceive their maniacal desires to cross the streets. Their madness smote him with eternal amazement. He was continually storming at them from his throne. He sat aloft and denounced their frantic leaps, plunges, dives and straddles. When they would thrust at, or parry, the noses of his champing horses, making them swing their heads and move their feet, disturbing a solid dreamy repose, he swore at the men as fools, for he himself could perceive that Providence had caused it clearly to be written, that he and his team had the unalienable right to stand in the proper path of the sun chariot, and if they so minded, obstruct its mission or take a wheel off. And, perhaps, if the god-driver had an ungovernable desire to step down, put up his flame-colored fists and manfully dispute the right of way, he would have probably been immediately opposed by a scowling mortal with two sets of very hard knuckles. It is possible, perhaps, that this young man would have derided, in an axle-wide alley, the approach of a flying ferry boat. Yet he achieved a respect for a fire engine. As one charged toward his truck, he would drive fearfully upon a sidewalk, threatening untold people with annihilation. When an engine would strike a mass of blocked trucks, splitting it into fragments, as a blow annihilates a cake of ice, Jimmie's team could usually be observed high and safe, with whole wheels, on the sidewalk. The fearful coming of the engine could break up the most intricate muddle of heavy vehicles at which the police had been swearing for the half of an hour. A fire engine was enshrined in his heart as an appalling thing that he loved with a distant dog-like devotion. They had been known to overturn street-cars. Those leaping horses, striking sparks from the cobbles in their forward lunge, were creatures to be ineffably admired. The clang of the gong pierced his breast like a noise of remembered war. When Jimmie was a little boy, he began to be arrested. Before he reached a great age, he had a fair record. He developed too great a tendency to climb down from his truck and fight with other drivers. He had been in quite a number of miscellaneous fights, and in some general barroom rows that had become known to the police. Once he had been arrested for assaulting a Chinaman. Two women in different parts of the city, and entirely unknown to each other, caused him considerable annoyance by breaking forth, simultaneously, at fateful intervals, into wailings about marriage and support and infants. Nevertheless, he had, on a certain star-lit evening, said wonderingly and quite reverently: "Deh moon looks like hell, don't it?" ----------CHAPTER 5--------- The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle. She grew to be a most rare and wonderful production of a tenement district, a pretty girl. None of the dirt of Rum Alley seemed to be in her veins. The philosophers up-stairs, down-stairs and on the same floor, puzzled over it. When a child, playing and fighting with gamins in the street, dirt disguised her. Attired in tatters and grime, she went unseen. There came a time, however, when the young men of the vicinity said: "Dat Johnson goil is a puty good looker." About this period her brother remarked to her: "Mag, I'll tell yeh dis! See? Yeh've edder got teh go teh hell or go teh work!" Whereupon she went to work, having the feminine aversion of going to hell. By a chance, she got a position in an establishment where they made collars and cuffs. She received a stool and a machine in a room where sat twenty girls of various shades of yellow discontent. She perched on the stool and treadled at her machine all day, turning out collars, the name of whose brand could be noted for its irrelevancy to anything in connection with collars. At night she returned home to her mother. Jimmie grew large enough to take the vague position of head of the family. As incumbent of that office, he stumbled up-stairs late at night, as his father had done before him. He reeled about the room, swearing at his relations, or went to sleep on the floor. The mother had gradually arisen to that degree of fame that she could bandy words with her acquaintances among the police-justices. Court-officials called her by her first name. When she appeared they pursued a course which had been theirs for months. They invariably grinned and cried out: "Hello, Mary, you here again?" Her grey head wagged in many a court. She always besieged the bench with voluble excuses, explanations, apologies and prayers. Her flaming face and rolling eyes were a sort of familiar sight on the island. She measured time by means of sprees, and was eternally swollen and dishevelled. One day the young man, Pete, who as a lad had smitten the Devil's Row urchin in the back of the head and put to flight the antagonists of his friend, Jimmie, strutted upon the scene. He met Jimmie one day on the street, promised to take him to a boxing match in Williamsburg, and called for him in the evening. Maggie observed Pete. He sat on a table in the Johnson home and dangled his checked legs with an enticing nonchalance. His hair was curled down over his forehead in an oiled bang. His rather pugged nose seemed to revolt from contact with a bristling moustache of short, wire-like hairs. His blue double-breasted coat, edged with black braid, buttoned close to a red puff tie, and his patent-leather shoes looked like murder-fitted weapons. His mannerisms stamped him as a man who had a correct sense of his personal superiority. There was valor and contempt for circumstances in the glance of his eye. He waved his hands like a man of the world, who dismisses religion and philosophy, and says "Fudge." He had certainly seen everything and with each curl of his lip, he declared that it amounted to nothing. Maggie thought he must be a very elegant and graceful bartender. He was telling tales to Jimmie. Maggie watched him furtively, with half-closed eyes, lit with a vague interest. "Hully gee! Dey makes me tired," he said. "Mos' e'ry day some farmer comes in an' tries teh run deh shop. See? But dey gits t'rowed right out! I jolt dem right out in deh street before dey knows where dey is! See?" "Sure," said Jimmie. "Dere was a mug come in deh place deh odder day wid an idear he wus goin' teh own deh place! Hully gee, he wus goin' teh own deh place! I see he had a still on an' I didn' wanna giv 'im no stuff, so I says: 'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble,' I says like dat! See? 'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble'; like dat. 'Git deh hell outa here,' I says. See?" Jimmie nodded understandingly. Over his features played an eager desire to state the amount of his valor in a similar crisis, but the narrator proceeded. "Well, deh blokie he says: 'T'hell wid it! I ain' lookin' for no scrap,' he says (See?), 'but' he says, 'I'm 'spectable cit'zen an' I wanna drink an' purtydamnsoon, too.' See? 'Deh hell,' I says. Like dat! 'Deh hell,' I says. See? 'Don' make no trouble,' I says. Like dat. 'Don' make no trouble.' See? Den deh mug he squared off an' said he was fine as silk wid his dukes (See?) an' he wanned a drink damnquick. Dat's what he said. See?" "Sure," repeated Jimmie. Pete continued. "Say, I jes' jumped deh bar an' deh way I plunked dat blokie was great. See? Dat's right! In deh jaw! See? Hully gee, he t'rowed a spittoon true deh front windee. Say, I taut I'd drop dead. But deh boss, he comes in after an' he says, 'Pete, yehs done jes' right! Yeh've gota keep order an' it's all right.' See? 'It's all right,' he says. Dat's what he said." The two held a technical discussion. "Dat bloke was a dandy," said Pete, in conclusion, "but he hadn' oughta made no trouble. Dat's what I says teh dem: 'Don' come in here an' make no trouble,' I says, like dat. 'Don' make no trouble.' See?" As Jimmie and his friend exchanged tales descriptive of their prowess, Maggie leaned back in the shadow. Her eyes dwelt wonderingly and rather wistfully upon Pete's face. The broken furniture, grimey walls, and general disorder and dirt of her home of a sudden appeared before her and began to take a potential aspect. Pete's aristocratic person looked as if it might soil. She looked keenly at him, occasionally, wondering if he was feeling contempt. But Pete seemed to be enveloped in reminiscence. "Hully gee," said he, "dose mugs can't phase me. Dey knows I kin wipe up deh street wid any t'ree of dem." When he said, "Ah, what deh hell," his voice was burdened with disdain for the inevitable and contempt for anything that fate might compel him to endure. Maggie perceived that here was the beau ideal of a man. Her dim thoughts were often searching for far away lands where, as God says, the little hills sing together in the morning. Under the trees of her dream-gardens there had always walked a lover. ----------CHAPTER 6--------- Pete took note of Maggie. "Say, Mag, I'm stuck on yer shape. It's outa sight," he said, parenthetically, with an affable grin. As he became aware that she was listening closely, he grew still more eloquent in his descriptions of various happenings in his career. It appeared that he was invincible in fights. "Why," he said, referring to a man with whom he had had a misunderstanding, "dat mug scrapped like a damn dago. Dat's right. He was dead easy. See? He tau't he was a scrapper. But he foun' out diff'ent! Hully gee." He walked to and fro in the small room, which seemed then to grow even smaller and unfit to hold his dignity, the attribute of a supreme warrior. That swing of the shoulders that had frozen the timid when he was but a lad had increased with his growth and education at the ratio of ten to one. It, combined with the sneer upon his mouth, told mankind that there was nothing in space which could appall him. Maggie marvelled at him and surrounded him with greatness. She vaguely tried to calculate the altitude of the pinnacle from which he must have looked down upon her. "I met a chump deh odder day way up in deh city," he said. "I was goin' teh see a frien' of mine. When I was a-crossin' deh street deh chump runned plump inteh me, an' den he turns aroun' an' says, 'Yer insolen' ruffin,' he says, like dat. 'Oh, gee,' I says, 'oh, gee, go teh hell and git off deh eart',' I says, like dat. See? 'Go teh hell an' git off deh eart',' like dat. Den deh blokie he got wild. He says I was a contempt'ble scoun'el, er somet'ing like dat, an' he says I was doom' teh everlastin' pe'dition an' all like dat. 'Gee,' I says, 'gee! Deh hell I am,' I says. 'Deh hell I am,' like dat. An' den I slugged 'im. See?" With Jimmie in his company, Pete departed in a sort of a blaze of glory from the Johnson home. Maggie, leaning from the window, watched him as he walked down the street. Here was a formidable man who disdained the strength of a world full of fists. Here was one who had contempt for brass-clothed power; one whose knuckles could defiantly ring against the granite of law. He was a knight. The two men went from under the glimmering street-lamp and passed into shadows. Turning, Maggie contemplated the dark, dust-stained walls, and the scant and crude furniture of her home. A clock, in a splintered and battered oblong box of varnished wood, she suddenly regarded as an abomination. She noted that it ticked raspingly. The almost vanished flowers in the carpet-pattern, she conceived to be newly hideous. Some faint attempts she had made with blue ribbon, to freshen the appearance of a dingy curtain, she now saw to be piteous. She wondered what Pete dined on. She reflected upon the collar and cuff factory. It began to appear to her mind as a dreary place of endless grinding. Pete's elegant occupation brought him, no doubt, into contact with people who had money and manners. It was probable that he had a large acquaintance of pretty girls. He must have great sums of money to spend. To her the earth was composed of hardships and insults. She felt instant admiration for a man who openly defied it. She thought that if the grim angel of death should clutch his heart, Pete would shrug his shoulders and say: "Oh, ev'ryt'ing goes." She anticipated that he would come again shortly. She spent some of her week's pay in the purchase of flowered cretonne for a lambrequin. She made it with infinite care and hung it to the slightly-careening mantel, over the stove, in the kitchen. She studied it with painful anxiety from different points in the room. She wanted it to look well on Sunday night when, perhaps, Jimmie's friend would come. On Sunday night, however, Pete did not appear. Afterward the girl looked at it with a sense of humiliation. She was now convinced that Pete was superior to admiration for lambrequins. A few evenings later Pete entered with fascinating innovations in his apparel. As she had seen him twice and he had different suits on each time, Maggie had a dim impression that his wardrobe was prodigiously extensive. "Say, Mag," he said, "put on yer bes' duds Friday night an' I'll take yehs teh deh show. See?" He spent a few moments in flourishing his clothes and then vanished, without having glanced at the lambrequin. Over the eternal collars and cuffs in the factory Maggie spent the most of three days in making imaginary sketches of Pete and his daily environment. She imagined some half dozen women in love with him and thought he must lean dangerously toward an indefinite one, whom she pictured with great charms of person, but with an altogether contemptible disposition. She thought he must live in a blare of pleasure. He had friends, and people who were afraid of him. She saw the golden glitter of the place where Pete was to take her. An entertainment of many hues and many melodies where she was afraid she might appear small and mouse-colored. Her mother drank whiskey all Friday morning. With lurid face and tossing hair she cursed and destroyed furniture all Friday afternoon. When Maggie came home at half-past six her mother lay asleep amidst the wreck of chairs and a table. Fragments of various household utensils were scattered about the floor. She had vented some phase of drunken fury upon the lambrequin. It lay in a bedraggled heap in the corner. "Hah," she snorted, sitting up suddenly, "where deh hell yeh been? Why deh hell don' yeh come home earlier? Been loafin' 'round deh streets. Yer gettin' teh be a reg'lar devil." When Pete arrived Maggie, in a worn black dress, was waiting for him in the midst of a floor strewn with wreckage. The curtain at the window had been pulled by a heavy hand and hung by one tack, dangling to and fro in the draft through the cracks at the sash. The knots of blue ribbons appeared like violated flowers. The fire in the stove had gone out. The displaced lids and open doors showed heaps of sullen grey ashes. The remnants of a meal, ghastly, like dead flesh, lay in a corner. Maggie's red mother, stretched on the floor, blasphemed and gave her daughter a bad name. ----------CHAPTER 7--------- An orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men on an elevated stage near the centre of a great green-hued hall, played a popular waltz. The place was crowded with people grouped about little tables. A battalion of waiters slid among the throng, carrying trays of beer glasses and making change from the inexhaustible vaults of their trousers pockets. Little boys, in the costumes of French chefs, paraded up and down the irregular aisles vending fancy cakes. There was a low rumble of conversation and a subdued clinking of glasses. Clouds of tobacco smoke rolled and wavered high in air about the dull gilt of the chandeliers. The vast crowd had an air throughout of having just quitted labor. Men with calloused hands and attired in garments that showed the wear of an endless trudge for a living, smoked their pipes contentedly and spent five, ten, or perhaps fifteen cents for beer. There was a mere sprinkling of kid-gloved men who smoked cigars purchased elsewhere. The great body of the crowd was composed of people who showed that all day they strove with their hands. Quiet Germans, with maybe their wives and two or three children, sat listening to the music, with the expressions of happy cows. An occasional party of sailors from a war-ship, their faces pictures of sturdy health, spent the earlier hours of the evening at the small round tables. Very infrequent tipsy men, swollen with the value of their opinions, engaged their companions in earnest and confidential conversation. In the balcony, and here and there below, shone the impassive faces of women. The nationalities of the Bowery beamed upon the stage from all directions. Pete aggressively walked up a side aisle and took seats with Maggie at a table beneath the balcony. "Two beehs!" Leaning back he regarded with eyes of superiority the scene before them. This attitude affected Maggie strongly. A man who could regard such a sight with indifference must be accustomed to very great things. It was obvious that Pete had been to this place many times before, and was very familiar with it. A knowledge of this fact made Maggie feel little and new. He was extremely gracious and attentive. He displayed the consideration of a cultured gentleman who knew what was due. "Say, what deh hell? Bring deh lady a big glass! What deh hell use is dat pony?" "Don't be fresh, now," said the waiter, with some warmth, as he departed. "Ah, git off deh eart'," said Pete, after the other's retreating form. Maggie perceived that Pete brought forth all his elegance and all his knowledge of high-class customs for her benefit. Her heart warmed as she reflected upon his condescension. The orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men gave vent to a few bars of anticipatory music and a girl, in a pink dress with short skirts, galloped upon the stage. She smiled upon the throng as if in acknowledgment of a warm welcome, and began to walk to and fro, making profuse gesticulations and singing, in brazen soprano tones, a song, the words of which were inaudible. When she broke into the swift rattling measures of a chorus some half-tipsy men near the stage joined in the rollicking refrain and glasses were pounded rhythmically upon the tables. People leaned forward to watch her and to try to catch the words of the song. When she vanished there were long rollings of applause. Obedient to more anticipatory bars, she reappeared amidst the half-suppressed cheering of the tipsy men. The orchestra plunged into dance music and the laces of the dancer fluttered and flew in the glare of gas jets. She divulged the fact that she was attired in some half dozen skirts. It was patent that any one of them would have proved adequate for the purpose for which skirts are intended. An occasional man bent forward, intent upon the pink stockings. Maggie wondered at the splendor of the costume and lost herself in calculations of the cost of the silks and laces. The dancer's smile of stereotyped enthusiasm was turned for ten minutes upon the faces of her audience. In the finale she fell into some of those grotesque attitudes which were at the time popular among the dancers in the theatres up-town, giving to the Bowery public the phantasies of the aristocratic theatre-going public, at reduced rates. "Say, Pete," said Maggie, leaning forward, "dis is great." "Sure," said Pete, with proper complacence. A ventriloquist followed the dancer. He held two fantastic dolls on his knees. He made them sing mournful ditties and say funny things about geography and Ireland. "Do dose little men talk?" asked Maggie. "Naw," said Pete, "it's some damn fake. See?" Two girls, on the bills as sisters, came forth and sang a duet that is heard occasionally at concerts given under church auspices. They supplemented it with a dance which of course can never be seen at concerts given under church auspices. After the duettists had retired, a woman of debatable age sang a negro melody. The chorus necessitated some grotesque waddlings supposed to be an imitation of a plantation darkey, under the influence, probably, of music and the moon. The audience was just enthusiastic enough over it to have her return and sing a sorrowful lay, whose lines told of a mother's love and a sweetheart who waited and a young man who was lost at sea under the most harrowing circumstances. From the faces of a score or so in the crowd, the self-contained look faded. Many heads were bent forward with eagerness and sympathy. As the last distressing sentiment of the piece was brought forth, it was greeted by that kind of applause which rings as sincere. As a final effort, the singer rendered some verses which described a vision of Britain being annihilated by America, and Ireland bursting her bonds. A carefully prepared crisis was reached in the last line of the last verse, where the singer threw out her arms and cried, "The star-spangled banner." Instantly a great cheer swelled from the throats of the assemblage of the masses. There was a heavy rumble of booted feet thumping the floor. Eyes gleamed with sudden fire, and calloused hands waved frantically in the air. After a few moments' rest, the orchestra played crashingly, and a small fat man burst out upon the stage. He began to roar a song and stamp back and forth before the foot-lights, wildly waving a glossy silk hat and throwing leers, or smiles, broadcast. He made his face into fantastic grimaces until he looked like a pictured devil on a Japanese kite. The crowd laughed gleefully. His short, fat legs were never still a moment. He shouted and roared and bobbed his shock of red wig until the audience broke out in excited applause. Pete did not pay much attention to the progress of events upon the stage. He was drinking beer and watching Maggie. Her cheeks were blushing with excitement and her eyes were glistening. She drew deep breaths of pleasure. No thoughts of the atmosphere of the collar and cuff factory came to her. When the orchestra crashed finally, they jostled their way to the sidewalk with the crowd. Pete took Maggie's arm and pushed a way for her, offering to fight with a man or two. They reached Maggie's home at a late hour and stood for a moment in front of the gruesome doorway. "Say, Mag," said Pete, "give us a kiss for takin' yeh teh deh show, will yer?" Maggie laughed, as if startled, and drew away from him. "Naw, Pete," she said, "dat wasn't in it." "Ah, what deh hell?" urged Pete. The girl retreated nervously. "Ah, what deh hell?" repeated he. Maggie darted into the hall, and up the stairs. She turned and smiled at him, then disappeared. Pete walked slowly down the street. He had something of an astonished expression upon his features. He paused under a lamp-post and breathed a low breath of surprise. "Gawd," he said, "I wonner if I've been played fer a duffer."

cliffnotes

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

chapter 8|chapter 9|chapter 10

Jimmie starts to get a little irked about Pete coming by and compromising his sister's reputation. A neighbor provokes Jimmie even more by reporting that she overheard Maggie basically begging Pete to love her. This can only mean one thing: Maggie has not acted so ladylike. He reports to his mom that Maggie has "gone teh deh devil" . So much for sibling loyalty, we guess... Mary is thoroughly perplexed about how Maggie could have become such a bad girl after being raised in such a decent and morally upstanding household. Why? Why? Why? It doesn't help that Mary curses her daughter, but Jimmie's off to take care of business in the form of--you guessed it--a brawl. Bring it on.

----------CHAPTER 8--------- As thoughts of Pete came to Maggie's mind, she began to have an intense dislike for all of her dresses. "What deh hell ails yeh? What makes yeh be allus fixin' and fussin'? Good Gawd," her mother would frequently roar at her. She began to note, with more interest, the well-dressed women she met on the avenues. She envied elegance and soft palms. She craved those adornments of person which she saw every day on the street, conceiving them to be allies of vast importance to women. Studying faces, she thought many of the women and girls she chanced to meet, smiled with serenity as though forever cherished and watched over by those they loved. The air in the collar and cuff establishment strangled her. She knew she was gradually and surely shrivelling in the hot, stuffy room. The begrimed windows rattled incessantly from the passing of elevated trains. The place was filled with a whirl of noises and odors. She wondered as she regarded some of the grizzled women in the room, mere mechanical contrivances sewing seams and grinding out, with heads bended over their work, tales of imagined or real girlhood happiness, past drunks, the baby at home, and unpaid wages. She speculated how long her youth would endure. She began to see the bloom upon her cheeks as valuable. She imagined herself, in an exasperating future, as a scrawny woman with an eternal grievance. Too, she thought Pete to be a very fastidious person concerning the appearance of women. She felt she would love to see somebody entangle their fingers in the oily beard of the fat foreigner who owned the establishment. He was a detestable creature. He wore white socks with low shoes. He sat all day delivering orations, in the depths of a cushioned chair. His pocketbook deprived them of the power to retort. "What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn!" Maggie was anxious for a friend to whom she could talk about Pete. She would have liked to discuss his admirable mannerisms with a reliable mutual friend. At home, she found her mother often drunk and always raving. It seems that the world had treated this woman very badly, and she took a deep revenge upon such portions of it as came within her reach. She broke furniture as if she were at last getting her rights. She swelled with virtuous indignation as she carried the lighter articles of household use, one by one under the shadows of the three gilt balls, where Hebrews chained them with chains of interest. Jimmie came when he was obliged to by circumstances over which he had no control. His well-trained legs brought him staggering home and put him to bed some nights when he would rather have gone elsewhere. Swaggering Pete loomed like a golden sun to Maggie. He took her to a dime museum where rows of meek freaks astonished her. She contemplated their deformities with awe and thought them a sort of chosen tribe. "What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn!" Maggie was anxious for a friend to whom she could talk about Pete. She would have liked to discuss his admirable mannerisms with a reliable mutual friend. At home, she found her mother often drunk and always raving. It seems that the world had treated this woman very badly, and she took a deep revenge upon such portions of it as came within her reach. She broke furniture as if she were at last getting her rights. She swelled with virtuous indignation as she carried the lighter articles of household use, one by one under the shadows of the three gilt balls, where Hebrews chained them with chains of interest. Jimmie came when he was obliged to by circumstances over which he had no control. His well-trained legs brought him staggering home and put him to bed some nights when he would rather have gone elsewhere. Swaggering Pete loomed like a golden sun to Maggie. He took her to a dime museum where rows of meek freaks astonished her. She contemplated their deformities with awe and thought them a sort of chosen tribe. Pete, raking his brains for amusement, discovered the Central Park Menagerie and the Museum of Arts. Sunday afternoons would sometimes find them at these places. Pete did not appear to be particularly interested in what he saw. He stood around looking heavy, while Maggie giggled in glee. Once at the Menagerie he went into a trance of admiration before the spectacle of a very small monkey threatening to thrash a cageful because one of them had pulled his tail and he had not wheeled about quickly enough to discover who did it. Ever after Pete knew that monkey by sight and winked at him, trying to induce hime to fight with other and larger monkeys. At the Museum, Maggie said, "Dis is outa sight." "Oh hell," said Pete, "wait 'till next summer an' I'll take yehs to a picnic." While the girl wandered in the vaulted rooms, Pete occupied himself in returning stony stare for stony stare, the appalling scrutiny of the watch-dogs of the treasures. Occasionally he would remark in loud tones: "Dat jay has got glass eyes," and sentences of the sort. When he tired of this amusement he would go to the mummies and moralize over them. Usually he submitted with silent dignity to all which he had to go through, but, at times, he was goaded into comment. "What deh hell," he demanded once. "Look at all dese little jugs! Hundred jugs in a row! Ten rows in a case an' 'bout a t'ousand cases! What deh blazes use is dem?" Evenings during the week he took her to see plays in which the brain-clutching heroine was rescued from the palatial home of her guardian, who is cruelly after her bonds, by the hero with the beautiful sentiments. The latter spent most of his time out at soak in pale-green snow storms, busy with a nickel-plated revolver, rescuing aged strangers from villains. Maggie lost herself in sympathy with the wanderers swooning in snow storms beneath happy-hued church windows. And a choir within singing "Joy to the World." To Maggie and the rest of the audience this was transcendental realism. Joy always within, and they, like the actor, inevitably without. Viewing it, they hugged themselves in ecstatic pity of their imagined or real condition. The girl thought the arrogance and granite-heartedness of the magnate of the play was very accurately drawn. She echoed the maledictions that the occupants of the gallery showered on this individual when his lines compelled him to expose his extreme selfishness. Shady persons in the audience revolted from the pictured villainy of the drama. With untiring zeal they hissed vice and applauded virtue. Unmistakably bad men evinced an apparently sincere admiration for virtue. The loud gallery was overwhelmingly with the unfortunate and the oppressed. They encouraged the struggling hero with cries, and jeered the villain, hooting and calling attention to his whiskers. When anybody died in the pale-green snow storms, the gallery mourned. They sought out the painted misery and hugged it as akin. In the hero's erratic march from poverty in the first act, to wealth and triumph in the final one, in which he forgives all the enemies that he has left, he was assisted by the gallery, which applauded his generous and noble sentiments and confounded the speeches of his opponents by making irrelevant but very sharp remarks. Those actors who were cursed with villainy parts were confronted at every turn by the gallery. If one of them rendered lines containing the most subtile distinctions between right and wrong, the gallery was immediately aware if the actor meant wickedness, and denounced him accordingly. The last act was a triumph for the hero, poor and of the masses, the representative of the audience, over the villain and the rich man, his pockets stuffed with bonds, his heart packed with tyrannical purposes, imperturbable amid suffering. Maggie always departed with raised spirits from the showing places of the melodrama. She rejoiced at the way in which the poor and virtuous eventually surmounted the wealthy and wicked. The theatre made her think. She wondered if the culture and refinement she had seen imitated, perhaps grotesquely, by the heroine on the stage, could be acquired by a girl who lived in a tenement house and worked in a shirt factory. ----------CHAPTER 9--------- A group of urchins were intent upon the side door of a saloon. Expectancy gleamed from their eyes. They were twisting their fingers in excitement. "Here she comes," yelled one of them suddenly. The group of urchins burst instantly asunder and its individual fragments were spread in a wide, respectable half circle about the point of interest. The saloon door opened with a crash, and the figure of a woman appeared upon the threshold. Her grey hair fell in knotted masses about her shoulders. Her face was crimsoned and wet with perspiration. Her eyes had a rolling glare. "Not a damn cent more of me money will yehs ever get, not a damn cent. I spent me money here fer t'ree years an' now yehs tells me yeh'll sell me no more stuff! T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie Murckre! 'Disturbance'? Disturbance be damned! T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie--" The door received a kick of exasperation from within and the woman lurched heavily out on the sidewalk. The gamins in the half-circle became violently agitated. They began to dance about and hoot and yell and jeer. Wide dirty grins spread over each face. The woman made a furious dash at a particularly outrageous cluster of little boys. They laughed delightedly and scampered off a short distance, calling out over their shoulders to her. She stood tottering on the curb-stone and thundered at them. "Yeh devil's kids," she howled, shaking red fists. The little boys whooped in glee. As she started up the street they fell in behind and marched uproariously. Occasionally she wheeled about and made charges on them. They ran nimbly out of reach and taunted her. In the frame of a gruesome doorway she stood for a moment cursing them. Her hair straggled, giving her crimson features a look of insanity. Her great fists quivered as she shook them madly in the air. The urchins made terrific noises until she turned and disappeared. Then they filed quietly in the way they had come. The woman floundered about in the lower hall of the tenement house and finally stumbled up the stairs. On an upper hall a door was opened and a collection of heads peered curiously out, watching her. With a wrathful snort the woman confronted the door, but it was slammed hastily in her face and the key was turned. She stood for a few minutes, delivering a frenzied challenge at the panels. "Come out in deh hall, Mary Murphy, damn yeh, if yehs want a row. Come ahn, yeh overgrown terrier, come ahn." She began to kick the door with her great feet. She shrilly defied the universe to appear and do battle. Her cursing trebles brought heads from all doors save the one she threatened. Her eyes glared in every direction. The air was full of her tossing fists. "Come ahn, deh hull damn gang of yehs, come ahn," she roared at the spectators. An oath or two, cat-calls, jeers and bits of facetious advice were given in reply. Missiles clattered about her feet. "What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" said a voice in the gathered gloom, and Jimmie came forward. He carried a tin dinner-pail in his hand and under his arm a brown truckman's apron done in a bundle. "What deh hell's wrong?" he demanded. "Come out, all of yehs, come out," his mother was howling. "Come ahn an' I'll stamp her damn brains under me feet." "Shet yer face, an' come home, yeh damned old fool," roared Jimmie at her. She strided up to him and twirled her fingers in his face. Her eyes were darting flames of unreasoning rage and her frame trembled with eagerness for a fight. "T'hell wid yehs! An' who deh hell are yehs? I ain't givin' a snap of me fingers fer yehs," she bawled at him. She turned her huge back in tremendous disdain and climbed the stairs to the next floor. Jimmie followed, cursing blackly. At the top of the flight he seized his mother's arm and started to drag her toward the door of their room. "Come home, damn yeh," he gritted between his teeth. "Take yer hands off me! Take yer hands off me," shrieked his mother. She raised her arm and whirled her great fist at her son's face. Jimmie dodged his head and the blow struck him in the back of the neck. "Damn yeh," gritted he again. He threw out his left hand and writhed his fingers about her middle arm. The mother and the son began to sway and struggle like gladiators. "Whoop!" said the Rum Alley tenement house. The hall filled with interested spectators. "Hi, ol' lady, dat was a dandy!" "T'ree to one on deh red!" "Ah, stop yer damn scrappin'!" The door of the Johnson home opened and Maggie looked out. Jimmie made a supreme cursing effort and hurled his mother into the room. He quickly followed and closed the door. The Rum Alley tenement swore disappointedly and retired. The mother slowly gathered herself up from the floor. Her eyes glittered menacingly upon her children. "Here, now," said Jimmie, "we've had enough of dis. Sit down, an' don' make no trouble." He grasped her arm, and twisting it, forced her into a creaking chair. "Keep yer hands off me," roared his mother again. "Damn yer ol' hide," yelled Jimmie, madly. Maggie shrieked and ran into the other room. To her there came the sound of a storm of crashes and curses. There was a great final thump and Jimmie's voice cried: "Dere, damn yeh, stay still." Maggie opened the door now, and went warily out. "Oh, Jimmie." He was leaning against the wall and swearing. Blood stood upon bruises on his knotty fore-arms where they had scraped against the floor or the walls in the scuffle. The mother lay screeching on the floor, the tears running down her furrowed face. Maggie, standing in the middle of the room, gazed about her. The usual upheaval of the tables and chairs had taken place. Crockery was strewn broadcast in fragments. The stove had been disturbed on its legs, and now leaned idiotically to one side. A pail had been upset and water spread in all directions. The door opened and Pete appeared. He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, Gawd," he observed. He walked over to Maggie and whispered in her ear. "Ah, what deh hell, Mag? Come ahn and we'll have a hell of a time." The mother in the corner upreared her head and shook her tangled locks. "Teh hell wid him and you," she said, glowering at her daughter in the gloom. Her eyes seemed to burn balefully. "Yeh've gone teh deh devil, Mag Johnson, yehs knows yehs have gone teh deh devil. Yer a disgrace teh yer people, damn yeh. An' now, git out an' go ahn wid dat doe-faced jude of yours. Go teh hell wid him, damn yeh, an' a good riddance. Go teh hell an' see how yeh likes it." Maggie gazed long at her mother. "Go teh hell now, an' see how yeh likes it. Git out. I won't have sech as yehs in me house! Get out, d'yeh hear! Damn yeh, git out!" The girl began to tremble. At this instant Pete came forward. "Oh, what deh hell, Mag, see," whispered he softly in her ear. "Dis all blows over. See? Deh ol' woman 'ill be all right in deh mornin'. Come ahn out wid me! We'll have a hell of a time." The woman on the floor cursed. Jimmie was intent upon his bruised fore-arms. The girl cast a glance about the room filled with a chaotic mass of debris, and at the red, writhing body of her mother. "Go teh hell an' good riddance." She went. ----------CHAPTER 10--------- Jimmie had an idea it wasn't common courtesy for a friend to come to one's home and ruin one's sister. But he was not sure how much Pete knew about the rules of politeness. The following night he returned home from work at rather a late hour in the evening. In passing through the halls he came upon the gnarled and leathery old woman who possessed the music box. She was grinning in the dim light that drifted through dust-stained panes. She beckoned to him with a smudged forefinger. "Ah, Jimmie, what do yehs t'ink I got onto las' night. It was deh funnies' t'ing I ever saw," she cried, coming close to him and leering. She was trembling with eagerness to tell her tale. "I was by me door las' night when yer sister and her jude feller came in late, oh, very late. An' she, the dear, she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break, she was. It was deh funnies' t'ing I ever saw. An' right out here by me door she asked him did he love her, did he. An' she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break, poor t'ing. An' him, I could see by deh way what he said it dat she had been askin' orften, he says: 'Oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he, 'Oh, hell, yes.'" Storm-clouds swept over Jimmie's face, but he turned from the leathery old woman and plodded on up-stairs. "Oh, hell, yes," called she after him. She laughed a laugh that was like a prophetic croak. "'Oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he, 'Oh, hell, yes.'" There was no one in at home. The rooms showed that attempts had been made at tidying them. Parts of the wreckage of the day before had been repaired by an unskilful hand. A chair or two and the table, stood uncertainly upon legs. The floor had been newly swept. Too, the blue ribbons had been restored to the curtains, and the lambrequin, with its immense sheaves of yellow wheat and red roses of equal size, had been returned, in a worn and sorry state, to its position at the mantel. Maggie's jacket and hat were gone from the nail behind the door. Jimmie walked to the window and began to look through the blurred glass. It occurred to him to vaguely wonder, for an instant, if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. Suddenly, however, he began to swear. "But he was me frien'! I brought 'im here! Dat's deh hell of it!" He fumed about the room, his anger gradually rising to the furious pitch. "I'll kill deh jay! Dat's what I'll do! I'll kill deh jay!" He clutched his hat and sprang toward the door. But it opened and his mother's great form blocked the passage. "What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" exclaimed she, coming into the rooms. Jimmie gave vent to a sardonic curse and then laughed heavily. "Well, Maggie's gone teh deh devil! Dat's what! See?" "Eh?" said his mother. "Maggie's gone teh deh devil! Are yehs deaf?" roared Jimmie, impatiently. "Deh hell she has," murmured the mother, astounded. Jimmie grunted, and then began to stare out at the window. His mother sat down in a chair, but a moment later sprang erect and delivered a maddened whirl of oaths. Her son turned to look at her as she reeled and swayed in the middle of the room, her fierce face convulsed with passion, her blotched arms raised high in imprecation. "May Gawd curse her forever," she shrieked. "May she eat nothin' but stones and deh dirt in deh street. May she sleep in deh gutter an' never see deh sun shine agin. Deh damn--" "Here, now," said her son. "Take a drop on yourself." The mother raised lamenting eyes to the ceiling. "She's deh devil's own chil', Jimmie," she whispered. "Ah, who would t'ink such a bad girl could grow up in our fambly, Jimmie, me son. Many deh hour I've spent in talk wid dat girl an' tol' her if she ever went on deh streets I'd see her damned. An' after all her bringin' up an' what I tol' her and talked wid her, she goes teh deh bad, like a duck teh water." The tears rolled down her furrowed face. Her hands trembled. "An' den when dat Sadie MacMallister next door to us was sent teh deh devil by dat feller what worked in deh soap-factory, didn't I tell our Mag dat if she--" "Ah, dat's annuder story," interrupted the brother. "Of course, dat Sadie was nice an' all dat--but--see--it ain't dessame as if--well, Maggie was diff'ent--see--she was diff'ent." He was trying to formulate a theory that he had always unconsciously held, that all sisters, excepting his own, could advisedly be ruined. He suddenly broke out again. "I'll go t'ump hell outa deh mug what did her deh harm. I'll kill 'im! He t'inks he kin scrap, but when he gits me a-chasin' 'im he'll fin' out where he's wrong, deh damned duffer. I'll wipe up deh street wid 'im." In a fury he plunged out of the doorway. As he vanished the mother raised her head and lifted both hands, entreating. "May Gawd curse her forever," she cried. In the darkness of the hallway Jimmie discerned a knot of women talking volubly. When he strode by they paid no attention to him. "She allus was a bold thing," he heard one of them cry in an eager voice. "Dere wasn't a feller come teh deh house but she'd try teh mash 'im. My Annie says deh shameless t'ing tried teh ketch her feller, her own feller, what we useter know his fader." "I could a' tol' yehs dis two years ago," said a woman, in a key of triumph. "Yessir, it was over two years ago dat I says teh my ol' man, I says, 'Dat Johnson girl ain't straight,' I says. 'Oh, hell,' he says. 'Oh, hell.' 'Dat's all right,' I says, 'but I know what I knows,' I says, 'an' it 'ill come out later. You wait an' see,' I says, 'you see.'" "Anybody what had eyes could see dat dere was somethin' wrong wid dat girl. I didn't like her actions." On the street Jimmie met a friend. "What deh hell?" asked the latter. Jimmie explained. "An' I'll t'ump 'im till he can't stand." "Oh, what deh hell," said the friend. "What's deh use! Yeh'll git pulled in! Everybody 'ill be onto it! An' ten plunks! Gee!" Jimmie was determined. "He t'inks he kin scrap, but he'll fin' out diff'ent." "Gee," remonstrated the friend. "What deh hell?"

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 12 using the context provided.

chapter 11|chapter 12|chapter 13

Some time has passed, and we find Pete and Maggie in an "irregular shaped" hall. The vibe of the venue has changed, and the classy factor seems to have nosedived. The seduction is over. Maggie still worships Pete as a valiant hero, while his interest seems to have waned some. She is reconciled with her decision to leave home and become sort of... unmarriageable, shall we say. What with his dapper dress and valiant ways, Pete rescued her from "her former Rum Alley environment" and the "cursed jays," a.k.a. Maggie's mother and brother.

----------CHAPTER 11--------- On a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the pavements. The open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage. The interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of imitation leather. A shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended down the side of the room. Behind it a great mahogany-appearing sideboard reached the ceiling. Upon its shelves rested pyramids of shimmering glasses that were never disturbed. Mirrors set in the face of the sideboard multiplied them. Lemons, oranges and paper napkins, arranged with mathematical precision, sat among the glasses. Many-hued decanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves. A nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact centre of the general effect. The elementary senses of it all seemed to be opulence and geometrical accuracy. Across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham, dishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar. An odor of grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded. Pete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending expectantly toward a quiet stranger. "A beeh," said the man. Pete drew a foam-topped glassful and set it dripping upon the bar. At this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and crashed against the siding. Jimmie and a companion entered. They swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at Pete with bleared and blinking eyes. "Gin," said Jimmie. "Gin," said the companion. Pete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar. He bended his head sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming wood. He had a look of watchfulness upon his features. Jimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and conversed loudly in tones of contempt. "He's a dindy masher, ain't he, by Gawd?" laughed Jimmie. "Oh, hell, yes," said the companion, sneering widely. "He's great, he is. Git onto deh mug on deh blokie. Dat's enough to make a feller turn hand-springs in 'is sleep." The quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away and maintained an attitude of oblivion. "Gee! ain't he hot stuff!" "Git onto his shape! Great Gawd!" "Hey," cried Jimmie, in tones of command. Pete came along slowly, with a sullen dropping of the under lip. "Well," he growled, "what's eatin' yehs?" "Gin," said Jimmie. "Gin," said the companion. As Pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they laughed in his face. Jimmie's companion, evidently overcome with merriment, pointed a grimy forefinger in Pete's direction. "Say, Jimmie," demanded he, "what deh hell is dat behind deh bar?" "Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie. They laughed loudly. Pete put down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them. He disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly. "You fellers can't guy me," he said. "Drink yer stuff an' git out an' don' make no trouble." Instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and expressions of offended dignity immediately came. "Who deh hell has said anyt'ing teh you," cried they in the same breath. The quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly. "Ah, come off," said Pete to the two men. "Don't pick me up for no jay. Drink yer rum an' git out an' don' make no trouble." "Oh, deh hell," airily cried Jimmie. "Oh, deh hell," airily repeated his companion. "We goes when we git ready! See!" continued Jimmie. "Well," said Pete in a threatening voice, "don' make no trouble." Jimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side. He snarled like a wild animal. "Well, what if we does? See?" said he. Dark blood flushed into Pete's face, and he shot a lurid glance at Jimmie. "Well, den we'll see whose deh bes' man, you or me," he said. The quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door. Jimmie began to swell with valor. "Don' pick me up fer no tenderfoot. When yeh tackles me yeh tackles one of deh bes' men in deh city. See? I'm a scrapper, I am. Ain't dat right, Billie?" "Sure, Mike," responded his companion in tones of conviction. "Oh, hell," said Pete, easily. "Go fall on yerself." The two men again began to laugh. "What deh hell is dat talkin'?" cried the companion. "Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie with exaggerated contempt. Pete made a furious gesture. "Git outa here now, an' don' make no trouble. See? Youse fellers er lookin' fer a scrap an' it's damn likely yeh'll fin' one if yeh keeps on shootin' off yer mout's. I know yehs! See? I kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes. Dat's right! See? Don' pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted out in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is. When I comes from behind dis bar, I t'rows yehs bote inteh deh street. See?" "Oh, hell," cried the two men in chorus. The glare of a panther came into Pete's eyes. "Dat's what I said! Unnerstan'?" He came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon the two men. They stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him. They bristled like three roosters. They moved their heads pugnaciously and kept their shoulders braced. The nervous muscles about each mouth twitched with a forced smile of mockery. "Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" gritted Jimmie. Pete stepped warily back, waving his hands before him to keep the men from coming too near. "Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" repeated Jimmie's ally. They kept close to him, taunting and leering. They strove to make him attempt the initial blow. "Keep back, now! Don' crowd me," ominously said Pete. Again they chorused in contempt. "Oh, hell!" In a small, tossing group, the three men edged for positions like frigates contemplating battle. "Well, why deh hell don' yeh try teh t'row us out?" cried Jimmie and his ally with copious sneers. The bravery of bull-dogs sat upon the faces of the men. Their clenched fists moved like eager weapons. The allied two jostled the bartender's elbows, glaring at him with feverish eyes and forcing him toward the wall. Suddenly Pete swore redly. The flash of action gleamed from his eyes. He threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous, lightning-like blow at Jimmie's face. His foot swung a step forward and the weight of his body was behind his fist. Jimmie ducked his head, Bowery-like, with the quickness of a cat. The fierce, answering blows of him and his ally crushed on Pete's bowed head. The quiet stranger vanished. The arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails. The faces of the men, at first flushed to flame-colored anger, now began to fade to the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a battle. Their lips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums in ghoul-like grins. Through their white, gripped teeth struggled hoarse whisperings of oaths. Their eyes glittered with murderous fire. Each head was huddled between its owner's shoulders, and arms were swinging with marvelous rapidity. Feet scraped to and fro with a loud scratching sound upon the sanded floor. Blows left crimson blotches upon pale skin. The curses of the first quarter minute of the fight died away. The breaths of the fighters came wheezingly from their lips and the three chests were straining and heaving. Pete at intervals gave vent to low, labored hisses, that sounded like a desire to kill. Jimmie's ally gibbered at times like a wounded maniac. Jimmie was silent, fighting with the face of a sacrificial priest. The rage of fear shone in all their eyes and their blood-colored fists swirled. At a tottering moment a blow from Pete's hand struck the ally and he crashed to the floor. He wriggled instantly to his feet and grasping the quiet stranger's beer glass from the bar, hurled it at Pete's head. High on the wall it burst like a bomb, shivering fragments flying in all directions. Then missiles came to every man's hand. The place had heretofore appeared free of things to throw, but suddenly glass and bottles went singing through the air. They were thrown point blank at bobbing heads. The pyramid of shimmering glasses, that had never been disturbed, changed to cascades as heavy bottles were flung into them. Mirrors splintered to nothing. The three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in a frenzy for blood. There followed in the wake of missiles and fists some unknown prayers, perhaps for death. The quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on the sidewalk. A laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half of a block. "Dey've trowed a bloke inteh deh street." People heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet within the saloon and came running. A small group, bending down to look under the bamboo doors, watching the fall of glass, and three pairs of violent legs, changed in a moment to a crowd. A policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced through the doors into the saloon. The crowd bended and surged in absorbing anxiety to see. Jimmie caught first sight of the on-coming interruption. On his feet he had the same regard for a policeman that, when on his truck, he had for a fire engine. He howled and ran for the side door. The officer made a terrific advance, club in hand. One comprehensive sweep of the long night stick threw the ally to the floor and forced Pete to a corner. With his disengaged hand he made a furious effort at Jimmie's coat-tails. Then he regained his balance and paused. "Well, well, you are a pair of pictures. What in hell yeh been up to?" Jimmie, with his face drenched in blood, escaped up a side street, pursued a short distance by some of the more law-loving, or excited individuals of the crowd. Later, from a corner safely dark, he saw the policeman, the ally and the bartender emerge from the saloon. Pete locked the doors and then followed up the avenue in the rear of the crowd-encompassed policeman and his charge. On first thoughts Jimmie, with his heart throbbing at battle heat, started to go desperately to the rescue of his friend, but he halted. "Ah, what deh hell?" he demanded of himself. ----------CHAPTER 12--------- In a hall of irregular shape sat Pete and Maggie drinking beer. A submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress suit, industriously followed the bobs of his head and the waves of his baton. A ballad singer, in a dress of flaming scarlet, sang in the inevitable voice of brass. When she vanished, men seated at the tables near the front applauded loudly, pounding the polished wood with their beer glasses. She returned attired in less gown, and sang again. She received another enthusiastic encore. She reappeared in still less gown and danced. The deafening rumble of glasses and clapping of hands that followed her exit indicated an overwhelming desire to have her come on for the fourth time, but the curiosity of the audience was not gratified. Maggie was pale. From her eyes had been plucked all look of self-reliance. She leaned with a dependent air toward her companion. She was timid, as if fearing his anger or displeasure. She seemed to beseech tenderness of him. Pete's air of distinguished valor had grown upon him until it threatened stupendous dimensions. He was infinitely gracious to the girl. It was apparent to her that his condescension was a marvel. He could appear to strut even while sitting still and he showed that he was a lion of lordly characteristics by the air with which he spat. With Maggie gazing at him wonderingly, he took pride in commanding the waiters who were, however, indifferent or deaf. "Hi, you, git a russle on yehs! What deh hell yehs lookin' at? Two more beehs, d'yeh hear?" He leaned back and critically regarded the person of a girl with a straw-colored wig who upon the stage was flinging her heels in somewhat awkward imitation of a well-known danseuse. At times Maggie told Pete long confidential tales of her former home life, dwelling upon the escapades of the other members of the family and the difficulties she had to combat in order to obtain a degree of comfort. He responded in tones of philanthropy. He pressed her arm with an air of reassuring proprietorship. "Dey was damn jays," he said, denouncing the mother and brother. The sound of the music which, by the efforts of the frowsy-headed leader, drifted to her ears through the smoke-filled atmosphere, made the girl dream. She thought of her former Rum Alley environment and turned to regard Pete's strong protecting fists. She thought of the collar and cuff manufactory and the eternal moan of the proprietor: "What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn." She contemplated Pete's man-subduing eyes and noted that wealth and prosperity was indicated by his clothes. She imagined a future, rose-tinted, because of its distance from all that she previously had experienced. As to the present she perceived only vague reasons to be miserable. Her life was Pete's and she considered him worthy of the charge. She would be disturbed by no particular apprehensions, so long as Pete adored her as he now said he did. She did not feel like a bad woman. To her knowledge she had never seen any better. At times men at other tables regarded the girl furtively. Pete, aware of it, nodded at her and grinned. He felt proud. "Mag, yer a bloomin' good-looker," he remarked, studying her face through the haze. The men made Maggie fear, but she blushed at Pete's words as it became apparent to her that she was the apple of his eye. Grey-headed men, wonderfully pathetic in their dissipation, stared at her through clouds. Smooth-cheeked boys, some of them with faces of stone and mouths of sin, not nearly so pathetic as the grey heads, tried to find the girl's eyes in the smoke wreaths. Maggie considered she was not what they thought her. She confined her glances to Pete and the stage. The orchestra played negro melodies and a versatile drummer pounded, whacked, clattered and scratched on a dozen machines to make noise. Those glances of the men, shot at Maggie from under half-closed lids, made her tremble. She thought them all to be worse men than Pete. "Come, let's go," she said. As they went out Maggie perceived two women seated at a table with some men. They were painted and their cheeks had lost their roundness. As she passed them the girl, with a shrinking movement, drew back her skirts. ----------CHAPTER 13--------- Jimmie did not return home for a number of days after the fight with Pete in the saloon. When he did, he approached with extreme caution. He found his mother raving. Maggie had not returned home. The parent continually wondered how her daughter could come to such a pass. She had never considered Maggie as a pearl dropped unstained into Rum Alley from Heaven, but she could not conceive how it was possible for her daughter to fall so low as to bring disgrace upon her family. She was terrific in denunciation of the girl's wickedness. The fact that the neighbors talked of it, maddened her. When women came in, and in the course of their conversation casually asked, "Where's Maggie dese days?" the mother shook her fuzzy head at them and appalled them with curses. Cunning hints inviting confidence she rebuffed with violence. "An' wid all deh bringin' up she had, how could she?" moaningly she asked of her son. "Wid all deh talkin' wid her I did an' deh t'ings I tol' her to remember? When a girl is bringed up deh way I bringed up Maggie, how kin she go teh deh devil?" Jimmie was transfixed by these questions. He could not conceive how under the circumstances his mother's daughter and his sister could have been so wicked. His mother took a drink from a squdgy bottle that sat on the table. She continued her lament. "She had a bad heart, dat girl did, Jimmie. She was wicked teh deh heart an' we never knowed it." Jimmie nodded, admitting the fact. "We lived in deh same house wid her an' I brought her up an' we never knowed how bad she was." Jimmie nodded again. "Wid a home like dis an' a mudder like me, she went teh deh bad," cried the mother, raising her eyes. One day, Jimmie came home, sat down in a chair and began to wriggle about with a new and strange nervousness. At last he spoke shamefacedly. "Well, look-a-here, dis t'ing queers us! See? We're queered! An' maybe it 'ud be better if I--well, I t'ink I kin look 'er up an'--maybe it 'ud be better if I fetched her home an'--" The mother started from her chair and broke forth into a storm of passionate anger. "What! Let 'er come an' sleep under deh same roof wid her mudder agin! Oh, yes, I will, won't I? Sure? Shame on yehs, Jimmie Johnson, for sayin' such a t'ing teh yer own mudder--teh yer own mudder! Little did I t'ink when yehs was a babby playin' about me feet dat ye'd grow up teh say sech a t'ing teh yer mudder--yer own mudder. I never taut--" Sobs choked her and interrupted her reproaches. "Dere ain't nottin' teh raise sech hell about," said Jimmie. "I on'y says it 'ud be better if we keep dis t'ing dark, see? It queers us! See?" His mother laughed a laugh that seemed to ring through the city and be echoed and re-echoed by countless other laughs. "Oh, yes, I will, won't I! Sure!" "Well, yeh must take me fer a damn fool," said Jimmie, indignant at his mother for mocking him. "I didn't say we'd make 'er inteh a little tin angel, ner nottin', but deh way it is now she can queer us! Don' che see?" "Aye, she'll git tired of deh life atter a while an' den she'll wanna be a-comin' home, won' she, deh beast! I'll let 'er in den, won' I?" "Well, I didn' mean none of dis prod'gal bus'ness anyway," explained Jimmie. "It wasn't no prod'gal dauter, yeh damn fool," said the mother. "It was prod'gal son, anyhow." "I know dat," said Jimmie. For a time they sat in silence. The mother's eyes gloated on a scene her imagination could call before her. Her lips were set in a vindictive smile. "Aye, she'll cry, won' she, an' carry on, an' tell how Pete, or some odder feller, beats 'er an' she'll say she's sorry an' all dat an' she ain't happy, she ain't, an' she wants to come home agin, she does." With grim humor, the mother imitated the possible wailing notes of the daughter's voice. "Den I'll take 'er in, won't I, deh beast. She kin cry 'er two eyes out on deh stones of deh street before I'll dirty deh place wid her. She abused an' ill-treated her own mudder--her own mudder what loved her an' she'll never git anodder chance dis side of hell." Jimmie thought he had a great idea of women's frailty, but he could not understand why any of his kin should be victims. "Damn her," he fervidly said. Again he wondered vaguely if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. Nevertheless, his mind did not for an instant confuse himself with those brothers nor his sister with theirs. After the mother had, with great difficulty, suppressed the neighbors, she went among them and proclaimed her grief. "May Gawd forgive dat girl," was her continual cry. To attentive ears she recited the whole length and breadth of her woes. "I bringed 'er up deh way a dauter oughta be bringed up an' dis is how she served me! She went teh deh devil deh first chance she got! May Gawd forgive her." When arrested for drunkenness she used the story of her daughter's downfall with telling effect upon the police justices. Finally one of them said to her, peering down over his spectacles: "Mary, the records of this and other courts show that you are the mother of forty-two daughters who have been ruined. The case is unparalleled in the annals of this court, and this court thinks--" The mother went through life shedding large tears of sorrow. Her red face was a picture of agony. Of course Jimmie publicly damned his sister that he might appear on a higher social plane. But, arguing with himself, stumbling about in ways that he knew not, he, once, almost came to a conclusion that his sister would have been more firmly good had she better known why. However, he felt that he could not hold such a view. He threw it hastily aside.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 17 with the given context.

chapter 14|chapter 15|chapter 16|chapter 17

Several months later... a painted lady walks down the street. Attempts to make eye contact with men fail. We assume this is Maggie, poor thing, now a prostitute looking for some man to pick her up. Men stare and offer excuses; no one is interested. She continues walking down the wet, cold streets until she gets to the river. What will happen to poor Maggie?

----------CHAPTER 14--------- In a hilarious hall there were twenty-eight tables and twenty-eight women and a crowd of smoking men. Valiant noise was made on a stage at the end of the hall by an orchestra composed of men who looked as if they had just happened in. Soiled waiters ran to and fro, swooping down like hawks on the unwary in the throng; clattering along the aisles with trays covered with glasses; stumbling over women's skirts and charging two prices for everything but beer, all with a swiftness that blurred the view of the cocoanut palms and dusty monstrosities painted upon the walls of the room. A bouncer, with an immense load of business upon his hands, plunged about in the crowd, dragging bashful strangers to prominent chairs, ordering waiters here and there and quarreling furiously with men who wanted to sing with the orchestra. The usual smoke cloud was present, but so dense that heads and arms seemed entangled in it. The rumble of conversation was replaced by a roar. Plenteous oaths heaved through the air. The room rang with the shrill voices of women bubbling o'er with drink-laughter. The chief element in the music of the orchestra was speed. The musicians played in intent fury. A woman was singing and smiling upon the stage, but no one took notice of her. The rate at which the piano, cornet and violins were going, seemed to impart wildness to the half-drunken crowd. Beer glasses were emptied at a gulp and conversation became a rapid chatter. The smoke eddied and swirled like a shadowy river hurrying toward some unseen falls. Pete and Maggie entered the hall and took chairs at a table near the door. The woman who was seated there made an attempt to occupy Pete's attention and, failing, went away. Three weeks had passed since the girl had left home. The air of spaniel-like dependence had been magnified and showed its direct effect in the peculiar off-handedness and ease of Pete's ways toward her. She followed Pete's eyes with hers, anticipating with smiles gracious looks from him. A woman of brilliance and audacity, accompanied by a mere boy, came into the place and took seats near them. At once Pete sprang to his feet, his face beaming with glad surprise. "By Gawd, there's Nellie," he cried. He went over to the table and held out an eager hand to the woman. "Why, hello, Pete, me boy, how are you," said she, giving him her fingers. Maggie took instant note of the woman. She perceived that her black dress fitted her to perfection. Her linen collar and cuffs were spotless. Tan gloves were stretched over her well-shaped hands. A hat of a prevailing fashion perched jauntily upon her dark hair. She wore no jewelry and was painted with no apparent paint. She looked clear-eyed through the stares of the men. "Sit down, and call your lady-friend over," she said cordially to Pete. At his beckoning Maggie came and sat between Pete and the mere boy. "I thought yeh were gone away fer good," began Pete, at once. "When did yeh git back? How did dat Buff'lo bus'ness turn out?" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Well, he didn't have as many stamps as he tried to make out, so I shook him, that's all." "Well, I'm glad teh see yehs back in deh city," said Pete, with awkward gallantry. He and the woman entered into a long conversation, exchanging reminiscences of days together. Maggie sat still, unable to formulate an intelligent sentence upon the conversation and painfully aware of it. She saw Pete's eyes sparkle as he gazed upon the handsome stranger. He listened smilingly to all she said. The woman was familiar with all his affairs, asked him about mutual friends, and knew the amount of his salary. She paid no attention to Maggie, looking toward her once or twice and apparently seeing the wall beyond. The mere boy was sulky. In the beginning he had welcomed with acclamations the additions. "Let's all have a drink! What'll you take, Nell? And you, Miss what's-your-name. Have a drink, Mr. -----, you, I mean." He had shown a sprightly desire to do the talking for the company and tell all about his family. In a loud voice he declaimed on various topics. He assumed a patronizing air toward Pete. As Maggie was silent, he paid no attention to her. He made a great show of lavishing wealth upon the woman of brilliance and audacity. "Do keep still, Freddie! You gibber like an ape, dear," said the woman to him. She turned away and devoted her attention to Pete. "We'll have many a good time together again, eh?" "Sure, Mike," said Pete, enthusiastic at once. "Say," whispered she, leaning forward, "let's go over to Billie's and have a heluva time." "Well, it's dis way! See?" said Pete. "I got dis lady frien' here." "Oh, t'hell with her," argued the woman. Pete appeared disturbed. "All right," said she, nodding her head at him. "All right for you! We'll see the next time you ask me to go anywheres with you." Pete squirmed. "Say," he said, beseechingly, "come wid me a minit an' I'll tell yer why." The woman waved her hand. "Oh, that's all right, you needn't explain, you know. You wouldn't come merely because you wouldn't come, that's all there is of it." To Pete's visible distress she turned to the mere boy, bringing him speedily from a terrific rage. He had been debating whether it would be the part of a man to pick a quarrel with Pete, or would he be justified in striking him savagely with his beer glass without warning. But he recovered himself when the woman turned to renew her smilings. He beamed upon her with an expression that was somewhat tipsy and inexpressibly tender. "Say, shake that Bowery jay," requested he, in a loud whisper. "Freddie, you are so droll," she replied. Pete reached forward and touched the woman on the arm. "Come out a minit while I tells yeh why I can't go wid yer. Yer doin' me dirt, Nell! I never taut ye'd do me dirt, Nell. Come on, will yer?" He spoke in tones of injury. "Why, I don't see why I should be interested in your explanations," said the woman, with a coldness that seemed to reduce Pete to a pulp. His eyes pleaded with her. "Come out a minit while I tells yeh." The woman nodded slightly at Maggie and the mere boy, "'Scuse me." The mere boy interrupted his loving smile and turned a shrivelling glare upon Pete. His boyish countenance flushed and he spoke, in a whine, to the woman: "Oh, I say, Nellie, this ain't a square deal, you know. You aren't goin' to leave me and go off with that duffer, are you? I should think--" "Why, you dear boy, of course I'm not," cried the woman, affectionately. She bended over and whispered in his ear. He smiled again and settled in his chair as if resolved to wait patiently. As the woman walked down between the rows of tables, Pete was at her shoulder talking earnestly, apparently in explanation. The woman waved her hands with studied airs of indifference. The doors swung behind them, leaving Maggie and the mere boy seated at the table. Maggie was dazed. She could dimly perceive that something stupendous had happened. She wondered why Pete saw fit to remonstrate with the woman, pleading for forgiveness with his eyes. She thought she noted an air of submission about her leonine Pete. She was astounded. The mere boy occupied himself with cock-tails and a cigar. He was tranquilly silent for half an hour. Then he bestirred himself and spoke. "Well," he said, sighing, "I knew this was the way it would be." There was another stillness. The mere boy seemed to be musing. "She was pulling m'leg. That's the whole amount of it," he said, suddenly. "It's a bloomin' shame the way that girl does. Why, I've spent over two dollars in drinks to-night. And she goes off with that plug-ugly who looks as if he had been hit in the face with a coin-die. I call it rocky treatment for a fellah like me. Here, waiter, bring me a cock-tail and make it damned strong." Maggie made no reply. She was watching the doors. "It's a mean piece of business," complained the mere boy. He explained to her how amazing it was that anybody should treat him in such a manner. "But I'll get square with her, you bet. She won't get far ahead of yours truly, you know," he added, winking. "I'll tell her plainly that it was bloomin' mean business. And she won't come it over me with any of her 'now-Freddie-dears.' She thinks my name is Freddie, you know, but of course it ain't. I always tell these people some name like that, because if they got onto your right name they might use it sometime. Understand? Oh, they don't fool me much." Maggie was paying no attention, being intent upon the doors. The mere boy relapsed into a period of gloom, during which he exterminated a number of cock-tails with a determined air, as if replying defiantly to fate. He occasionally broke forth into sentences composed of invectives joined together in a long string. The girl was still staring at the doors. After a time the mere boy began to see cobwebs just in front of his nose. He spurred himself into being agreeable and insisted upon her having a charlotte-russe and a glass of beer. "They's gone," he remarked, "they's gone." He looked at her through the smoke wreaths. "Shay, lil' girl, we mightish well make bes' of it. You ain't such bad-lookin' girl, y'know. Not half bad. Can't come up to Nell, though. No, can't do it! Well, I should shay not! Nell fine-lookin' girl! F--i--n--ine. You look damn bad longsider her, but by y'self ain't so bad. Have to do anyhow. Nell gone. On'y you left. Not half bad, though." Maggie stood up. "I'm going home," she said. The mere boy started. "Eh? What? Home," he cried, struck with amazement. "I beg pardon, did hear say home?" "I'm going home," she repeated. "Great Gawd, what hava struck," demanded the mere boy of himself, stupefied. In a semi-comatose state he conducted her on board an up-town car, ostentatiously paid her fare, leered kindly at her through the rear window and fell off the steps. ----------CHAPTER 15--------- A forlorn woman went along a lighted avenue. The street was filled with people desperately bound on missions. An endless crowd darted at the elevated station stairs and the horse cars were thronged with owners of bundles. The pace of the forlorn woman was slow. She was apparently searching for some one. She loitered near the doors of saloons and watched men emerge from them. She scanned furtively the faces in the rushing stream of pedestrians. Hurrying men, bent on catching some boat or train, jostled her elbows, failing to notice her, their thoughts fixed on distant dinners. The forlorn woman had a peculiar face. Her smile was no smile. But when in repose her features had a shadowy look that was like a sardonic grin, as if some one had sketched with cruel forefinger indelible lines about her mouth. Jimmie came strolling up the avenue. The woman encountered him with an aggrieved air. "Oh, Jimmie, I've been lookin' all over fer yehs--," she began. Jimmie made an impatient gesture and quickened his pace. "Ah, don't bodder me! Good Gawd!" he said, with the savageness of a man whose life is pestered. The woman followed him along the sidewalk in somewhat the manner of a suppliant. "But, Jimmie," she said, "yehs told me ye'd--" Jimmie turned upon her fiercely as if resolved to make a last stand for comfort and peace. "Say, fer Gawd's sake, Hattie, don' foller me from one end of deh city teh deh odder. Let up, will yehs! Give me a minute's res', can't yehs? Yehs makes me tired, allus taggin' me. See? Ain' yehs got no sense. Do yehs want people teh get onto me? Go chase yerself, fer Gawd's sake." The woman stepped closer and laid her fingers on his arm. "But, look-a-here--" Jimmie snarled. "Oh, go teh hell." He darted into the front door of a convenient saloon and a moment later came out into the shadows that surrounded the side door. On the brilliantly lighted avenue he perceived the forlorn woman dodging about like a scout. Jimmie laughed with an air of relief and went away. When he arrived home he found his mother clamoring. Maggie had returned. She stood shivering beneath the torrent of her mother's wrath. "Well, I'm damned," said Jimmie in greeting. His mother, tottering about the room, pointed a quivering forefinger. "Lookut her, Jimmie, lookut her. Dere's yer sister, boy. Dere's yer sister. Lookut her! Lookut her!" She screamed in scoffing laughter. The girl stood in the middle of the room. She edged about as if unable to find a place on the floor to put her feet. "Ha, ha, ha," bellowed the mother. "Dere she stands! Ain' she purty? Lookut her! Ain' she sweet, deh beast? Lookut her! Ha, ha, lookut her!" She lurched forward and put her red and seamed hands upon her daughter's face. She bent down and peered keenly up into the eyes of the girl. "Oh, she's jes' dessame as she ever was, ain' she? She's her mudder's purty darlin' yit, ain' she? Lookut her, Jimmie! Come here, fer Gawd's sake, and lookut her." The loud, tremendous sneering of the mother brought the denizens of the Rum Alley tenement to their doors. Women came in the hallways. Children scurried to and fro. "What's up? Dat Johnson party on anudder tear?" "Naw! Young Mag's come home!" "Deh hell yeh say?" Through the open door curious eyes stared in at Maggie. Children ventured into the room and ogled her, as if they formed the front row at a theatre. Women, without, bended toward each other and whispered, nodding their heads with airs of profound philosophy. A baby, overcome with curiosity concerning this object at which all were looking, sidled forward and touched her dress, cautiously, as if investigating a red-hot stove. Its mother's voice rang out like a warning trumpet. She rushed forward and grabbed her child, casting a terrible look of indignation at the girl. Maggie's mother paced to and fro, addressing the doorful of eyes, expounding like a glib showman at a museum. Her voice rang through the building. "Dere she stands," she cried, wheeling suddenly and pointing with dramatic finger. "Dere she stands! Lookut her! Ain' she a dindy? An' she was so good as to come home teh her mudder, she was! Ain' she a beaut'? Ain' she a dindy? Fer Gawd's sake!" The jeering cries ended in another burst of shrill laughter. The girl seemed to awaken. "Jimmie--" He drew hastily back from her. "Well, now, yer a hell of a t'ing, ain' yeh?" he said, his lips curling in scorn. Radiant virtue sat upon his brow and his repelling hands expressed horror of contamination. Maggie turned and went. The crowd at the door fell back precipitately. A baby falling down in front of the door, wrenched a scream like a wounded animal from its mother. Another woman sprang forward and picked it up, with a chivalrous air, as if rescuing a human being from an oncoming express train. As the girl passed down through the hall, she went before open doors framing more eyes strangely microscopic, and sending broad beams of inquisitive light into the darkness of her path. On the second floor she met the gnarled old woman who possessed the music box. "So," she cried, "'ere yehs are back again, are yehs? An' dey've kicked yehs out? Well, come in an' stay wid me teh-night. I ain' got no moral standin'." From above came an unceasing babble of tongues, over all of which rang the mother's derisive laughter. ----------CHAPTER 16--------- Pete did not consider that he had ruined Maggie. If he had thought that her soul could never smile again, he would have believed the mother and brother, who were pyrotechnic over the affair, to be responsible for it. Besides, in his world, souls did not insist upon being able to smile. "What deh hell?" He felt a trifle entangled. It distressed him. Revelations and scenes might bring upon him the wrath of the owner of the saloon, who insisted upon respectability of an advanced type. "What deh hell do dey wanna raise such a smoke about it fer?" demanded he of himself, disgusted with the attitude of the family. He saw no necessity for anyone's losing their equilibrium merely because their sister or their daughter had stayed away from home. Searching about in his mind for possible reasons for their conduct, he came upon the conclusion that Maggie's motives were correct, but that the two others wished to snare him. He felt pursued. The woman of brilliance and audacity whom he had met in the hilarious hall showed a disposition to ridicule him. "A little pale thing with no spirit," she said. "Did you note the expression of her eyes? There was something in them about pumpkin pie and virtue. That is a peculiar way the left corner of her mouth has of twitching, isn't it? Dear, dear, my cloud-compelling Pete, what are you coming to?" Pete asserted at once that he never was very much interested in the girl. The woman interrupted him, laughing. "Oh, it's not of the slightest consequence to me, my dear young man. You needn't draw maps for my benefit. Why should I be concerned about it?" But Pete continued with his explanations. If he was laughed at for his tastes in women, he felt obliged to say that they were only temporary or indifferent ones. The morning after Maggie had departed from home, Pete stood behind the bar. He was immaculate in white jacket and apron and his hair was plastered over his brow with infinite correctness. No customers were in the place. Pete was twisting his napkined fist slowly in a beer glass, softly whistling to himself and occasionally holding the object of his attention between his eyes and a few weak beams of sunlight that had found their way over the thick screens and into the shaded room. With lingering thoughts of the woman of brilliance and audacity, the bartender raised his head and stared through the varying cracks between the swaying bamboo doors. Suddenly the whistling pucker faded from his lips. He saw Maggie walking slowly past. He gave a great start, fearing for the previously-mentioned eminent respectability of the place. He threw a swift, nervous glance about him, all at once feeling guilty. No one was in the room. He went hastily over to the side door. Opening it and looking out, he perceived Maggie standing, as if undecided, on the corner. She was searching the place with her eyes. As she turned her face toward him Pete beckoned to her hurriedly, intent upon returning with speed to a position behind the bar and to the atmosphere of respectability upon which the proprietor insisted. Maggie came to him, the anxious look disappearing from her face and a smile wreathing her lips. "Oh, Pete--," she began brightly. The bartender made a violent gesture of impatience. "Oh, my Gawd," cried he, vehemently. "What deh hell do yeh wanna hang aroun' here fer? Do yeh wanna git me inteh trouble?" he demanded with an air of injury. Astonishment swept over the girl's features. "Why, Pete! yehs tol' me--" Pete glanced profound irritation. His countenance reddened with the anger of a man whose respectability is being threatened. "Say, yehs makes me tired. See? What deh hell deh yeh wanna tag aroun' atter me fer? Yeh'll git me inteh trouble wid deh ol' man an' dey'll be hell teh pay! If he sees a woman roun' here he'll go crazy an' I'll lose me job! See? Yer brudder come in here an' raised hell an' deh ol' man hada put up fer it! An' now I'm done! See? I'm done." The girl's eyes stared into his face. "Pete, don't yeh remem--" "Oh, hell," interrupted Pete, anticipating. The girl seemed to have a struggle with herself. She was apparently bewildered and could not find speech. Finally she asked in a low voice: "But where kin I go?" The question exasperated Pete beyond the powers of endurance. It was a direct attempt to give him some responsibility in a matter that did not concern him. In his indignation he volunteered information. "Oh, go teh hell," cried he. He slammed the door furiously and returned, with an air of relief, to his respectability. Maggie went away. She wandered aimlessly for several blocks. She stopped once and asked aloud a question of herself: "Who?" A man who was passing near her shoulder, humorously took the questioning word as intended for him. "Eh? What? Who? Nobody! I didn't say anything," he laughingly said, and continued his way. Soon the girl discovered that if she walked with such apparent aimlessness, some men looked at her with calculating eyes. She quickened her step, frightened. As a protection, she adopted a demeanor of intentness as if going somewhere. After a time she left rattling avenues and passed between rows of houses with sternness and stolidity stamped upon their features. She hung her head for she felt their eyes grimly upon her. Suddenly she came upon a stout gentleman in a silk hat and a chaste black coat, whose decorous row of buttons reached from his chin to his knees. The girl had heard of the Grace of God and she decided to approach this man. His beaming, chubby face was a picture of benevolence and kind-heartedness. His eyes shone good-will. But as the girl timidly accosted him, he gave a convulsive movement and saved his respectability by a vigorous side-step. He did not risk it to save a soul. For how was he to know that there was a soul before him that needed saving? ----------CHAPTER 17--------- Upon a wet evening, several months after the last chapter, two interminable rows of cars, pulled by slipping horses, jangled along a prominent side-street. A dozen cabs, with coat-enshrouded drivers, clattered to and fro. Electric lights, whirring softly, shed a blurred radiance. A flower dealer, his feet tapping impatiently, his nose and his wares glistening with rain-drops, stood behind an array of roses and chrysanthemums. Two or three theatres emptied a crowd upon the storm-swept pavements. Men pulled their hats over their eyebrows and raised their collars to their ears. Women shrugged impatient shoulders in their warm cloaks and stopped to arrange their skirts for a walk through the storm. People having been comparatively silent for two hours burst into a roar of conversation, their hearts still kindling from the glowings of the stage. The pavements became tossing seas of umbrellas. Men stepped forth to hail cabs or cars, raising their fingers in varied forms of polite request or imperative demand. An endless procession wended toward elevated stations. An atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity seemed to hang over the throng, born, perhaps, of good clothes and of having just emerged from a place of forgetfulness. In the mingled light and gloom of an adjacent park, a handful of wet wanderers, in attitudes of chronic dejection, was scattered among the benches. A girl of the painted cohorts of the city went along the street. She threw changing glances at men who passed her, giving smiling invitations to men of rural or untaught pattern and usually seeming sedately unconscious of the men with a metropolitan seal upon their faces. Crossing glittering avenues, she went into the throng emerging from the places of forgetfulness. She hurried forward through the crowd as if intent upon reaching a distant home, bending forward in her handsome cloak, daintily lifting her skirts and picking for her well-shod feet the dryer spots upon the pavements. The restless doors of saloons, clashing to and fro, disclosed animated rows of men before bars and hurrying barkeepers. A concert hall gave to the street faint sounds of swift, machine-like music, as if a group of phantom musicians were hastening. A tall young man, smoking a cigarette with a sublime air, strolled near the girl. He had on evening dress, a moustache, a chrysanthemum, and a look of ennui, all of which he kept carefully under his eye. Seeing the girl walk on as if such a young man as he was not in existence, he looked back transfixed with interest. He stared glassily for a moment, but gave a slight convulsive start when he discerned that she was neither new, Parisian, nor theatrical. He wheeled about hastily and turned his stare into the air, like a sailor with a search-light. A stout gentleman, with pompous and philanthropic whiskers, went stolidly by, the broad of his back sneering at the girl. A belated man in business clothes, and in haste to catch a car, bounced against her shoulder. "Hi, there, Mary, I beg your pardon! Brace up, old girl." He grasped her arm to steady her, and then was away running down the middle of the street. The girl walked on out of the realm of restaurants and saloons. She passed more glittering avenues and went into darker blocks than those where the crowd travelled. A young man in light overcoat and derby hat received a glance shot keenly from the eyes of the girl. He stopped and looked at her, thrusting his hands in his pockets and making a mocking smile curl his lips. "Come, now, old lady," he said, "you don't mean to tel me that you sized me up for a farmer?" A labouring man marched along; with bundles under his arms. To her remarks, he replied, "It's a fine evenin', ain't it?" She smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his hands buried in his overcoat pockets, his blonde locks bobbing on his youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips. He turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands. "Not this eve--some other eve!" A drunken man, reeling in her pathway, began to roar at her. "I ain' ga no money!" he shouted, in a dismal voice. He lurched on up the street, wailing to himself: "I ain' ga no money. Ba' luck. Ain' ga no more money." The girl went into gloomy districts near the river, where the tall black factories shut in the street and only occasional broad beams of light fell across the pavements from saloons. In front of one of these places, whence came the sound of a violin vigorously scraped, the patter of feet on boards and the ring of loud laughter, there stood a man with blotched features. Further on in the darkness she met a ragged being with shifting, bloodshot eyes and grimy hands. She went into the blackness of the final block. The shutters of the tall buildings were closed like grim lips. The structures seemed to have eyes that looked over them, beyond them, at other things. Afar off the lights of the avenues glittered as if from an impossible distance. Street-car bells jingled with a sound of merriment. At the feet of the tall buildings appeared the deathly black hue of the river. Some hidden factory sent up a yellow glare, that lit for a moment the waters lapping oilily against timbers. The varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence.

cliffnotes

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

chapter 18|chapter 19|chapter 1|chapter 2

Jimmie and his father reach a neighborhood where dozens of unattended infants and small children sit around the street and gutter. Laundry hangs from the fire escapes. "Formidable women" gossip with each other and scream out at each other. "Withered persons" sit around as if they have finally submitted to the wretchedness of their lives. The building seems to quiver with the weight of all the people that inhabit it. One baby is crying and a little girl calls out its name, Tommie. She is trying to pull her little brother along to catch up with her brother, Jimmie, and their father. The baby holds back and screams in resistance. When she sees Jimmies bruises and blood, she cries out to him that hes been fighting again. She weeps along with the baby. She is worried about what their mother will do to all of them when she sees the state Jimmie is in. Jimmie hits his sister and she cries louder and shrinks away from him. His father turns on him and tells him to stop hitting his sister. His father bemoans the fact that he can never beat any sense into him. The four enter one of the "gruesome buildings" and climb the stairs. They enter a room "in which a large woman was rampant." She screams at Jimmie for fighting again. He hides behind the other children and bruises his shins against the table leg in doing so. She "heaves with anger" and picks Jimmie up by the neck and shoulder and shakes him. He screams and tries to get away. The baby sits on the floor watching in terror. The father sits in a chair with a pipe in his mouth. He yells at his wife to leave Jimmie alone so he can have some peace. He complains that she is always "poundin a kid." She beats Jimmie even more furiously. Then she tosses him into a corner where he lies down weeping and cursing. She stands over her husband demanding to know why hes interfering. He smokes his pipe as if hes unconcerned with her. The baby crawls under the table and the girl hides. The man tells the woman that shes been drinking again. She screams a denial. Meanwhile, Maggie asks Jimmie if he is hurt badly. She asks him if he would like her to wash his wounds. He only curses the Riley kid. He turns his face to the wall. The fight between wife and husband ends with him storming out of the house. She calls out to him as he descends the stairs. She returns to the room and tells her children to get out of the way. Then she serves up supper and tells them to come and eat. They scramble to their places and eat ravenously. The woman watches them and drinks. Her mood changes and she begins to weep. She carries Tommie to another room and puts him to bed. She comes back and sits by the stove moaning about her fate. Maggie cleans up the table and Jimmie sits nursing his wounds. Maggie breaks a plate and her mother jumps up from her seat screaming. Jimmie jumps up and runs for the door. He goes to an old womans apartment. She asks him what it is this time "Is yer fader beatin yer mudder, or yer mudder beatin yer fader?"

----------CHAPTER 18--------- In a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him. The man had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe. "I'm good f'ler, girls," he said, convincingly. "I'm damn good f'ler. An'body treats me right, I allus trea's zem right! See?" The women nodded their heads approvingly. "To be sure," they cried out in hearty chorus. "You're the kind of a man we like, Pete. You're outa sight! What yeh goin' to buy this time, dear?" "An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," said the man in an abandonment of good will. His countenance shone with the true spirit of benevolence. He was in the proper mode of missionaries. He would have fraternized with obscure Hottentots. And above all, he was overwhelmed in tenderness for his friends, who were all illustrious. "An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," repeated he, waving his hands with beneficent recklessness. "I'm good f'ler, girls, an' if an'body treats me right I--here," called he through an open door to a waiter, "bring girls drinks, damn it. What 'ill yehs have, girls? An't'ing yehs wants, damn it!" The waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves intoxicants for the man who takes too much of them. He nodded his head shortly at the order from each individual, and went. "Damn it," said the man, "we're havin' heluva time. I like you girls! Damn'd if I don't! Yer right sort! See?" He spoke at length and with feeling, concerning the excellencies of his assembled friends. "Don' try pull man's leg, but have a heluva time! Das right! Das way teh do! Now, if I sawght yehs tryin' work me fer drinks, wouldn' buy damn t'ing! But yer right sort, damn it! Yehs know how ter treat a f'ler, an' I stays by yehs 'til spen' las' cent! Das right! I'm good f'ler an' I knows when an'body treats me right!" Between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man discoursed to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living things. He laid stress upon the purity of his motives in all dealings with men in the world and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for those who were amiable. Tears welled slowly from his eyes. His voice quavered when he spoke to them. Once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth. "Here," said he, quite magnificently, "here's quar'." The waiter kept his hands on his tray. "I don' want yer money," he said. The other put forth the coin with tearful insistence. "Here, damn it," cried he, "tak't! Yer damn goo' f'ler an' I wan' yehs tak't!" "Come, come, now," said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is forced into giving advice. "Put yer mon in yer pocket! Yer loaded an' yehs on'y makes a damn fool of yerself." As the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the women. "He don' know I'm damn goo' f'ler," cried he, dismally. "Never you mind, Pete, dear," said a woman of brilliance and audacity, laying her hand with great affection upon his arm. "Never you mind, old boy! We'll stay by you, dear!" "Das ri'," cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of the woman's voice. "Das ri', I'm damn goo' f'ler an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I treats zem ri'! Shee!" "Sure!" cried the women. "And we're not goin' back on you, old man." The man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity. He felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action he would die. "Shay, Nell, damn it, I allus trea's yehs shquare, didn' I? I allus been goo' f'ler wi' yehs, ain't I, Nell?" "Sure you have, Pete," assented the woman. She delivered an oration to her companions. "Yessir, that's a fact. Pete's a square fellah, he is. He never goes back on a friend. He's the right kind an' we stay by him, don't we, girls?" "Sure," they exclaimed. Looking lovingly at him they raised their glasses and drank his health. "Girlsh," said the man, beseechingly, "I allus trea's yehs ri', didn' I? I'm goo' f'ler, ain' I, girlsh?" "Sure," again they chorused. "Well," said he finally, "le's have nozzer drink, zen." "That's right," hailed a woman, "that's right. Yer no bloomin' jay! Yer spends yer money like a man. Dat's right." The man pounded the table with his quivering fists. "Yessir," he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him. "I'm damn goo' f'ler, an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I allus trea's--le's have nozzer drink." He began to beat the wood with his glass. "Shay," howled he, growing suddenly impatient. As the waiter did not then come, the man swelled with wrath. "Shay," howled he again. The waiter appeared at the door. "Bringsh drinksh," said the man. The waiter disappeared with the orders. "Zat f'ler damn fool," cried the man. "He insul' me! I'm ge'man! Can' stan' be insul'! I'm goin' lickim when comes!" "No, no," cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him. "He's all right! He didn't mean anything! Let it go! He's a good fellah!" "Din' he insul' me?" asked the man earnestly. "No," said they. "Of course he didn't! He's all right!" "Sure he didn' insul' me?" demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his voice. "No, no! We know him! He's a good fellah. He didn't mean anything." "Well, zen," said the man, resolutely, "I'm go' 'pol'gize!" When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor. "Girlsh shed you insul' me! I shay damn lie! I 'pol'gize!" "All right," said the waiter. The man sat down. He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody. "Nell, I allus trea's yeh shquare, din' I? Yeh likes me, don' yehs, Nell? I'm goo' f'ler?" "Sure," said the woman of brilliance and audacity. "Yeh knows I'm stuck on yehs, don' yehs, Nell?" "Sure," she repeated, carelessly. Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman. "Yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, 'cause I'm stuck on yehs, Nell, damn't, I--I'm stuck on yehs, Nell--buy drinksh--damn't--we're havin' heluva time--w'en anyone trea's me ri'--I--damn't, Nell--we're havin' heluva--time." Shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest. The women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor. The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts. "Come ahn," cried one, starting up angrily, "let's get out of here." The woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket. A guttural snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him. She laughed. "What a damn fool," she said, and went. The smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little compartment, obscuring the way out. The smell of oil, stifling in its intensity, pervaded the air. The wine from an overturned glass dripped softly down upon the blotches on the man's neck. ----------CHAPTER 19--------- In a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture. A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered. "Well," said he, "Mag's dead." "What?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread. "Mag's dead," repeated the man. "Deh hell she is," said the woman. She continued her meal. When she finished her coffee she began to weep. "I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she weared worsted boots," moaned she. "Well, whata dat?" said the man. "I kin remember when she weared worsted boots," she cried. The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. A dozen women entered and lamented with her. Under their busy hands the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted. Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with outstretched arms. "Ah, poor Mary," she cried, and tenderly embraced the moaning one. "Ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis," continued she. Her vocabulary was derived from mission churches. "Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs! Ah, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chil'." Her good, motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe. "I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no bigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith," she cried, raising her streaming eyes. "Ah, me poor Mary," sobbed the woman in black. With low, coddling cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair, and put her arms about her. The other women began to groan in different keys. "Yer poor misguided chil' is gone now, Mary, an' let us hope it's fer deh bes'. Yeh'll fergive her now, Mary, won't yehs, dear, all her disobed'ence? All her t'ankless behavior to her mudder an' all her badness? She's gone where her ter'ble sins will be judged." The woman in black raised her face and paused. The inevitable sunlight came streaming in at the windows and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon the faded hues of the room. Two or three of the spectators were sniffling, and one was loudly weeping. The mourner arose and staggered into the other room. In a moment she emerged with a pair of faded baby shoes held in the hollow of her hand. "I kin remember when she used to wear dem," cried she. The women burst anew into cries as if they had all been stabbed. The mourner turned to the soiled and unshaven man. "Jimmie, boy, go git yer sister! Go git yer sister an' we'll put deh boots on her feets!" "Dey won't fit her now, yeh damn fool," said the man. "Go git yer sister, Jimmie," shrieked the woman, confronting him fiercely. The man swore sullenly. He went over to a corner and slowly began to put on his coat. He took his hat and went out, with a dragging, reluctant step. The woman in black came forward and again besought the mourner. "Yeh'll fergive her, Mary! Yeh'll fergive yer bad, bad, chil'! Her life was a curse an' her days were black an' yeh'll fergive yer bad girl? She's gone where her sins will be judged." "She's gone where her sins will be judged," cried the other women, like a choir at a funeral. "Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," said the woman in black, raising her eyes to the sunbeams. "Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," responded the others. "Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!" pleaded the woman in black. The mourner essayed to speak but her voice gave way. She shook her great shoulders frantically, in an agony of grief. Hot tears seemed to scald her quivering face. Finally her voice came and arose like a scream of pain. "Oh, yes, I'll fergive her! I'll fergive her!" ----------CHAPTER 1--------- A very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honor of Rum Alley. He was throwing stones at howling urchins from Devil's Row who were circling madly about the heap and pelting at him. His infantile countenance was livid with fury. His small body was writhing in the delivery of great, crimson oaths. "Run, Jimmie, run! Dey'll get yehs," screamed a retreating Rum Alley child. "Naw," responded Jimmie with a valiant roar, "dese micks can't make me run." Howls of renewed wrath went up from Devil's Row throats. Tattered gamins on the right made a furious assault on the gravel heap. On their small, convulsed faces there shone the grins of true assassins. As they charged, they threw stones and cursed in shrill chorus. The little champion of Rum Alley stumbled precipitately down the other side. His coat had been torn to shreds in a scuffle, and his hat was gone. He had bruises on twenty parts of his body, and blood was dripping from a cut in his head. His wan features wore a look of a tiny, insane demon. On the ground, children from Devil's Row closed in on their antagonist. He crooked his left arm defensively about his head and fought with cursing fury. The little boys ran to and fro, dodging, hurling stones and swearing in barbaric trebles. From a window of an apartment house that upreared its form from amid squat, ignorant stables, there leaned a curious woman. Some laborers, unloading a scow at a dock at the river, paused for a moment and regarded the fight. The engineer of a passive tugboat hung lazily to a railing and watched. Over on the Island, a worm of yellow convicts came from the shadow of a building and crawled slowly along the river's bank. A stone had smashed into Jimmie's mouth. Blood was bubbling over his chin and down upon his ragged shirt. Tears made furrows on his dirt-stained cheeks. His thin legs had begun to tremble and turn weak, causing his small body to reel. His roaring curses of the first part of the fight had changed to a blasphemous chatter. In the yells of the whirling mob of Devil's Row children there were notes of joy like songs of triumphant savagery. The little boys seemed to leer gloatingly at the blood upon the other child's face. Down the avenue came boastfully sauntering a lad of sixteen years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal manhood already sat upon his lips. His hat was tipped with an air of challenge over his eye. Between his teeth, a cigar stump was tilted at the angle of defiance. He walked with a certain swing of the shoulders which appalled the timid. He glanced over into the vacant lot in which the little raving boys from Devil's Row seethed about the shrieking and tearful child from Rum Alley. "Gee!" he murmured with interest. "A scrap. Gee!" He strode over to the cursing circle, swinging his shoulders in a manner which denoted that he held victory in his fists. He approached at the back of one of the most deeply engaged of the Devil's Row children. "Ah, what deh hell," he said, and smote the deeply-engaged one on the back of the head. The little boy fell to the ground and gave a hoarse, tremendous howl. He scrambled to his feet, and perceiving, evidently, the size of his assailant, ran quickly off, shouting alarms. The entire Devil's Row party followed him. They came to a stand a short distance away and yelled taunting oaths at the boy with the chronic sneer. The latter, momentarily, paid no attention to them. "What deh hell, Jimmie?" he asked of the small champion. Jimmie wiped his blood-wet features with his sleeve. "Well, it was dis way, Pete, see! I was goin' teh lick dat Riley kid and dey all pitched on me." Some Rum Alley children now came forward. The party stood for a moment exchanging vainglorious remarks with Devil's Row. A few stones were thrown at long distances, and words of challenge passed between small warriors. Then the Rum Alley contingent turned slowly in the direction of their home street. They began to give, each to each, distorted versions of the fight. Causes of retreat in particular cases were magnified. Blows dealt in the fight were enlarged to catapultian power, and stones thrown were alleged to have hurtled with infinite accuracy. Valor grew strong again, and the little boys began to swear with great spirit. "Ah, we blokies kin lick deh hull damn Row," said a child, swaggering. Little Jimmie was striving to stanch the flow of blood from his cut lips. Scowling, he turned upon the speaker. "Ah, where deh hell was yeh when I was doin' all deh fightin?" he demanded. "Youse kids makes me tired." "Ah, go ahn," replied the other argumentatively. Jimmie replied with heavy contempt. "Ah, youse can't fight, Blue Billie! I kin lick yeh wid one han'." "Ah, go ahn," replied Billie again. "Ah," said Jimmie threateningly. "Ah," said the other in the same tone. They struck at each other, clinched, and rolled over on the cobble stones. "Smash 'im, Jimmie, kick deh damn guts out of 'im," yelled Pete, the lad with the chronic sneer, in tones of delight. The small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore. They began to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with sobs. The other little boys clasped their hands and wriggled their legs in excitement. They formed a bobbing circle about the pair. A tiny spectator was suddenly agitated. "Cheese it, Jimmie, cheese it! Here comes yer fader," he yelled. The circle of little boys instantly parted. They drew away and waited in ecstatic awe for that which was about to happen. The two little boys fighting in the modes of four thousand years ago, did not hear the warning. Up the avenue there plodded slowly a man with sullen eyes. He was carrying a dinner pail and smoking an apple-wood pipe. As he neared the spot where the little boys strove, he regarded them listlessly. But suddenly he roared an oath and advanced upon the rolling fighters. "Here, you Jim, git up, now, while I belt yer life out, you damned disorderly brat." He began to kick into the chaotic mass on the ground. The boy Billie felt a heavy boot strike his head. He made a furious effort and disentangled himself from Jimmie. He tottered away, damning. Jimmie arose painfully from the ground and confronting his father, began to curse him. His parent kicked him. "Come home, now," he cried, "an' stop yer jawin', er I'll lam the everlasting head off yehs." They departed. The man paced placidly along with the apple-wood emblem of serenity between his teeth. The boy followed a dozen feet in the rear. He swore luridly, for he felt that it was degradation for one who aimed to be some vague soldier, or a man of blood with a sort of sublime license, to be taken home by a father. ----------CHAPTER 2--------- Eventually they entered into a dark region where, from a careening building, a dozen gruesome doorways gave up loads of babies to the street and the gutter. A wind of early autumn raised yellow dust from cobbles and swirled it against an hundred windows. Long streamers of garments fluttered from fire-escapes. In all unhandy places there were buckets, brooms, rags and bottles. In the street infants played or fought with other infants or sat stupidly in the way of vehicles. Formidable women, with uncombed hair and disordered dress, gossiped while leaning on railings, or screamed in frantic quarrels. Withered persons, in curious postures of submission to something, sat smoking pipes in obscure corners. A thousand odors of cooking food came forth to the street. The building quivered and creaked from the weight of humanity stamping about in its bowels. A small ragged girl dragged a red, bawling infant along the crowded ways. He was hanging back, baby-like, bracing his wrinkled, bare legs. The little girl cried out: "Ah, Tommie, come ahn. Dere's Jimmie and fader. Don't be a-pullin' me back." She jerked the baby's arm impatiently. He fell on his face, roaring. With a second jerk she pulled him to his feet, and they went on. With the obstinacy of his order, he protested against being dragged in a chosen direction. He made heroic endeavors to keep on his legs, denounce his sister and consume a bit of orange peeling which he chewed between the times of his infantile orations. As the sullen-eyed man, followed by the blood-covered boy, drew near, the little girl burst into reproachful cries. "Ah, Jimmie, youse bin fightin' agin." The urchin swelled disdainfully. "Ah, what deh hell, Mag. See?" The little girl upbraided him, "Youse allus fightin', Jimmie, an' yeh knows it puts mudder out when yehs come home half dead, an' it's like we'll all get a poundin'." She began to weep. The babe threw back his head and roared at his prospects. "Ah, what deh hell!" cried Jimmie. "Shut up er I'll smack yer mout'. See?" As his sister continued her lamentations, he suddenly swore and struck her. The little girl reeled and, recovering herself, burst into tears and quaveringly cursed him. As she slowly retreated her brother advanced dealing her cuffs. The father heard and turned about. "Stop that, Jim, d'yeh hear? Leave yer sister alone on the street. It's like I can never beat any sense into yer damned wooden head." The urchin raised his voice in defiance to his parent and continued his attacks. The babe bawled tremendously, protesting with great violence. During his sister's hasty manoeuvres, he was dragged by the arm. Finally the procession plunged into one of the gruesome doorways. They crawled up dark stairways and along cold, gloomy halls. At last the father pushed open a door and they entered a lighted room in which a large woman was rampant. She stopped in a career from a seething stove to a pan-covered table. As the father and children filed in she peered at them. "Eh, what? Been fightin' agin, by Gawd!" She threw herself upon Jimmie. The urchin tried to dart behind the others and in the scuffle the babe, Tommie, was knocked down. He protested with his usual vehemence, because they had bruised his tender shins against a table leg. The mother's massive shoulders heaved with anger. Grasping the urchin by the neck and shoulder she shook him until he rattled. She dragged him to an unholy sink, and, soaking a rag in water, began to scrub his lacerated face with it. Jimmie screamed in pain and tried to twist his shoulders out of the clasp of the huge arms. The babe sat on the floor watching the scene, his face in contortions like that of a woman at a tragedy. The father, with a newly-ladened pipe in his mouth, crouched on a backless chair near the stove. Jimmie's cries annoyed him. He turned about and bellowed at his wife: "Let the damned kid alone for a minute, will yeh, Mary? Yer allus poundin' 'im. When I come nights I can't git no rest 'cause yer allus poundin' a kid. Let up, d'yeh hear? Don't be allus poundin' a kid." The woman's operations on the urchin instantly increased in violence. At last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and weeping. The wife put her immense hands on her hips and with a chieftain-like stride approached her husband. "Ho," she said, with a great grunt of contempt. "An' what in the devil are you stickin' your nose for?" The babe crawled under the table and, turning, peered out cautiously. The ragged girl retreated and the urchin in the corner drew his legs carefully beneath him. The man puffed his pipe calmly and put his great mudded boots on the back part of the stove. "Go teh hell," he murmured, tranquilly. The woman screamed and shook her fists before her husband's eyes. The rough yellow of her face and neck flared suddenly crimson. She began to howl. He puffed imperturbably at his pipe for a time, but finally arose and began to look out at the window into the darkening chaos of back yards. "You've been drinkin', Mary," he said. "You'd better let up on the bot', ol' woman, or you'll git done." "You're a liar. I ain't had a drop," she roared in reply. They had a lurid altercation, in which they damned each other's souls with frequence. The babe was staring out from under the table, his small face working in his excitement. The ragged girl went stealthily over to the corner where the urchin lay. "Are yehs hurted much, Jimmie?" she whispered timidly. "Not a damn bit! See?" growled the little boy. "Will I wash deh blood?" "Naw!" "Will I--" "When I catch dat Riley kid I'll break 'is face! Dat's right! See?" He turned his face to the wall as if resolved to grimly bide his time. In the quarrel between husband and wife, the woman was victor. The man grabbed his hat and rushed from the room, apparently determined upon a vengeful drunk. She followed to the door and thundered at him as he made his way down stairs. She returned and stirred up the room until her children were bobbing about like bubbles. "Git outa deh way," she persistently bawled, waving feet with their dishevelled shoes near the heads of her children. She shrouded herself, puffing and snorting, in a cloud of steam at the stove, and eventually extracted a frying-pan full of potatoes that hissed. She flourished it. "Come teh yer suppers, now," she cried with sudden exasperation. "Hurry up, now, er I'll help yeh!" The children scrambled hastily. With prodigious clatter they arranged themselves at table. The babe sat with his feet dangling high from a precarious infant chair and gorged his small stomach. Jimmie forced, with feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces between his wounded lips. Maggie, with side glances of fear of interruption, ate like a small pursued tigress. The mother sat blinking at them. She delivered reproaches, swallowed potatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle. After a time her mood changed and she wept as she carried little Tommie into another room and laid him to sleep with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red and green grandeur. Then she came and moaned by the stove. She rocked to and fro upon a chair, shedding tears and crooning miserably to the two children about their "poor mother" and "yer fader, damn 'is soul." The little girl plodded between the table and the chair with a dish-pan on it. She tottered on her small legs beneath burdens of dishes. Jimmie sat nursing his various wounds. He cast furtive glances at his mother. His practised eye perceived her gradually emerge from a muddled mist of sentiment until her brain burned in drunken heat. He sat breathless. Maggie broke a plate. The mother started to her feet as if propelled. "Good Gawd," she howled. Her eyes glittered on her child with sudden hatred. The fervent red of her face turned almost to purple. The little boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in an earthquake. He floundered about in darkness until he found the stairs. He stumbled, panic-stricken, to the next floor. An old woman opened a door. A light behind her threw a flare on the urchin's quivering face. "Eh, Gawd, child, what is it dis time? Is yer fader beatin' yer mudder, or yer mudder beatin' yer fader?"

cliffnotes

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

chapter 3|chapter 4|chapter 5|chapter 6

"The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle." No one in the tenement neighborhood notices her as a pretty girl when she is a child because she is so covered with tattered and dirty clothes. When she is a teenager, people are surprised at how pretty she is. The young men begin to comment on her. She gets a job making collars and cuffs. Jimmie becomes head of the family. He stumbles upstairs drunk every night just like his father did before him. Maggies mother becomes famous in the police stations around the neighborhood. They all know her by her first name. She always stands in front of the judge with "voluble excuses, explanations, apologies and prayers." One day, Pete, the young man who got Jimmie out of the fight in his childhood, comes to visit. "Maggie observe Pete." He is dressed in the flamboyant clothing of a bouncer of a bar, the person who keeps order and throws rowdy customers out. He and Jimmie exchange stories of fights theyve had and Maggie sits in the shadows admiring Petes clothing and his carriage. She begins to feel embarrassed about the ugliness of her familys furniture. She sees in Pete a "beau ideal of a man." She has always dreamed of finding a lover like Pete.

----------CHAPTER 3--------- Jimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall. Above the muffled roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at night, the thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled with the sound of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the rattling of wheels over cobbles, they heard the screams of the child and the roars of the mother die away to a feeble moaning and a subdued bass muttering. The old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at will, an expression of great virtue. She possessed a small music-box capable of one tune, and a collection of "God bless yehs" pitched in assorted keys of fervency. Each day she took a position upon the stones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under her and crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. She received daily a small sum in pennies. It was contributed, for the most part, by persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity. Once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the gnarled woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity beneath her cloak. When she was arrested she had cursed the lady into a partial swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had almost kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman whose conduct upon that occasion she referred to when she said: "The police, damn 'em." "Eh, Jimmie, it's cursed shame," she said. "Go, now, like a dear an' buy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs can sleep here." Jimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed. He passed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar. Straining up on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high as his arms would let him. He saw two hands thrust down and take them. Directly the same hands let down the filled pail and he left. In front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure. It was his father, swaying about on uncertain legs. "Give me deh can. See?" said the man, threateningly. "Ah, come off! I got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be dirt teh swipe it. See?" cried Jimmie. The father wrenched the pail from the urchin. He grasped it in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. He glued his lips to the under edge and tilted his head. His hairy throat swelled until it seemed to grow near his chin. There was a tremendous gulping movement and the beer was gone. The man caught his breath and laughed. He hit his son on the head with the empty pail. As it rolled clanging into the street, Jimmie began to scream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins. "Look at deh dirt what yeh done me," he yelled. "Deh ol' woman 'ill be raisin' hell." He retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not pursue. He staggered toward the door. "I'll club hell outa yeh when I ketch yeh," he shouted, and disappeared. During the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking whiskies and declaring to all comers, confidentially: "My home reg'lar livin' hell! Damndes' place! Reg'lar hell! Why do I come an' drin' whisk' here thish way? 'Cause home reg'lar livin' hell!" Jimmie waited a long time in the street and then crept warily up through the building. He passed with great caution the door of the gnarled woman, and finally stopped outside his home and listened. He could hear his mother moving heavily about among the furniture of the room. She was chanting in a mournful voice, occasionally interjecting bursts of volcanic wrath at the father, who, Jimmie judged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner. "Why deh blazes don' chere try teh keep Jim from fightin'? I'll break her jaw," she suddenly bellowed. The man mumbled with drunken indifference. "Ah, wha' deh hell. W'a's odds? Wha' makes kick?" "Because he tears 'is clothes, yeh damn fool," cried the woman in supreme wrath. The husband seemed to become aroused. "Go teh hell," he thundered fiercely in reply. There was a crash against the door and something broke into clattering fragments. Jimmie partially suppressed a howl and darted down the stairway. Below he paused and listened. He heard howls and curses, groans and shrieks, confusingly in chorus as if a battle were raging. With all was the crash of splintering furniture. The eyes of the urchin glared in fear that one of them would discover him. Curious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments passed to and fro. "Ol' Johnson's raisin' hell agin." Jimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants of the tenement had all yawned and shut their doors. Then he crawled upstairs with the caution of an invader of a panther den. Sounds of labored breathing came through the broken door-panels. He pushed the door open and entered, quaking. A glow from the fire threw red hues over the bare floor, the cracked and soiled plastering, and the overturned and broken furniture. In the middle of the floor lay his mother asleep. In one corner of the room his father's limp body hung across the seat of a chair. The urchin stole forward. He began to shiver in dread of awakening his parents. His mother's great chest was heaving painfully. Jimmie paused and looked down at her. Her face was inflamed and swollen from drinking. Her yellow brows shaded eyelids that had brown blue. Her tangled hair tossed in waves over her forehead. Her mouth was set in the same lines of vindictive hatred that it had, perhaps, borne during the fight. Her bare, red arms were thrown out above her head in positions of exhaustion, something, mayhap, like those of a sated villain. The urchin bended over his mother. He was fearful lest she should open her eyes, and the dread within him was so strong, that he could not forbear to stare, but hung as if fascinated over the woman's grim face. Suddenly her eyes opened. The urchin found himself looking straight into that expression, which, it would seem, had the power to change his blood to salt. He howled piercingly and fell backward. The woman floundered for a moment, tossed her arms about her head as if in combat, and again began to snore. Jimmie crawled back in the shadows and waited. A noise in the next room had followed his cry at the discovery that his mother was awake. He grovelled in the gloom, the eyes from out his drawn face riveted upon the intervening door. He heard it creak, and then the sound of a small voice came to him. "Jimmie! Jimmie! Are yehs dere?" it whispered. The urchin started. The thin, white face of his sister looked at him from the door-way of the other room. She crept to him across the floor. The father had not moved, but lay in the same death-like sleep. The mother writhed in uneasy slumber, her chest wheezing as if she were in the agonies of strangulation. Out at the window a florid moon was peering over dark roofs, and in the distance the waters of a river glimmered pallidly. The small frame of the ragged girl was quivering. Her features were haggard from weeping, and her eyes gleamed from fear. She grasped the urchin's arm in her little trembling hands and they huddled in a corner. The eyes of both were drawn, by some force, to stare at the woman's face, for they thought she need only to awake and all fiends would come from below. They crouched until the ghost-mists of dawn appeared at the window, drawing close to the panes, and looking in at the prostrate, heaving body of the mother. ----------CHAPTER 4--------- The babe, Tommie, died. He went away in a white, insignificant coffin, his small waxen hand clutching a flower that the girl, Maggie, had stolen from an Italian. She and Jimmie lived. The inexperienced fibres of the boy's eyes were hardened at an early age. He became a young man of leather. He lived some red years without laboring. During that time his sneer became chronic. He studied human nature in the gutter, and found it no worse than he thought he had reason to believe it. He never conceived a respect for the world, because he had begun with no idols that it had smashed. He clad his soul in armor by means of happening hilariously in at a mission church where a man composed his sermons of "yous." While they got warm at the stove, he told his hearers just where he calculated they stood with the Lord. Many of the sinners were impatient over the pictured depths of their degradation. They were waiting for soup-tickets. A reader of words of wind-demons might have been able to see the portions of a dialogue pass to and fro between the exhorter and his hearers. "You are damned," said the preacher. And the reader of sounds might have seen the reply go forth from the ragged people: "Where's our soup?" Jimmie and a companion sat in a rear seat and commented upon the things that didn't concern them, with all the freedom of English gentlemen. When they grew thirsty and went out their minds confused the speaker with Christ. Momentarily, Jimmie was sullen with thoughts of a hopeless altitude where grew fruit. His companion said that if he should ever meet God he would ask for a million dollars and a bottle of beer. Jimmie's occupation for a long time was to stand on streetcorners and watch the world go by, dreaming blood-red dreams at the passing of pretty women. He menaced mankind at the intersections of streets. On the corners he was in life and of life. The world was going on and he was there to perceive it. He maintained a belligerent attitude toward all well-dressed men. To him fine raiment was allied to weakness, and all good coats covered faint hearts. He and his order were kings, to a certain extent, over the men of untarnished clothes, because these latter dreaded, perhaps, to be either killed or laughed at. Above all things he despised obvious Christians and ciphers with the chrysanthemums of aristocracy in their button-holes. He considered himself above both of these classes. He was afraid of neither the devil nor the leader of society. When he had a dollar in his pocket his satisfaction with existence was the greatest thing in the world. So, eventually, he felt obliged to work. His father died and his mother's years were divided up into periods of thirty days. He became a truck driver. He was given the charge of a painstaking pair of horses and a large rattling truck. He invaded the turmoil and tumble of the down-town streets and learned to breathe maledictory defiance at the police who occasionally used to climb up, drag him from his perch and beat him. In the lower part of the city he daily involved himself in hideous tangles. If he and his team chanced to be in the rear he preserved a demeanor of serenity, crossing his legs and bursting forth into yells when foot passengers took dangerous dives beneath the noses of his champing horses. He smoked his pipe calmly for he knew that his pay was marching on. If in the front and the key-truck of chaos, he entered terrifically into the quarrel that was raging to and fro among the drivers on their high seats, and sometimes roared oaths and violently got himself arrested. After a time his sneer grew so that it turned its glare upon all things. He became so sharp that he believed in nothing. To him the police were always actuated by malignant impulses and the rest of the world was composed, for the most part, of despicable creatures who were all trying to take advantage of him and with whom, in defense, he was obliged to quarrel on all possible occasions. He himself occupied a down-trodden position that had a private but distinct element of grandeur in its isolation. The most complete cases of aggravated idiocy were, to his mind, rampant upon the front platforms of all the street cars. At first his tongue strove with these beings, but he eventually was superior. He became immured like an African cow. In him grew a majestic contempt for those strings of street cars that followed him like intent bugs. He fell into the habit, when starting on a long journey, of fixing his eye on a high and distant object, commanding his horses to begin, and then going into a sort of a trance of observation. Multitudes of drivers might howl in his rear, and passengers might load him with opprobrium, he would not awaken until some blue policeman turned red and began to frenziedly tear bridles and beat the soft noses of the responsible horses. When he paused to contemplate the attitude of the police toward himself and his fellows, he believed that they were the only men in the city who had no rights. When driving about, he felt that he was held liable by the police for anything that might occur in the streets, and was the common prey of all energetic officials. In revenge, he resolved never to move out of the way of anything, until formidable circumstances, or a much larger man than himself forced him to it. Foot-passengers were mere pestering flies with an insane disregard for their legs and his convenience. He could not conceive their maniacal desires to cross the streets. Their madness smote him with eternal amazement. He was continually storming at them from his throne. He sat aloft and denounced their frantic leaps, plunges, dives and straddles. When they would thrust at, or parry, the noses of his champing horses, making them swing their heads and move their feet, disturbing a solid dreamy repose, he swore at the men as fools, for he himself could perceive that Providence had caused it clearly to be written, that he and his team had the unalienable right to stand in the proper path of the sun chariot, and if they so minded, obstruct its mission or take a wheel off. And, perhaps, if the god-driver had an ungovernable desire to step down, put up his flame-colored fists and manfully dispute the right of way, he would have probably been immediately opposed by a scowling mortal with two sets of very hard knuckles. It is possible, perhaps, that this young man would have derided, in an axle-wide alley, the approach of a flying ferry boat. Yet he achieved a respect for a fire engine. As one charged toward his truck, he would drive fearfully upon a sidewalk, threatening untold people with annihilation. When an engine would strike a mass of blocked trucks, splitting it into fragments, as a blow annihilates a cake of ice, Jimmie's team could usually be observed high and safe, with whole wheels, on the sidewalk. The fearful coming of the engine could break up the most intricate muddle of heavy vehicles at which the police had been swearing for the half of an hour. A fire engine was enshrined in his heart as an appalling thing that he loved with a distant dog-like devotion. They had been known to overturn street-cars. Those leaping horses, striking sparks from the cobbles in their forward lunge, were creatures to be ineffably admired. The clang of the gong pierced his breast like a noise of remembered war. When Jimmie was a little boy, he began to be arrested. Before he reached a great age, he had a fair record. He developed too great a tendency to climb down from his truck and fight with other drivers. He had been in quite a number of miscellaneous fights, and in some general barroom rows that had become known to the police. Once he had been arrested for assaulting a Chinaman. Two women in different parts of the city, and entirely unknown to each other, caused him considerable annoyance by breaking forth, simultaneously, at fateful intervals, into wailings about marriage and support and infants. Nevertheless, he had, on a certain star-lit evening, said wonderingly and quite reverently: "Deh moon looks like hell, don't it?" ----------CHAPTER 5--------- The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle. She grew to be a most rare and wonderful production of a tenement district, a pretty girl. None of the dirt of Rum Alley seemed to be in her veins. The philosophers up-stairs, down-stairs and on the same floor, puzzled over it. When a child, playing and fighting with gamins in the street, dirt disguised her. Attired in tatters and grime, she went unseen. There came a time, however, when the young men of the vicinity said: "Dat Johnson goil is a puty good looker." About this period her brother remarked to her: "Mag, I'll tell yeh dis! See? Yeh've edder got teh go teh hell or go teh work!" Whereupon she went to work, having the feminine aversion of going to hell. By a chance, she got a position in an establishment where they made collars and cuffs. She received a stool and a machine in a room where sat twenty girls of various shades of yellow discontent. She perched on the stool and treadled at her machine all day, turning out collars, the name of whose brand could be noted for its irrelevancy to anything in connection with collars. At night she returned home to her mother. Jimmie grew large enough to take the vague position of head of the family. As incumbent of that office, he stumbled up-stairs late at night, as his father had done before him. He reeled about the room, swearing at his relations, or went to sleep on the floor. The mother had gradually arisen to that degree of fame that she could bandy words with her acquaintances among the police-justices. Court-officials called her by her first name. When she appeared they pursued a course which had been theirs for months. They invariably grinned and cried out: "Hello, Mary, you here again?" Her grey head wagged in many a court. She always besieged the bench with voluble excuses, explanations, apologies and prayers. Her flaming face and rolling eyes were a sort of familiar sight on the island. She measured time by means of sprees, and was eternally swollen and dishevelled. One day the young man, Pete, who as a lad had smitten the Devil's Row urchin in the back of the head and put to flight the antagonists of his friend, Jimmie, strutted upon the scene. He met Jimmie one day on the street, promised to take him to a boxing match in Williamsburg, and called for him in the evening. Maggie observed Pete. He sat on a table in the Johnson home and dangled his checked legs with an enticing nonchalance. His hair was curled down over his forehead in an oiled bang. His rather pugged nose seemed to revolt from contact with a bristling moustache of short, wire-like hairs. His blue double-breasted coat, edged with black braid, buttoned close to a red puff tie, and his patent-leather shoes looked like murder-fitted weapons. His mannerisms stamped him as a man who had a correct sense of his personal superiority. There was valor and contempt for circumstances in the glance of his eye. He waved his hands like a man of the world, who dismisses religion and philosophy, and says "Fudge." He had certainly seen everything and with each curl of his lip, he declared that it amounted to nothing. Maggie thought he must be a very elegant and graceful bartender. He was telling tales to Jimmie. Maggie watched him furtively, with half-closed eyes, lit with a vague interest. "Hully gee! Dey makes me tired," he said. "Mos' e'ry day some farmer comes in an' tries teh run deh shop. See? But dey gits t'rowed right out! I jolt dem right out in deh street before dey knows where dey is! See?" "Sure," said Jimmie. "Dere was a mug come in deh place deh odder day wid an idear he wus goin' teh own deh place! Hully gee, he wus goin' teh own deh place! I see he had a still on an' I didn' wanna giv 'im no stuff, so I says: 'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble,' I says like dat! See? 'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make no trouble'; like dat. 'Git deh hell outa here,' I says. See?" Jimmie nodded understandingly. Over his features played an eager desire to state the amount of his valor in a similar crisis, but the narrator proceeded. "Well, deh blokie he says: 'T'hell wid it! I ain' lookin' for no scrap,' he says (See?), 'but' he says, 'I'm 'spectable cit'zen an' I wanna drink an' purtydamnsoon, too.' See? 'Deh hell,' I says. Like dat! 'Deh hell,' I says. See? 'Don' make no trouble,' I says. Like dat. 'Don' make no trouble.' See? Den deh mug he squared off an' said he was fine as silk wid his dukes (See?) an' he wanned a drink damnquick. Dat's what he said. See?" "Sure," repeated Jimmie. Pete continued. "Say, I jes' jumped deh bar an' deh way I plunked dat blokie was great. See? Dat's right! In deh jaw! See? Hully gee, he t'rowed a spittoon true deh front windee. Say, I taut I'd drop dead. But deh boss, he comes in after an' he says, 'Pete, yehs done jes' right! Yeh've gota keep order an' it's all right.' See? 'It's all right,' he says. Dat's what he said." The two held a technical discussion. "Dat bloke was a dandy," said Pete, in conclusion, "but he hadn' oughta made no trouble. Dat's what I says teh dem: 'Don' come in here an' make no trouble,' I says, like dat. 'Don' make no trouble.' See?" As Jimmie and his friend exchanged tales descriptive of their prowess, Maggie leaned back in the shadow. Her eyes dwelt wonderingly and rather wistfully upon Pete's face. The broken furniture, grimey walls, and general disorder and dirt of her home of a sudden appeared before her and began to take a potential aspect. Pete's aristocratic person looked as if it might soil. She looked keenly at him, occasionally, wondering if he was feeling contempt. But Pete seemed to be enveloped in reminiscence. "Hully gee," said he, "dose mugs can't phase me. Dey knows I kin wipe up deh street wid any t'ree of dem." When he said, "Ah, what deh hell," his voice was burdened with disdain for the inevitable and contempt for anything that fate might compel him to endure. Maggie perceived that here was the beau ideal of a man. Her dim thoughts were often searching for far away lands where, as God says, the little hills sing together in the morning. Under the trees of her dream-gardens there had always walked a lover. ----------CHAPTER 6--------- Pete took note of Maggie. "Say, Mag, I'm stuck on yer shape. It's outa sight," he said, parenthetically, with an affable grin. As he became aware that she was listening closely, he grew still more eloquent in his descriptions of various happenings in his career. It appeared that he was invincible in fights. "Why," he said, referring to a man with whom he had had a misunderstanding, "dat mug scrapped like a damn dago. Dat's right. He was dead easy. See? He tau't he was a scrapper. But he foun' out diff'ent! Hully gee." He walked to and fro in the small room, which seemed then to grow even smaller and unfit to hold his dignity, the attribute of a supreme warrior. That swing of the shoulders that had frozen the timid when he was but a lad had increased with his growth and education at the ratio of ten to one. It, combined with the sneer upon his mouth, told mankind that there was nothing in space which could appall him. Maggie marvelled at him and surrounded him with greatness. She vaguely tried to calculate the altitude of the pinnacle from which he must have looked down upon her. "I met a chump deh odder day way up in deh city," he said. "I was goin' teh see a frien' of mine. When I was a-crossin' deh street deh chump runned plump inteh me, an' den he turns aroun' an' says, 'Yer insolen' ruffin,' he says, like dat. 'Oh, gee,' I says, 'oh, gee, go teh hell and git off deh eart',' I says, like dat. See? 'Go teh hell an' git off deh eart',' like dat. Den deh blokie he got wild. He says I was a contempt'ble scoun'el, er somet'ing like dat, an' he says I was doom' teh everlastin' pe'dition an' all like dat. 'Gee,' I says, 'gee! Deh hell I am,' I says. 'Deh hell I am,' like dat. An' den I slugged 'im. See?" With Jimmie in his company, Pete departed in a sort of a blaze of glory from the Johnson home. Maggie, leaning from the window, watched him as he walked down the street. Here was a formidable man who disdained the strength of a world full of fists. Here was one who had contempt for brass-clothed power; one whose knuckles could defiantly ring against the granite of law. He was a knight. The two men went from under the glimmering street-lamp and passed into shadows. Turning, Maggie contemplated the dark, dust-stained walls, and the scant and crude furniture of her home. A clock, in a splintered and battered oblong box of varnished wood, she suddenly regarded as an abomination. She noted that it ticked raspingly. The almost vanished flowers in the carpet-pattern, she conceived to be newly hideous. Some faint attempts she had made with blue ribbon, to freshen the appearance of a dingy curtain, she now saw to be piteous. She wondered what Pete dined on. She reflected upon the collar and cuff factory. It began to appear to her mind as a dreary place of endless grinding. Pete's elegant occupation brought him, no doubt, into contact with people who had money and manners. It was probable that he had a large acquaintance of pretty girls. He must have great sums of money to spend. To her the earth was composed of hardships and insults. She felt instant admiration for a man who openly defied it. She thought that if the grim angel of death should clutch his heart, Pete would shrug his shoulders and say: "Oh, ev'ryt'ing goes." She anticipated that he would come again shortly. She spent some of her week's pay in the purchase of flowered cretonne for a lambrequin. She made it with infinite care and hung it to the slightly-careening mantel, over the stove, in the kitchen. She studied it with painful anxiety from different points in the room. She wanted it to look well on Sunday night when, perhaps, Jimmie's friend would come. On Sunday night, however, Pete did not appear. Afterward the girl looked at it with a sense of humiliation. She was now convinced that Pete was superior to admiration for lambrequins. A few evenings later Pete entered with fascinating innovations in his apparel. As she had seen him twice and he had different suits on each time, Maggie had a dim impression that his wardrobe was prodigiously extensive. "Say, Mag," he said, "put on yer bes' duds Friday night an' I'll take yehs teh deh show. See?" He spent a few moments in flourishing his clothes and then vanished, without having glanced at the lambrequin. Over the eternal collars and cuffs in the factory Maggie spent the most of three days in making imaginary sketches of Pete and his daily environment. She imagined some half dozen women in love with him and thought he must lean dangerously toward an indefinite one, whom she pictured with great charms of person, but with an altogether contemptible disposition. She thought he must live in a blare of pleasure. He had friends, and people who were afraid of him. She saw the golden glitter of the place where Pete was to take her. An entertainment of many hues and many melodies where she was afraid she might appear small and mouse-colored. Her mother drank whiskey all Friday morning. With lurid face and tossing hair she cursed and destroyed furniture all Friday afternoon. When Maggie came home at half-past six her mother lay asleep amidst the wreck of chairs and a table. Fragments of various household utensils were scattered about the floor. She had vented some phase of drunken fury upon the lambrequin. It lay in a bedraggled heap in the corner. "Hah," she snorted, sitting up suddenly, "where deh hell yeh been? Why deh hell don' yeh come home earlier? Been loafin' 'round deh streets. Yer gettin' teh be a reg'lar devil." When Pete arrived Maggie, in a worn black dress, was waiting for him in the midst of a floor strewn with wreckage. The curtain at the window had been pulled by a heavy hand and hung by one tack, dangling to and fro in the draft through the cracks at the sash. The knots of blue ribbons appeared like violated flowers. The fire in the stove had gone out. The displaced lids and open doors showed heaps of sullen grey ashes. The remnants of a meal, ghastly, like dead flesh, lay in a corner. Maggie's red mother, stretched on the floor, blasphemed and gave her daughter a bad name.

cliffnotes

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

chapter 7|chapter 8|chapter 9|chapter 10

Maggie begins to hate all her dresses after she begins to go out with Pete. Her mother screams at her for tending to herself so much. Maggie thinks if only she can dress nicely, she will be cherished and loved. She hates the sweatshop where she works. The women who have been there a long time are grizzled with all the hard work. She begins to worry about losing her beauty in the factory. She hates the boss at her work who sits around all day complaining about the women not working hard enough when he pays them five dollars a week. Maggie wishes she had a friend so she could share stories about Pete. Pete is like a "golden sun to Maggie." He takes her to all forms of popular entertainment. He takes her to a dime museum where they gawk at freaks. He takes her to the Central Park Menagerie and watches her enjoy herself. When he sees a monkey get picked on by other monkeys, he cheers the little monkey on, trying to get it to fight back. He takes her to the Museum of Art and stands around taunting the guards. He cant understand the use of so many jugs. During the evenings, he takes her to plays. Maggie loves the plays most. She and all the other members of the audience cheer on the virtuous heroines and catcall to the vicious villains. The hero always goes from poverty to wealth in these plays. When Maggie leaves the plays, she is always happier. She rejoices over "the way in which the poor and virtuous eventually surmounted the wealthy and wicked." She always wonders after a play if she can imitate the heroines culture and refinement, even if she has been raised in a tenement house and works in a shirt factory.

----------CHAPTER 7--------- An orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men on an elevated stage near the centre of a great green-hued hall, played a popular waltz. The place was crowded with people grouped about little tables. A battalion of waiters slid among the throng, carrying trays of beer glasses and making change from the inexhaustible vaults of their trousers pockets. Little boys, in the costumes of French chefs, paraded up and down the irregular aisles vending fancy cakes. There was a low rumble of conversation and a subdued clinking of glasses. Clouds of tobacco smoke rolled and wavered high in air about the dull gilt of the chandeliers. The vast crowd had an air throughout of having just quitted labor. Men with calloused hands and attired in garments that showed the wear of an endless trudge for a living, smoked their pipes contentedly and spent five, ten, or perhaps fifteen cents for beer. There was a mere sprinkling of kid-gloved men who smoked cigars purchased elsewhere. The great body of the crowd was composed of people who showed that all day they strove with their hands. Quiet Germans, with maybe their wives and two or three children, sat listening to the music, with the expressions of happy cows. An occasional party of sailors from a war-ship, their faces pictures of sturdy health, spent the earlier hours of the evening at the small round tables. Very infrequent tipsy men, swollen with the value of their opinions, engaged their companions in earnest and confidential conversation. In the balcony, and here and there below, shone the impassive faces of women. The nationalities of the Bowery beamed upon the stage from all directions. Pete aggressively walked up a side aisle and took seats with Maggie at a table beneath the balcony. "Two beehs!" Leaning back he regarded with eyes of superiority the scene before them. This attitude affected Maggie strongly. A man who could regard such a sight with indifference must be accustomed to very great things. It was obvious that Pete had been to this place many times before, and was very familiar with it. A knowledge of this fact made Maggie feel little and new. He was extremely gracious and attentive. He displayed the consideration of a cultured gentleman who knew what was due. "Say, what deh hell? Bring deh lady a big glass! What deh hell use is dat pony?" "Don't be fresh, now," said the waiter, with some warmth, as he departed. "Ah, git off deh eart'," said Pete, after the other's retreating form. Maggie perceived that Pete brought forth all his elegance and all his knowledge of high-class customs for her benefit. Her heart warmed as she reflected upon his condescension. The orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men gave vent to a few bars of anticipatory music and a girl, in a pink dress with short skirts, galloped upon the stage. She smiled upon the throng as if in acknowledgment of a warm welcome, and began to walk to and fro, making profuse gesticulations and singing, in brazen soprano tones, a song, the words of which were inaudible. When she broke into the swift rattling measures of a chorus some half-tipsy men near the stage joined in the rollicking refrain and glasses were pounded rhythmically upon the tables. People leaned forward to watch her and to try to catch the words of the song. When she vanished there were long rollings of applause. Obedient to more anticipatory bars, she reappeared amidst the half-suppressed cheering of the tipsy men. The orchestra plunged into dance music and the laces of the dancer fluttered and flew in the glare of gas jets. She divulged the fact that she was attired in some half dozen skirts. It was patent that any one of them would have proved adequate for the purpose for which skirts are intended. An occasional man bent forward, intent upon the pink stockings. Maggie wondered at the splendor of the costume and lost herself in calculations of the cost of the silks and laces. The dancer's smile of stereotyped enthusiasm was turned for ten minutes upon the faces of her audience. In the finale she fell into some of those grotesque attitudes which were at the time popular among the dancers in the theatres up-town, giving to the Bowery public the phantasies of the aristocratic theatre-going public, at reduced rates. "Say, Pete," said Maggie, leaning forward, "dis is great." "Sure," said Pete, with proper complacence. A ventriloquist followed the dancer. He held two fantastic dolls on his knees. He made them sing mournful ditties and say funny things about geography and Ireland. "Do dose little men talk?" asked Maggie. "Naw," said Pete, "it's some damn fake. See?" Two girls, on the bills as sisters, came forth and sang a duet that is heard occasionally at concerts given under church auspices. They supplemented it with a dance which of course can never be seen at concerts given under church auspices. After the duettists had retired, a woman of debatable age sang a negro melody. The chorus necessitated some grotesque waddlings supposed to be an imitation of a plantation darkey, under the influence, probably, of music and the moon. The audience was just enthusiastic enough over it to have her return and sing a sorrowful lay, whose lines told of a mother's love and a sweetheart who waited and a young man who was lost at sea under the most harrowing circumstances. From the faces of a score or so in the crowd, the self-contained look faded. Many heads were bent forward with eagerness and sympathy. As the last distressing sentiment of the piece was brought forth, it was greeted by that kind of applause which rings as sincere. As a final effort, the singer rendered some verses which described a vision of Britain being annihilated by America, and Ireland bursting her bonds. A carefully prepared crisis was reached in the last line of the last verse, where the singer threw out her arms and cried, "The star-spangled banner." Instantly a great cheer swelled from the throats of the assemblage of the masses. There was a heavy rumble of booted feet thumping the floor. Eyes gleamed with sudden fire, and calloused hands waved frantically in the air. After a few moments' rest, the orchestra played crashingly, and a small fat man burst out upon the stage. He began to roar a song and stamp back and forth before the foot-lights, wildly waving a glossy silk hat and throwing leers, or smiles, broadcast. He made his face into fantastic grimaces until he looked like a pictured devil on a Japanese kite. The crowd laughed gleefully. His short, fat legs were never still a moment. He shouted and roared and bobbed his shock of red wig until the audience broke out in excited applause. Pete did not pay much attention to the progress of events upon the stage. He was drinking beer and watching Maggie. Her cheeks were blushing with excitement and her eyes were glistening. She drew deep breaths of pleasure. No thoughts of the atmosphere of the collar and cuff factory came to her. When the orchestra crashed finally, they jostled their way to the sidewalk with the crowd. Pete took Maggie's arm and pushed a way for her, offering to fight with a man or two. They reached Maggie's home at a late hour and stood for a moment in front of the gruesome doorway. "Say, Mag," said Pete, "give us a kiss for takin' yeh teh deh show, will yer?" Maggie laughed, as if startled, and drew away from him. "Naw, Pete," she said, "dat wasn't in it." "Ah, what deh hell?" urged Pete. The girl retreated nervously. "Ah, what deh hell?" repeated he. Maggie darted into the hall, and up the stairs. She turned and smiled at him, then disappeared. Pete walked slowly down the street. He had something of an astonished expression upon his features. He paused under a lamp-post and breathed a low breath of surprise. "Gawd," he said, "I wonner if I've been played fer a duffer." ----------CHAPTER 8--------- As thoughts of Pete came to Maggie's mind, she began to have an intense dislike for all of her dresses. "What deh hell ails yeh? What makes yeh be allus fixin' and fussin'? Good Gawd," her mother would frequently roar at her. She began to note, with more interest, the well-dressed women she met on the avenues. She envied elegance and soft palms. She craved those adornments of person which she saw every day on the street, conceiving them to be allies of vast importance to women. Studying faces, she thought many of the women and girls she chanced to meet, smiled with serenity as though forever cherished and watched over by those they loved. The air in the collar and cuff establishment strangled her. She knew she was gradually and surely shrivelling in the hot, stuffy room. The begrimed windows rattled incessantly from the passing of elevated trains. The place was filled with a whirl of noises and odors. She wondered as she regarded some of the grizzled women in the room, mere mechanical contrivances sewing seams and grinding out, with heads bended over their work, tales of imagined or real girlhood happiness, past drunks, the baby at home, and unpaid wages. She speculated how long her youth would endure. She began to see the bloom upon her cheeks as valuable. She imagined herself, in an exasperating future, as a scrawny woman with an eternal grievance. Too, she thought Pete to be a very fastidious person concerning the appearance of women. She felt she would love to see somebody entangle their fingers in the oily beard of the fat foreigner who owned the establishment. He was a detestable creature. He wore white socks with low shoes. He sat all day delivering orations, in the depths of a cushioned chair. His pocketbook deprived them of the power to retort. "What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn!" Maggie was anxious for a friend to whom she could talk about Pete. She would have liked to discuss his admirable mannerisms with a reliable mutual friend. At home, she found her mother often drunk and always raving. It seems that the world had treated this woman very badly, and she took a deep revenge upon such portions of it as came within her reach. She broke furniture as if she were at last getting her rights. She swelled with virtuous indignation as she carried the lighter articles of household use, one by one under the shadows of the three gilt balls, where Hebrews chained them with chains of interest. Jimmie came when he was obliged to by circumstances over which he had no control. His well-trained legs brought him staggering home and put him to bed some nights when he would rather have gone elsewhere. Swaggering Pete loomed like a golden sun to Maggie. He took her to a dime museum where rows of meek freaks astonished her. She contemplated their deformities with awe and thought them a sort of chosen tribe. "What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn!" Maggie was anxious for a friend to whom she could talk about Pete. She would have liked to discuss his admirable mannerisms with a reliable mutual friend. At home, she found her mother often drunk and always raving. It seems that the world had treated this woman very badly, and she took a deep revenge upon such portions of it as came within her reach. She broke furniture as if she were at last getting her rights. She swelled with virtuous indignation as she carried the lighter articles of household use, one by one under the shadows of the three gilt balls, where Hebrews chained them with chains of interest. Jimmie came when he was obliged to by circumstances over which he had no control. His well-trained legs brought him staggering home and put him to bed some nights when he would rather have gone elsewhere. Swaggering Pete loomed like a golden sun to Maggie. He took her to a dime museum where rows of meek freaks astonished her. She contemplated their deformities with awe and thought them a sort of chosen tribe. Pete, raking his brains for amusement, discovered the Central Park Menagerie and the Museum of Arts. Sunday afternoons would sometimes find them at these places. Pete did not appear to be particularly interested in what he saw. He stood around looking heavy, while Maggie giggled in glee. Once at the Menagerie he went into a trance of admiration before the spectacle of a very small monkey threatening to thrash a cageful because one of them had pulled his tail and he had not wheeled about quickly enough to discover who did it. Ever after Pete knew that monkey by sight and winked at him, trying to induce hime to fight with other and larger monkeys. At the Museum, Maggie said, "Dis is outa sight." "Oh hell," said Pete, "wait 'till next summer an' I'll take yehs to a picnic." While the girl wandered in the vaulted rooms, Pete occupied himself in returning stony stare for stony stare, the appalling scrutiny of the watch-dogs of the treasures. Occasionally he would remark in loud tones: "Dat jay has got glass eyes," and sentences of the sort. When he tired of this amusement he would go to the mummies and moralize over them. Usually he submitted with silent dignity to all which he had to go through, but, at times, he was goaded into comment. "What deh hell," he demanded once. "Look at all dese little jugs! Hundred jugs in a row! Ten rows in a case an' 'bout a t'ousand cases! What deh blazes use is dem?" Evenings during the week he took her to see plays in which the brain-clutching heroine was rescued from the palatial home of her guardian, who is cruelly after her bonds, by the hero with the beautiful sentiments. The latter spent most of his time out at soak in pale-green snow storms, busy with a nickel-plated revolver, rescuing aged strangers from villains. Maggie lost herself in sympathy with the wanderers swooning in snow storms beneath happy-hued church windows. And a choir within singing "Joy to the World." To Maggie and the rest of the audience this was transcendental realism. Joy always within, and they, like the actor, inevitably without. Viewing it, they hugged themselves in ecstatic pity of their imagined or real condition. The girl thought the arrogance and granite-heartedness of the magnate of the play was very accurately drawn. She echoed the maledictions that the occupants of the gallery showered on this individual when his lines compelled him to expose his extreme selfishness. Shady persons in the audience revolted from the pictured villainy of the drama. With untiring zeal they hissed vice and applauded virtue. Unmistakably bad men evinced an apparently sincere admiration for virtue. The loud gallery was overwhelmingly with the unfortunate and the oppressed. They encouraged the struggling hero with cries, and jeered the villain, hooting and calling attention to his whiskers. When anybody died in the pale-green snow storms, the gallery mourned. They sought out the painted misery and hugged it as akin. In the hero's erratic march from poverty in the first act, to wealth and triumph in the final one, in which he forgives all the enemies that he has left, he was assisted by the gallery, which applauded his generous and noble sentiments and confounded the speeches of his opponents by making irrelevant but very sharp remarks. Those actors who were cursed with villainy parts were confronted at every turn by the gallery. If one of them rendered lines containing the most subtile distinctions between right and wrong, the gallery was immediately aware if the actor meant wickedness, and denounced him accordingly. The last act was a triumph for the hero, poor and of the masses, the representative of the audience, over the villain and the rich man, his pockets stuffed with bonds, his heart packed with tyrannical purposes, imperturbable amid suffering. Maggie always departed with raised spirits from the showing places of the melodrama. She rejoiced at the way in which the poor and virtuous eventually surmounted the wealthy and wicked. The theatre made her think. She wondered if the culture and refinement she had seen imitated, perhaps grotesquely, by the heroine on the stage, could be acquired by a girl who lived in a tenement house and worked in a shirt factory. ----------CHAPTER 9--------- A group of urchins were intent upon the side door of a saloon. Expectancy gleamed from their eyes. They were twisting their fingers in excitement. "Here she comes," yelled one of them suddenly. The group of urchins burst instantly asunder and its individual fragments were spread in a wide, respectable half circle about the point of interest. The saloon door opened with a crash, and the figure of a woman appeared upon the threshold. Her grey hair fell in knotted masses about her shoulders. Her face was crimsoned and wet with perspiration. Her eyes had a rolling glare. "Not a damn cent more of me money will yehs ever get, not a damn cent. I spent me money here fer t'ree years an' now yehs tells me yeh'll sell me no more stuff! T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie Murckre! 'Disturbance'? Disturbance be damned! T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie--" The door received a kick of exasperation from within and the woman lurched heavily out on the sidewalk. The gamins in the half-circle became violently agitated. They began to dance about and hoot and yell and jeer. Wide dirty grins spread over each face. The woman made a furious dash at a particularly outrageous cluster of little boys. They laughed delightedly and scampered off a short distance, calling out over their shoulders to her. She stood tottering on the curb-stone and thundered at them. "Yeh devil's kids," she howled, shaking red fists. The little boys whooped in glee. As she started up the street they fell in behind and marched uproariously. Occasionally she wheeled about and made charges on them. They ran nimbly out of reach and taunted her. In the frame of a gruesome doorway she stood for a moment cursing them. Her hair straggled, giving her crimson features a look of insanity. Her great fists quivered as she shook them madly in the air. The urchins made terrific noises until she turned and disappeared. Then they filed quietly in the way they had come. The woman floundered about in the lower hall of the tenement house and finally stumbled up the stairs. On an upper hall a door was opened and a collection of heads peered curiously out, watching her. With a wrathful snort the woman confronted the door, but it was slammed hastily in her face and the key was turned. She stood for a few minutes, delivering a frenzied challenge at the panels. "Come out in deh hall, Mary Murphy, damn yeh, if yehs want a row. Come ahn, yeh overgrown terrier, come ahn." She began to kick the door with her great feet. She shrilly defied the universe to appear and do battle. Her cursing trebles brought heads from all doors save the one she threatened. Her eyes glared in every direction. The air was full of her tossing fists. "Come ahn, deh hull damn gang of yehs, come ahn," she roared at the spectators. An oath or two, cat-calls, jeers and bits of facetious advice were given in reply. Missiles clattered about her feet. "What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" said a voice in the gathered gloom, and Jimmie came forward. He carried a tin dinner-pail in his hand and under his arm a brown truckman's apron done in a bundle. "What deh hell's wrong?" he demanded. "Come out, all of yehs, come out," his mother was howling. "Come ahn an' I'll stamp her damn brains under me feet." "Shet yer face, an' come home, yeh damned old fool," roared Jimmie at her. She strided up to him and twirled her fingers in his face. Her eyes were darting flames of unreasoning rage and her frame trembled with eagerness for a fight. "T'hell wid yehs! An' who deh hell are yehs? I ain't givin' a snap of me fingers fer yehs," she bawled at him. She turned her huge back in tremendous disdain and climbed the stairs to the next floor. Jimmie followed, cursing blackly. At the top of the flight he seized his mother's arm and started to drag her toward the door of their room. "Come home, damn yeh," he gritted between his teeth. "Take yer hands off me! Take yer hands off me," shrieked his mother. She raised her arm and whirled her great fist at her son's face. Jimmie dodged his head and the blow struck him in the back of the neck. "Damn yeh," gritted he again. He threw out his left hand and writhed his fingers about her middle arm. The mother and the son began to sway and struggle like gladiators. "Whoop!" said the Rum Alley tenement house. The hall filled with interested spectators. "Hi, ol' lady, dat was a dandy!" "T'ree to one on deh red!" "Ah, stop yer damn scrappin'!" The door of the Johnson home opened and Maggie looked out. Jimmie made a supreme cursing effort and hurled his mother into the room. He quickly followed and closed the door. The Rum Alley tenement swore disappointedly and retired. The mother slowly gathered herself up from the floor. Her eyes glittered menacingly upon her children. "Here, now," said Jimmie, "we've had enough of dis. Sit down, an' don' make no trouble." He grasped her arm, and twisting it, forced her into a creaking chair. "Keep yer hands off me," roared his mother again. "Damn yer ol' hide," yelled Jimmie, madly. Maggie shrieked and ran into the other room. To her there came the sound of a storm of crashes and curses. There was a great final thump and Jimmie's voice cried: "Dere, damn yeh, stay still." Maggie opened the door now, and went warily out. "Oh, Jimmie." He was leaning against the wall and swearing. Blood stood upon bruises on his knotty fore-arms where they had scraped against the floor or the walls in the scuffle. The mother lay screeching on the floor, the tears running down her furrowed face. Maggie, standing in the middle of the room, gazed about her. The usual upheaval of the tables and chairs had taken place. Crockery was strewn broadcast in fragments. The stove had been disturbed on its legs, and now leaned idiotically to one side. A pail had been upset and water spread in all directions. The door opened and Pete appeared. He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, Gawd," he observed. He walked over to Maggie and whispered in her ear. "Ah, what deh hell, Mag? Come ahn and we'll have a hell of a time." The mother in the corner upreared her head and shook her tangled locks. "Teh hell wid him and you," she said, glowering at her daughter in the gloom. Her eyes seemed to burn balefully. "Yeh've gone teh deh devil, Mag Johnson, yehs knows yehs have gone teh deh devil. Yer a disgrace teh yer people, damn yeh. An' now, git out an' go ahn wid dat doe-faced jude of yours. Go teh hell wid him, damn yeh, an' a good riddance. Go teh hell an' see how yeh likes it." Maggie gazed long at her mother. "Go teh hell now, an' see how yeh likes it. Git out. I won't have sech as yehs in me house! Get out, d'yeh hear! Damn yeh, git out!" The girl began to tremble. At this instant Pete came forward. "Oh, what deh hell, Mag, see," whispered he softly in her ear. "Dis all blows over. See? Deh ol' woman 'ill be all right in deh mornin'. Come ahn out wid me! We'll have a hell of a time." The woman on the floor cursed. Jimmie was intent upon his bruised fore-arms. The girl cast a glance about the room filled with a chaotic mass of debris, and at the red, writhing body of her mother. "Go teh hell an' good riddance." She went. ----------CHAPTER 10--------- Jimmie had an idea it wasn't common courtesy for a friend to come to one's home and ruin one's sister. But he was not sure how much Pete knew about the rules of politeness. The following night he returned home from work at rather a late hour in the evening. In passing through the halls he came upon the gnarled and leathery old woman who possessed the music box. She was grinning in the dim light that drifted through dust-stained panes. She beckoned to him with a smudged forefinger. "Ah, Jimmie, what do yehs t'ink I got onto las' night. It was deh funnies' t'ing I ever saw," she cried, coming close to him and leering. She was trembling with eagerness to tell her tale. "I was by me door las' night when yer sister and her jude feller came in late, oh, very late. An' she, the dear, she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break, she was. It was deh funnies' t'ing I ever saw. An' right out here by me door she asked him did he love her, did he. An' she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break, poor t'ing. An' him, I could see by deh way what he said it dat she had been askin' orften, he says: 'Oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he, 'Oh, hell, yes.'" Storm-clouds swept over Jimmie's face, but he turned from the leathery old woman and plodded on up-stairs. "Oh, hell, yes," called she after him. She laughed a laugh that was like a prophetic croak. "'Oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he, 'Oh, hell, yes.'" There was no one in at home. The rooms showed that attempts had been made at tidying them. Parts of the wreckage of the day before had been repaired by an unskilful hand. A chair or two and the table, stood uncertainly upon legs. The floor had been newly swept. Too, the blue ribbons had been restored to the curtains, and the lambrequin, with its immense sheaves of yellow wheat and red roses of equal size, had been returned, in a worn and sorry state, to its position at the mantel. Maggie's jacket and hat were gone from the nail behind the door. Jimmie walked to the window and began to look through the blurred glass. It occurred to him to vaguely wonder, for an instant, if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. Suddenly, however, he began to swear. "But he was me frien'! I brought 'im here! Dat's deh hell of it!" He fumed about the room, his anger gradually rising to the furious pitch. "I'll kill deh jay! Dat's what I'll do! I'll kill deh jay!" He clutched his hat and sprang toward the door. But it opened and his mother's great form blocked the passage. "What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" exclaimed she, coming into the rooms. Jimmie gave vent to a sardonic curse and then laughed heavily. "Well, Maggie's gone teh deh devil! Dat's what! See?" "Eh?" said his mother. "Maggie's gone teh deh devil! Are yehs deaf?" roared Jimmie, impatiently. "Deh hell she has," murmured the mother, astounded. Jimmie grunted, and then began to stare out at the window. His mother sat down in a chair, but a moment later sprang erect and delivered a maddened whirl of oaths. Her son turned to look at her as she reeled and swayed in the middle of the room, her fierce face convulsed with passion, her blotched arms raised high in imprecation. "May Gawd curse her forever," she shrieked. "May she eat nothin' but stones and deh dirt in deh street. May she sleep in deh gutter an' never see deh sun shine agin. Deh damn--" "Here, now," said her son. "Take a drop on yourself." The mother raised lamenting eyes to the ceiling. "She's deh devil's own chil', Jimmie," she whispered. "Ah, who would t'ink such a bad girl could grow up in our fambly, Jimmie, me son. Many deh hour I've spent in talk wid dat girl an' tol' her if she ever went on deh streets I'd see her damned. An' after all her bringin' up an' what I tol' her and talked wid her, she goes teh deh bad, like a duck teh water." The tears rolled down her furrowed face. Her hands trembled. "An' den when dat Sadie MacMallister next door to us was sent teh deh devil by dat feller what worked in deh soap-factory, didn't I tell our Mag dat if she--" "Ah, dat's annuder story," interrupted the brother. "Of course, dat Sadie was nice an' all dat--but--see--it ain't dessame as if--well, Maggie was diff'ent--see--she was diff'ent." He was trying to formulate a theory that he had always unconsciously held, that all sisters, excepting his own, could advisedly be ruined. He suddenly broke out again. "I'll go t'ump hell outa deh mug what did her deh harm. I'll kill 'im! He t'inks he kin scrap, but when he gits me a-chasin' 'im he'll fin' out where he's wrong, deh damned duffer. I'll wipe up deh street wid 'im." In a fury he plunged out of the doorway. As he vanished the mother raised her head and lifted both hands, entreating. "May Gawd curse her forever," she cried. In the darkness of the hallway Jimmie discerned a knot of women talking volubly. When he strode by they paid no attention to him. "She allus was a bold thing," he heard one of them cry in an eager voice. "Dere wasn't a feller come teh deh house but she'd try teh mash 'im. My Annie says deh shameless t'ing tried teh ketch her feller, her own feller, what we useter know his fader." "I could a' tol' yehs dis two years ago," said a woman, in a key of triumph. "Yessir, it was over two years ago dat I says teh my ol' man, I says, 'Dat Johnson girl ain't straight,' I says. 'Oh, hell,' he says. 'Oh, hell.' 'Dat's all right,' I says, 'but I know what I knows,' I says, 'an' it 'ill come out later. You wait an' see,' I says, 'you see.'" "Anybody what had eyes could see dat dere was somethin' wrong wid dat girl. I didn't like her actions." On the street Jimmie met a friend. "What deh hell?" asked the latter. Jimmie explained. "An' I'll t'ump 'im till he can't stand." "Oh, what deh hell," said the friend. "What's deh use! Yeh'll git pulled in! Everybody 'ill be onto it! An' ten plunks! Gee!" Jimmie was determined. "He t'inks he kin scrap, but he'll fin' out diff'ent." "Gee," remonstrated the friend. "What deh hell?"

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 13 with the given context.

chapter 11|chapter 12|chapter 13|chapter 15

After the fight, Jimmie stays away from home for a few days. When he returns, he finds his mother raving about Maggie. She hasnt come home for days. Mrs. Johnson bewails her fate. She cant believe after her careful rearing of Maggie that Maggie could have turned out so badly. Jimmie cant believe Maggie could have turned out so wicked. Finally, Mrs. Johnson concludes that Maggie had a bad heart and was wicked from the beginning without revealing it until now. Jimmie thinks it would be best to go and get Maggie and bring her home. He wants to avoid all the embarrassing gossip. Mrs. Johnson is shocked and horrified that Jimmie would bring such a vicious girl under his dear mothers roof. Jimmie tries to convince his mother that it would be best to keep Maggie with them in an effort to quiet the scandal. Mrs. Johnson reminds him that the prodigal story was about a son, not a daughter. She refuses to let Maggie back in. Mrs. Johnson spends the rest of the evening fantasizing about Maggie coming home, begging to be let in, and being rebuffed by a scornful and morally righteous mother. From this point on, Mrs. Johnson uses the story of her daughters moral downfall in all her court cases. One of the judges finally tells her that the records of all the courts combined show that she is the mother of forty-two daughters who have been ruined. Jimmie publicly damns his sister in order to get some moral distance from her and save his own reputation. Only occasionally does Jimmie question the justice of his condemnation of his sister. When he does, he quickly throws these thoughts aside.

----------CHAPTER 11--------- On a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the pavements. The open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage. The interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of imitation leather. A shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended down the side of the room. Behind it a great mahogany-appearing sideboard reached the ceiling. Upon its shelves rested pyramids of shimmering glasses that were never disturbed. Mirrors set in the face of the sideboard multiplied them. Lemons, oranges and paper napkins, arranged with mathematical precision, sat among the glasses. Many-hued decanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves. A nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact centre of the general effect. The elementary senses of it all seemed to be opulence and geometrical accuracy. Across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham, dishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar. An odor of grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded. Pete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending expectantly toward a quiet stranger. "A beeh," said the man. Pete drew a foam-topped glassful and set it dripping upon the bar. At this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and crashed against the siding. Jimmie and a companion entered. They swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at Pete with bleared and blinking eyes. "Gin," said Jimmie. "Gin," said the companion. Pete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar. He bended his head sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming wood. He had a look of watchfulness upon his features. Jimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and conversed loudly in tones of contempt. "He's a dindy masher, ain't he, by Gawd?" laughed Jimmie. "Oh, hell, yes," said the companion, sneering widely. "He's great, he is. Git onto deh mug on deh blokie. Dat's enough to make a feller turn hand-springs in 'is sleep." The quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away and maintained an attitude of oblivion. "Gee! ain't he hot stuff!" "Git onto his shape! Great Gawd!" "Hey," cried Jimmie, in tones of command. Pete came along slowly, with a sullen dropping of the under lip. "Well," he growled, "what's eatin' yehs?" "Gin," said Jimmie. "Gin," said the companion. As Pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they laughed in his face. Jimmie's companion, evidently overcome with merriment, pointed a grimy forefinger in Pete's direction. "Say, Jimmie," demanded he, "what deh hell is dat behind deh bar?" "Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie. They laughed loudly. Pete put down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them. He disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly. "You fellers can't guy me," he said. "Drink yer stuff an' git out an' don' make no trouble." Instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and expressions of offended dignity immediately came. "Who deh hell has said anyt'ing teh you," cried they in the same breath. The quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly. "Ah, come off," said Pete to the two men. "Don't pick me up for no jay. Drink yer rum an' git out an' don' make no trouble." "Oh, deh hell," airily cried Jimmie. "Oh, deh hell," airily repeated his companion. "We goes when we git ready! See!" continued Jimmie. "Well," said Pete in a threatening voice, "don' make no trouble." Jimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side. He snarled like a wild animal. "Well, what if we does? See?" said he. Dark blood flushed into Pete's face, and he shot a lurid glance at Jimmie. "Well, den we'll see whose deh bes' man, you or me," he said. The quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door. Jimmie began to swell with valor. "Don' pick me up fer no tenderfoot. When yeh tackles me yeh tackles one of deh bes' men in deh city. See? I'm a scrapper, I am. Ain't dat right, Billie?" "Sure, Mike," responded his companion in tones of conviction. "Oh, hell," said Pete, easily. "Go fall on yerself." The two men again began to laugh. "What deh hell is dat talkin'?" cried the companion. "Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie with exaggerated contempt. Pete made a furious gesture. "Git outa here now, an' don' make no trouble. See? Youse fellers er lookin' fer a scrap an' it's damn likely yeh'll fin' one if yeh keeps on shootin' off yer mout's. I know yehs! See? I kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes. Dat's right! See? Don' pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted out in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is. When I comes from behind dis bar, I t'rows yehs bote inteh deh street. See?" "Oh, hell," cried the two men in chorus. The glare of a panther came into Pete's eyes. "Dat's what I said! Unnerstan'?" He came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon the two men. They stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him. They bristled like three roosters. They moved their heads pugnaciously and kept their shoulders braced. The nervous muscles about each mouth twitched with a forced smile of mockery. "Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" gritted Jimmie. Pete stepped warily back, waving his hands before him to keep the men from coming too near. "Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" repeated Jimmie's ally. They kept close to him, taunting and leering. They strove to make him attempt the initial blow. "Keep back, now! Don' crowd me," ominously said Pete. Again they chorused in contempt. "Oh, hell!" In a small, tossing group, the three men edged for positions like frigates contemplating battle. "Well, why deh hell don' yeh try teh t'row us out?" cried Jimmie and his ally with copious sneers. The bravery of bull-dogs sat upon the faces of the men. Their clenched fists moved like eager weapons. The allied two jostled the bartender's elbows, glaring at him with feverish eyes and forcing him toward the wall. Suddenly Pete swore redly. The flash of action gleamed from his eyes. He threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous, lightning-like blow at Jimmie's face. His foot swung a step forward and the weight of his body was behind his fist. Jimmie ducked his head, Bowery-like, with the quickness of a cat. The fierce, answering blows of him and his ally crushed on Pete's bowed head. The quiet stranger vanished. The arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails. The faces of the men, at first flushed to flame-colored anger, now began to fade to the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a battle. Their lips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums in ghoul-like grins. Through their white, gripped teeth struggled hoarse whisperings of oaths. Their eyes glittered with murderous fire. Each head was huddled between its owner's shoulders, and arms were swinging with marvelous rapidity. Feet scraped to and fro with a loud scratching sound upon the sanded floor. Blows left crimson blotches upon pale skin. The curses of the first quarter minute of the fight died away. The breaths of the fighters came wheezingly from their lips and the three chests were straining and heaving. Pete at intervals gave vent to low, labored hisses, that sounded like a desire to kill. Jimmie's ally gibbered at times like a wounded maniac. Jimmie was silent, fighting with the face of a sacrificial priest. The rage of fear shone in all their eyes and their blood-colored fists swirled. At a tottering moment a blow from Pete's hand struck the ally and he crashed to the floor. He wriggled instantly to his feet and grasping the quiet stranger's beer glass from the bar, hurled it at Pete's head. High on the wall it burst like a bomb, shivering fragments flying in all directions. Then missiles came to every man's hand. The place had heretofore appeared free of things to throw, but suddenly glass and bottles went singing through the air. They were thrown point blank at bobbing heads. The pyramid of shimmering glasses, that had never been disturbed, changed to cascades as heavy bottles were flung into them. Mirrors splintered to nothing. The three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in a frenzy for blood. There followed in the wake of missiles and fists some unknown prayers, perhaps for death. The quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on the sidewalk. A laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half of a block. "Dey've trowed a bloke inteh deh street." People heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet within the saloon and came running. A small group, bending down to look under the bamboo doors, watching the fall of glass, and three pairs of violent legs, changed in a moment to a crowd. A policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced through the doors into the saloon. The crowd bended and surged in absorbing anxiety to see. Jimmie caught first sight of the on-coming interruption. On his feet he had the same regard for a policeman that, when on his truck, he had for a fire engine. He howled and ran for the side door. The officer made a terrific advance, club in hand. One comprehensive sweep of the long night stick threw the ally to the floor and forced Pete to a corner. With his disengaged hand he made a furious effort at Jimmie's coat-tails. Then he regained his balance and paused. "Well, well, you are a pair of pictures. What in hell yeh been up to?" Jimmie, with his face drenched in blood, escaped up a side street, pursued a short distance by some of the more law-loving, or excited individuals of the crowd. Later, from a corner safely dark, he saw the policeman, the ally and the bartender emerge from the saloon. Pete locked the doors and then followed up the avenue in the rear of the crowd-encompassed policeman and his charge. On first thoughts Jimmie, with his heart throbbing at battle heat, started to go desperately to the rescue of his friend, but he halted. "Ah, what deh hell?" he demanded of himself. ----------CHAPTER 12--------- In a hall of irregular shape sat Pete and Maggie drinking beer. A submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress suit, industriously followed the bobs of his head and the waves of his baton. A ballad singer, in a dress of flaming scarlet, sang in the inevitable voice of brass. When she vanished, men seated at the tables near the front applauded loudly, pounding the polished wood with their beer glasses. She returned attired in less gown, and sang again. She received another enthusiastic encore. She reappeared in still less gown and danced. The deafening rumble of glasses and clapping of hands that followed her exit indicated an overwhelming desire to have her come on for the fourth time, but the curiosity of the audience was not gratified. Maggie was pale. From her eyes had been plucked all look of self-reliance. She leaned with a dependent air toward her companion. She was timid, as if fearing his anger or displeasure. She seemed to beseech tenderness of him. Pete's air of distinguished valor had grown upon him until it threatened stupendous dimensions. He was infinitely gracious to the girl. It was apparent to her that his condescension was a marvel. He could appear to strut even while sitting still and he showed that he was a lion of lordly characteristics by the air with which he spat. With Maggie gazing at him wonderingly, he took pride in commanding the waiters who were, however, indifferent or deaf. "Hi, you, git a russle on yehs! What deh hell yehs lookin' at? Two more beehs, d'yeh hear?" He leaned back and critically regarded the person of a girl with a straw-colored wig who upon the stage was flinging her heels in somewhat awkward imitation of a well-known danseuse. At times Maggie told Pete long confidential tales of her former home life, dwelling upon the escapades of the other members of the family and the difficulties she had to combat in order to obtain a degree of comfort. He responded in tones of philanthropy. He pressed her arm with an air of reassuring proprietorship. "Dey was damn jays," he said, denouncing the mother and brother. The sound of the music which, by the efforts of the frowsy-headed leader, drifted to her ears through the smoke-filled atmosphere, made the girl dream. She thought of her former Rum Alley environment and turned to regard Pete's strong protecting fists. She thought of the collar and cuff manufactory and the eternal moan of the proprietor: "What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn." She contemplated Pete's man-subduing eyes and noted that wealth and prosperity was indicated by his clothes. She imagined a future, rose-tinted, because of its distance from all that she previously had experienced. As to the present she perceived only vague reasons to be miserable. Her life was Pete's and she considered him worthy of the charge. She would be disturbed by no particular apprehensions, so long as Pete adored her as he now said he did. She did not feel like a bad woman. To her knowledge she had never seen any better. At times men at other tables regarded the girl furtively. Pete, aware of it, nodded at her and grinned. He felt proud. "Mag, yer a bloomin' good-looker," he remarked, studying her face through the haze. The men made Maggie fear, but she blushed at Pete's words as it became apparent to her that she was the apple of his eye. Grey-headed men, wonderfully pathetic in their dissipation, stared at her through clouds. Smooth-cheeked boys, some of them with faces of stone and mouths of sin, not nearly so pathetic as the grey heads, tried to find the girl's eyes in the smoke wreaths. Maggie considered she was not what they thought her. She confined her glances to Pete and the stage. The orchestra played negro melodies and a versatile drummer pounded, whacked, clattered and scratched on a dozen machines to make noise. Those glances of the men, shot at Maggie from under half-closed lids, made her tremble. She thought them all to be worse men than Pete. "Come, let's go," she said. As they went out Maggie perceived two women seated at a table with some men. They were painted and their cheeks had lost their roundness. As she passed them the girl, with a shrinking movement, drew back her skirts. ----------CHAPTER 13--------- Jimmie did not return home for a number of days after the fight with Pete in the saloon. When he did, he approached with extreme caution. He found his mother raving. Maggie had not returned home. The parent continually wondered how her daughter could come to such a pass. She had never considered Maggie as a pearl dropped unstained into Rum Alley from Heaven, but she could not conceive how it was possible for her daughter to fall so low as to bring disgrace upon her family. She was terrific in denunciation of the girl's wickedness. The fact that the neighbors talked of it, maddened her. When women came in, and in the course of their conversation casually asked, "Where's Maggie dese days?" the mother shook her fuzzy head at them and appalled them with curses. Cunning hints inviting confidence she rebuffed with violence. "An' wid all deh bringin' up she had, how could she?" moaningly she asked of her son. "Wid all deh talkin' wid her I did an' deh t'ings I tol' her to remember? When a girl is bringed up deh way I bringed up Maggie, how kin she go teh deh devil?" Jimmie was transfixed by these questions. He could not conceive how under the circumstances his mother's daughter and his sister could have been so wicked. His mother took a drink from a squdgy bottle that sat on the table. She continued her lament. "She had a bad heart, dat girl did, Jimmie. She was wicked teh deh heart an' we never knowed it." Jimmie nodded, admitting the fact. "We lived in deh same house wid her an' I brought her up an' we never knowed how bad she was." Jimmie nodded again. "Wid a home like dis an' a mudder like me, she went teh deh bad," cried the mother, raising her eyes. One day, Jimmie came home, sat down in a chair and began to wriggle about with a new and strange nervousness. At last he spoke shamefacedly. "Well, look-a-here, dis t'ing queers us! See? We're queered! An' maybe it 'ud be better if I--well, I t'ink I kin look 'er up an'--maybe it 'ud be better if I fetched her home an'--" The mother started from her chair and broke forth into a storm of passionate anger. "What! Let 'er come an' sleep under deh same roof wid her mudder agin! Oh, yes, I will, won't I? Sure? Shame on yehs, Jimmie Johnson, for sayin' such a t'ing teh yer own mudder--teh yer own mudder! Little did I t'ink when yehs was a babby playin' about me feet dat ye'd grow up teh say sech a t'ing teh yer mudder--yer own mudder. I never taut--" Sobs choked her and interrupted her reproaches. "Dere ain't nottin' teh raise sech hell about," said Jimmie. "I on'y says it 'ud be better if we keep dis t'ing dark, see? It queers us! See?" His mother laughed a laugh that seemed to ring through the city and be echoed and re-echoed by countless other laughs. "Oh, yes, I will, won't I! Sure!" "Well, yeh must take me fer a damn fool," said Jimmie, indignant at his mother for mocking him. "I didn't say we'd make 'er inteh a little tin angel, ner nottin', but deh way it is now she can queer us! Don' che see?" "Aye, she'll git tired of deh life atter a while an' den she'll wanna be a-comin' home, won' she, deh beast! I'll let 'er in den, won' I?" "Well, I didn' mean none of dis prod'gal bus'ness anyway," explained Jimmie. "It wasn't no prod'gal dauter, yeh damn fool," said the mother. "It was prod'gal son, anyhow." "I know dat," said Jimmie. For a time they sat in silence. The mother's eyes gloated on a scene her imagination could call before her. Her lips were set in a vindictive smile. "Aye, she'll cry, won' she, an' carry on, an' tell how Pete, or some odder feller, beats 'er an' she'll say she's sorry an' all dat an' she ain't happy, she ain't, an' she wants to come home agin, she does." With grim humor, the mother imitated the possible wailing notes of the daughter's voice. "Den I'll take 'er in, won't I, deh beast. She kin cry 'er two eyes out on deh stones of deh street before I'll dirty deh place wid her. She abused an' ill-treated her own mudder--her own mudder what loved her an' she'll never git anodder chance dis side of hell." Jimmie thought he had a great idea of women's frailty, but he could not understand why any of his kin should be victims. "Damn her," he fervidly said. Again he wondered vaguely if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. Nevertheless, his mind did not for an instant confuse himself with those brothers nor his sister with theirs. After the mother had, with great difficulty, suppressed the neighbors, she went among them and proclaimed her grief. "May Gawd forgive dat girl," was her continual cry. To attentive ears she recited the whole length and breadth of her woes. "I bringed 'er up deh way a dauter oughta be bringed up an' dis is how she served me! She went teh deh devil deh first chance she got! May Gawd forgive her." When arrested for drunkenness she used the story of her daughter's downfall with telling effect upon the police justices. Finally one of them said to her, peering down over his spectacles: "Mary, the records of this and other courts show that you are the mother of forty-two daughters who have been ruined. The case is unparalleled in the annals of this court, and this court thinks--" The mother went through life shedding large tears of sorrow. Her red face was a picture of agony. Of course Jimmie publicly damned his sister that he might appear on a higher social plane. But, arguing with himself, stumbling about in ways that he knew not, he, once, almost came to a conclusion that his sister would have been more firmly good had she better known why. However, he felt that he could not hold such a view. He threw it hastily aside. ----------CHAPTER 15--------- A forlorn woman went along a lighted avenue. The street was filled with people desperately bound on missions. An endless crowd darted at the elevated station stairs and the horse cars were thronged with owners of bundles. The pace of the forlorn woman was slow. She was apparently searching for some one. She loitered near the doors of saloons and watched men emerge from them. She scanned furtively the faces in the rushing stream of pedestrians. Hurrying men, bent on catching some boat or train, jostled her elbows, failing to notice her, their thoughts fixed on distant dinners. The forlorn woman had a peculiar face. Her smile was no smile. But when in repose her features had a shadowy look that was like a sardonic grin, as if some one had sketched with cruel forefinger indelible lines about her mouth. Jimmie came strolling up the avenue. The woman encountered him with an aggrieved air. "Oh, Jimmie, I've been lookin' all over fer yehs--," she began. Jimmie made an impatient gesture and quickened his pace. "Ah, don't bodder me! Good Gawd!" he said, with the savageness of a man whose life is pestered. The woman followed him along the sidewalk in somewhat the manner of a suppliant. "But, Jimmie," she said, "yehs told me ye'd--" Jimmie turned upon her fiercely as if resolved to make a last stand for comfort and peace. "Say, fer Gawd's sake, Hattie, don' foller me from one end of deh city teh deh odder. Let up, will yehs! Give me a minute's res', can't yehs? Yehs makes me tired, allus taggin' me. See? Ain' yehs got no sense. Do yehs want people teh get onto me? Go chase yerself, fer Gawd's sake." The woman stepped closer and laid her fingers on his arm. "But, look-a-here--" Jimmie snarled. "Oh, go teh hell." He darted into the front door of a convenient saloon and a moment later came out into the shadows that surrounded the side door. On the brilliantly lighted avenue he perceived the forlorn woman dodging about like a scout. Jimmie laughed with an air of relief and went away. When he arrived home he found his mother clamoring. Maggie had returned. She stood shivering beneath the torrent of her mother's wrath. "Well, I'm damned," said Jimmie in greeting. His mother, tottering about the room, pointed a quivering forefinger. "Lookut her, Jimmie, lookut her. Dere's yer sister, boy. Dere's yer sister. Lookut her! Lookut her!" She screamed in scoffing laughter. The girl stood in the middle of the room. She edged about as if unable to find a place on the floor to put her feet. "Ha, ha, ha," bellowed the mother. "Dere she stands! Ain' she purty? Lookut her! Ain' she sweet, deh beast? Lookut her! Ha, ha, lookut her!" She lurched forward and put her red and seamed hands upon her daughter's face. She bent down and peered keenly up into the eyes of the girl. "Oh, she's jes' dessame as she ever was, ain' she? She's her mudder's purty darlin' yit, ain' she? Lookut her, Jimmie! Come here, fer Gawd's sake, and lookut her." The loud, tremendous sneering of the mother brought the denizens of the Rum Alley tenement to their doors. Women came in the hallways. Children scurried to and fro. "What's up? Dat Johnson party on anudder tear?" "Naw! Young Mag's come home!" "Deh hell yeh say?" Through the open door curious eyes stared in at Maggie. Children ventured into the room and ogled her, as if they formed the front row at a theatre. Women, without, bended toward each other and whispered, nodding their heads with airs of profound philosophy. A baby, overcome with curiosity concerning this object at which all were looking, sidled forward and touched her dress, cautiously, as if investigating a red-hot stove. Its mother's voice rang out like a warning trumpet. She rushed forward and grabbed her child, casting a terrible look of indignation at the girl. Maggie's mother paced to and fro, addressing the doorful of eyes, expounding like a glib showman at a museum. Her voice rang through the building. "Dere she stands," she cried, wheeling suddenly and pointing with dramatic finger. "Dere she stands! Lookut her! Ain' she a dindy? An' she was so good as to come home teh her mudder, she was! Ain' she a beaut'? Ain' she a dindy? Fer Gawd's sake!" The jeering cries ended in another burst of shrill laughter. The girl seemed to awaken. "Jimmie--" He drew hastily back from her. "Well, now, yer a hell of a t'ing, ain' yeh?" he said, his lips curling in scorn. Radiant virtue sat upon his brow and his repelling hands expressed horror of contamination. Maggie turned and went. The crowd at the door fell back precipitately. A baby falling down in front of the door, wrenched a scream like a wounded animal from its mother. Another woman sprang forward and picked it up, with a chivalrous air, as if rescuing a human being from an oncoming express train. As the girl passed down through the hall, she went before open doors framing more eyes strangely microscopic, and sending broad beams of inquisitive light into the darkness of her path. On the second floor she met the gnarled old woman who possessed the music box. "So," she cried, "'ere yehs are back again, are yehs? An' dey've kicked yehs out? Well, come in an' stay wid me teh-night. I ain' got no moral standin'." From above came an unceasing babble of tongues, over all of which rang the mother's derisive laughter.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 18 using the context provided.

A man sits in a restaurant with six women around him. He is quite drunk and the women are encouraging him to brag about himself. He repeats over and over that he is a good fellow, encouraging the women to affirm this fact. They do in a bored way and he then repeats the self-praise. He buys drinks for the women and gets into an altercation with the waiter who looks at him with a disgusted look. It begins when he tries to tip the waiter and the waiter refuses it. The waiter tells him hes drunk and he is making a fool of himself. The "woman of brilliance and audacity" tells Pete to ignore the waiter. Pete looks at her as if he would die if he were to be accused of a contemptible action. He asks Nellie if he doesnt always treat her well. She agrees glibly. She asks the other women to join in with her in praise of Petes good qualities. He continues to asks them if he doesnt always treat them right and if he isnt a good fellow. They continue to reply that he does and he is. When he orders more drinks, he feels as if the waiter has insulted him and decides he should defend his honor. The women calm him down and then he thinks he should apologize to the waiter. He pulls money from his wallet and gives it to Nellie. He tells her hes "stuck on her" and falls asleep. The women drink and laugh and he suddenly lurches forward and falls to the floor. The women shriek and pull back their skirts. One of them suggests that they leave. Nellie stays behind picking up the money from the table. She exclaims over Pete, "What a damn fool!" He is left passed out, a glass of wine fallen and dripping the last of its contents onto his neck.

----------CHAPTER 16--------- Pete did not consider that he had ruined Maggie. If he had thought that her soul could never smile again, he would have believed the mother and brother, who were pyrotechnic over the affair, to be responsible for it. Besides, in his world, souls did not insist upon being able to smile. "What deh hell?" He felt a trifle entangled. It distressed him. Revelations and scenes might bring upon him the wrath of the owner of the saloon, who insisted upon respectability of an advanced type. "What deh hell do dey wanna raise such a smoke about it fer?" demanded he of himself, disgusted with the attitude of the family. He saw no necessity for anyone's losing their equilibrium merely because their sister or their daughter had stayed away from home. Searching about in his mind for possible reasons for their conduct, he came upon the conclusion that Maggie's motives were correct, but that the two others wished to snare him. He felt pursued. The woman of brilliance and audacity whom he had met in the hilarious hall showed a disposition to ridicule him. "A little pale thing with no spirit," she said. "Did you note the expression of her eyes? There was something in them about pumpkin pie and virtue. That is a peculiar way the left corner of her mouth has of twitching, isn't it? Dear, dear, my cloud-compelling Pete, what are you coming to?" Pete asserted at once that he never was very much interested in the girl. The woman interrupted him, laughing. "Oh, it's not of the slightest consequence to me, my dear young man. You needn't draw maps for my benefit. Why should I be concerned about it?" But Pete continued with his explanations. If he was laughed at for his tastes in women, he felt obliged to say that they were only temporary or indifferent ones. The morning after Maggie had departed from home, Pete stood behind the bar. He was immaculate in white jacket and apron and his hair was plastered over his brow with infinite correctness. No customers were in the place. Pete was twisting his napkined fist slowly in a beer glass, softly whistling to himself and occasionally holding the object of his attention between his eyes and a few weak beams of sunlight that had found their way over the thick screens and into the shaded room. With lingering thoughts of the woman of brilliance and audacity, the bartender raised his head and stared through the varying cracks between the swaying bamboo doors. Suddenly the whistling pucker faded from his lips. He saw Maggie walking slowly past. He gave a great start, fearing for the previously-mentioned eminent respectability of the place. He threw a swift, nervous glance about him, all at once feeling guilty. No one was in the room. He went hastily over to the side door. Opening it and looking out, he perceived Maggie standing, as if undecided, on the corner. She was searching the place with her eyes. As she turned her face toward him Pete beckoned to her hurriedly, intent upon returning with speed to a position behind the bar and to the atmosphere of respectability upon which the proprietor insisted. Maggie came to him, the anxious look disappearing from her face and a smile wreathing her lips. "Oh, Pete--," she began brightly. The bartender made a violent gesture of impatience. "Oh, my Gawd," cried he, vehemently. "What deh hell do yeh wanna hang aroun' here fer? Do yeh wanna git me inteh trouble?" he demanded with an air of injury. Astonishment swept over the girl's features. "Why, Pete! yehs tol' me--" Pete glanced profound irritation. His countenance reddened with the anger of a man whose respectability is being threatened. "Say, yehs makes me tired. See? What deh hell deh yeh wanna tag aroun' atter me fer? Yeh'll git me inteh trouble wid deh ol' man an' dey'll be hell teh pay! If he sees a woman roun' here he'll go crazy an' I'll lose me job! See? Yer brudder come in here an' raised hell an' deh ol' man hada put up fer it! An' now I'm done! See? I'm done." The girl's eyes stared into his face. "Pete, don't yeh remem--" "Oh, hell," interrupted Pete, anticipating. The girl seemed to have a struggle with herself. She was apparently bewildered and could not find speech. Finally she asked in a low voice: "But where kin I go?" The question exasperated Pete beyond the powers of endurance. It was a direct attempt to give him some responsibility in a matter that did not concern him. In his indignation he volunteered information. "Oh, go teh hell," cried he. He slammed the door furiously and returned, with an air of relief, to his respectability. Maggie went away. She wandered aimlessly for several blocks. She stopped once and asked aloud a question of herself: "Who?" A man who was passing near her shoulder, humorously took the questioning word as intended for him. "Eh? What? Who? Nobody! I didn't say anything," he laughingly said, and continued his way. Soon the girl discovered that if she walked with such apparent aimlessness, some men looked at her with calculating eyes. She quickened her step, frightened. As a protection, she adopted a demeanor of intentness as if going somewhere. After a time she left rattling avenues and passed between rows of houses with sternness and stolidity stamped upon their features. She hung her head for she felt their eyes grimly upon her. Suddenly she came upon a stout gentleman in a silk hat and a chaste black coat, whose decorous row of buttons reached from his chin to his knees. The girl had heard of the Grace of God and she decided to approach this man. His beaming, chubby face was a picture of benevolence and kind-heartedness. His eyes shone good-will. But as the girl timidly accosted him, he gave a convulsive movement and saved his respectability by a vigorous side-step. He did not risk it to save a soul. For how was he to know that there was a soul before him that needed saving? ----------CHAPTER 17--------- Upon a wet evening, several months after the last chapter, two interminable rows of cars, pulled by slipping horses, jangled along a prominent side-street. A dozen cabs, with coat-enshrouded drivers, clattered to and fro. Electric lights, whirring softly, shed a blurred radiance. A flower dealer, his feet tapping impatiently, his nose and his wares glistening with rain-drops, stood behind an array of roses and chrysanthemums. Two or three theatres emptied a crowd upon the storm-swept pavements. Men pulled their hats over their eyebrows and raised their collars to their ears. Women shrugged impatient shoulders in their warm cloaks and stopped to arrange their skirts for a walk through the storm. People having been comparatively silent for two hours burst into a roar of conversation, their hearts still kindling from the glowings of the stage. The pavements became tossing seas of umbrellas. Men stepped forth to hail cabs or cars, raising their fingers in varied forms of polite request or imperative demand. An endless procession wended toward elevated stations. An atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity seemed to hang over the throng, born, perhaps, of good clothes and of having just emerged from a place of forgetfulness. In the mingled light and gloom of an adjacent park, a handful of wet wanderers, in attitudes of chronic dejection, was scattered among the benches. A girl of the painted cohorts of the city went along the street. She threw changing glances at men who passed her, giving smiling invitations to men of rural or untaught pattern and usually seeming sedately unconscious of the men with a metropolitan seal upon their faces. Crossing glittering avenues, she went into the throng emerging from the places of forgetfulness. She hurried forward through the crowd as if intent upon reaching a distant home, bending forward in her handsome cloak, daintily lifting her skirts and picking for her well-shod feet the dryer spots upon the pavements. The restless doors of saloons, clashing to and fro, disclosed animated rows of men before bars and hurrying barkeepers. A concert hall gave to the street faint sounds of swift, machine-like music, as if a group of phantom musicians were hastening. A tall young man, smoking a cigarette with a sublime air, strolled near the girl. He had on evening dress, a moustache, a chrysanthemum, and a look of ennui, all of which he kept carefully under his eye. Seeing the girl walk on as if such a young man as he was not in existence, he looked back transfixed with interest. He stared glassily for a moment, but gave a slight convulsive start when he discerned that she was neither new, Parisian, nor theatrical. He wheeled about hastily and turned his stare into the air, like a sailor with a search-light. A stout gentleman, with pompous and philanthropic whiskers, went stolidly by, the broad of his back sneering at the girl. A belated man in business clothes, and in haste to catch a car, bounced against her shoulder. "Hi, there, Mary, I beg your pardon! Brace up, old girl." He grasped her arm to steady her, and then was away running down the middle of the street. The girl walked on out of the realm of restaurants and saloons. She passed more glittering avenues and went into darker blocks than those where the crowd travelled. A young man in light overcoat and derby hat received a glance shot keenly from the eyes of the girl. He stopped and looked at her, thrusting his hands in his pockets and making a mocking smile curl his lips. "Come, now, old lady," he said, "you don't mean to tel me that you sized me up for a farmer?" A labouring man marched along; with bundles under his arms. To her remarks, he replied, "It's a fine evenin', ain't it?" She smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his hands buried in his overcoat pockets, his blonde locks bobbing on his youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips. He turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands. "Not this eve--some other eve!" A drunken man, reeling in her pathway, began to roar at her. "I ain' ga no money!" he shouted, in a dismal voice. He lurched on up the street, wailing to himself: "I ain' ga no money. Ba' luck. Ain' ga no more money." The girl went into gloomy districts near the river, where the tall black factories shut in the street and only occasional broad beams of light fell across the pavements from saloons. In front of one of these places, whence came the sound of a violin vigorously scraped, the patter of feet on boards and the ring of loud laughter, there stood a man with blotched features. Further on in the darkness she met a ragged being with shifting, bloodshot eyes and grimy hands. She went into the blackness of the final block. The shutters of the tall buildings were closed like grim lips. The structures seemed to have eyes that looked over them, beyond them, at other things. Afar off the lights of the avenues glittered as if from an impossible distance. Street-car bells jingled with a sound of merriment. At the feet of the tall buildings appeared the deathly black hue of the river. Some hidden factory sent up a yellow glare, that lit for a moment the waters lapping oilily against timbers. The varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence. ----------CHAPTER 18--------- In a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him. The man had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe. "I'm good f'ler, girls," he said, convincingly. "I'm damn good f'ler. An'body treats me right, I allus trea's zem right! See?" The women nodded their heads approvingly. "To be sure," they cried out in hearty chorus. "You're the kind of a man we like, Pete. You're outa sight! What yeh goin' to buy this time, dear?" "An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," said the man in an abandonment of good will. His countenance shone with the true spirit of benevolence. He was in the proper mode of missionaries. He would have fraternized with obscure Hottentots. And above all, he was overwhelmed in tenderness for his friends, who were all illustrious. "An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," repeated he, waving his hands with beneficent recklessness. "I'm good f'ler, girls, an' if an'body treats me right I--here," called he through an open door to a waiter, "bring girls drinks, damn it. What 'ill yehs have, girls? An't'ing yehs wants, damn it!" The waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves intoxicants for the man who takes too much of them. He nodded his head shortly at the order from each individual, and went. "Damn it," said the man, "we're havin' heluva time. I like you girls! Damn'd if I don't! Yer right sort! See?" He spoke at length and with feeling, concerning the excellencies of his assembled friends. "Don' try pull man's leg, but have a heluva time! Das right! Das way teh do! Now, if I sawght yehs tryin' work me fer drinks, wouldn' buy damn t'ing! But yer right sort, damn it! Yehs know how ter treat a f'ler, an' I stays by yehs 'til spen' las' cent! Das right! I'm good f'ler an' I knows when an'body treats me right!" Between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man discoursed to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living things. He laid stress upon the purity of his motives in all dealings with men in the world and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for those who were amiable. Tears welled slowly from his eyes. His voice quavered when he spoke to them. Once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth. "Here," said he, quite magnificently, "here's quar'." The waiter kept his hands on his tray. "I don' want yer money," he said. The other put forth the coin with tearful insistence. "Here, damn it," cried he, "tak't! Yer damn goo' f'ler an' I wan' yehs tak't!" "Come, come, now," said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is forced into giving advice. "Put yer mon in yer pocket! Yer loaded an' yehs on'y makes a damn fool of yerself." As the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the women. "He don' know I'm damn goo' f'ler," cried he, dismally. "Never you mind, Pete, dear," said a woman of brilliance and audacity, laying her hand with great affection upon his arm. "Never you mind, old boy! We'll stay by you, dear!" "Das ri'," cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of the woman's voice. "Das ri', I'm damn goo' f'ler an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I treats zem ri'! Shee!" "Sure!" cried the women. "And we're not goin' back on you, old man." The man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity. He felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action he would die. "Shay, Nell, damn it, I allus trea's yehs shquare, didn' I? I allus been goo' f'ler wi' yehs, ain't I, Nell?" "Sure you have, Pete," assented the woman. She delivered an oration to her companions. "Yessir, that's a fact. Pete's a square fellah, he is. He never goes back on a friend. He's the right kind an' we stay by him, don't we, girls?" "Sure," they exclaimed. Looking lovingly at him they raised their glasses and drank his health. "Girlsh," said the man, beseechingly, "I allus trea's yehs ri', didn' I? I'm goo' f'ler, ain' I, girlsh?" "Sure," again they chorused. "Well," said he finally, "le's have nozzer drink, zen." "That's right," hailed a woman, "that's right. Yer no bloomin' jay! Yer spends yer money like a man. Dat's right." The man pounded the table with his quivering fists. "Yessir," he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him. "I'm damn goo' f'ler, an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I allus trea's--le's have nozzer drink." He began to beat the wood with his glass. "Shay," howled he, growing suddenly impatient. As the waiter did not then come, the man swelled with wrath. "Shay," howled he again. The waiter appeared at the door. "Bringsh drinksh," said the man. The waiter disappeared with the orders. "Zat f'ler damn fool," cried the man. "He insul' me! I'm ge'man! Can' stan' be insul'! I'm goin' lickim when comes!" "No, no," cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him. "He's all right! He didn't mean anything! Let it go! He's a good fellah!" "Din' he insul' me?" asked the man earnestly. "No," said they. "Of course he didn't! He's all right!" "Sure he didn' insul' me?" demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his voice. "No, no! We know him! He's a good fellah. He didn't mean anything." "Well, zen," said the man, resolutely, "I'm go' 'pol'gize!" When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor. "Girlsh shed you insul' me! I shay damn lie! I 'pol'gize!" "All right," said the waiter. The man sat down. He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody. "Nell, I allus trea's yeh shquare, din' I? Yeh likes me, don' yehs, Nell? I'm goo' f'ler?" "Sure," said the woman of brilliance and audacity. "Yeh knows I'm stuck on yehs, don' yehs, Nell?" "Sure," she repeated, carelessly. Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman. "Yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, 'cause I'm stuck on yehs, Nell, damn't, I--I'm stuck on yehs, Nell--buy drinksh--damn't--we're havin' heluva time--w'en anyone trea's me ri'--I--damn't, Nell--we're havin' heluva--time." Shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest. The women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor. The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts. "Come ahn," cried one, starting up angrily, "let's get out of here." The woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket. A guttural snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him. She laughed. "What a damn fool," she said, and went. The smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little compartment, obscuring the way out. The smell of oil, stifling in its intensity, pervaded the air. The wine from an overturned glass dripped softly down upon the blotches on the man's neck. ----------CHAPTER 19--------- In a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture. A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered. "Well," said he, "Mag's dead." "What?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread. "Mag's dead," repeated the man. "Deh hell she is," said the woman. She continued her meal. When she finished her coffee she began to weep. "I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she weared worsted boots," moaned she. "Well, whata dat?" said the man. "I kin remember when she weared worsted boots," she cried. The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. A dozen women entered and lamented with her. Under their busy hands the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted. Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with outstretched arms. "Ah, poor Mary," she cried, and tenderly embraced the moaning one. "Ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis," continued she. Her vocabulary was derived from mission churches. "Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs! Ah, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chil'." Her good, motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe. "I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no bigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith," she cried, raising her streaming eyes. "Ah, me poor Mary," sobbed the woman in black. With low, coddling cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair, and put her arms about her. The other women began to groan in different keys. "Yer poor misguided chil' is gone now, Mary, an' let us hope it's fer deh bes'. Yeh'll fergive her now, Mary, won't yehs, dear, all her disobed'ence? All her t'ankless behavior to her mudder an' all her badness? She's gone where her ter'ble sins will be judged." The woman in black raised her face and paused. The inevitable sunlight came streaming in at the windows and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon the faded hues of the room. Two or three of the spectators were sniffling, and one was loudly weeping. The mourner arose and staggered into the other room. In a moment she emerged with a pair of faded baby shoes held in the hollow of her hand. "I kin remember when she used to wear dem," cried she. The women burst anew into cries as if they had all been stabbed. The mourner turned to the soiled and unshaven man. "Jimmie, boy, go git yer sister! Go git yer sister an' we'll put deh boots on her feets!" "Dey won't fit her now, yeh damn fool," said the man. "Go git yer sister, Jimmie," shrieked the woman, confronting him fiercely. The man swore sullenly. He went over to a corner and slowly began to put on his coat. He took his hat and went out, with a dragging, reluctant step. The woman in black came forward and again besought the mourner. "Yeh'll fergive her, Mary! Yeh'll fergive yer bad, bad, chil'! Her life was a curse an' her days were black an' yeh'll fergive yer bad girl? She's gone where her sins will be judged." "She's gone where her sins will be judged," cried the other women, like a choir at a funeral. "Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," said the woman in black, raising her eyes to the sunbeams. "Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," responded the others. "Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!" pleaded the woman in black. The mourner essayed to speak but her voice gave way. She shook her great shoulders frantically, in an agony of grief. Hot tears seemed to scald her quivering face. Finally her voice came and arose like a scream of pain. "Oh, yes, I'll fergive her! I'll fergive her!"

Measure for Measure.act 1

cliffnotes

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

act 1, scene 1|act 1, scene 2|act 1, scene 3|act 1, scene 4

At a strict and disciplined convent, Isabella and Francesca discuss all the "privileges" Isabella is about to give up by becoming a nun. Isabella says she sure does wish they were stricter at St. Clare's. We interrupt this program for a history snack: In 1538 Henry VIII began the dissolution of all the monasteries and convents in England. By the time Shakespeare wrote Measure for Measure around 1604, there weren't any left. There were, however, plenty of them in Vienna , which is the setting of Shakespeare's play. Lucio comes knocking at the door and Sister Francesca high tails it out of the room. We learn that nuns at St. Clare's aren't allowed to talk to a man and show their faces at the same time. They can do one or the other but not both. Also, any speaking or showing of faces to men must be done in the presence of the prioress . Since Isabella is still a "novice" , she's can talk to Lucio face-to-face without breaking any rules. Lucio enters and says "Hail, virgin!" Isabella blushes. Lucio says he's looking for Isabella. Isabella reveals that she, in fact, is the girl he's seeking. Lucio says he hates to bother her, but he's got bad news--Claudio, her brother, has been thrown in slammer because he got a "friend" of his "with child" . Isabella doesn't believe him and tells him to stop lying. Lucio confesses that he often lies to women in order to get them into bed but, in this case, he's telling the truth. Plus, he would never lie to Isabella because he has a lot of respect for virgins--as far as Lucio's concerned, Isabella's practically a "saint." Lucio continues on and describes how Claudio and "his lover embraced" and now the woman's womb has grown "plenteous," like a field that's been plowed and planted with seed. Brain Snack: Shakespeare sure does like this metaphor. In Sonnet 2, he reverses the typical "woman's body as a field plowed and seeded by a man" metaphor by saying a man's body is a field that is "plowed" by Time. Isabella guesses that the mystery girl with the plowed womb is Juliet and suggests that the couple solve the problem by getting hitched. Lucio explains that the Duke has mysteriously vanished and Angelo has taken his place as Vienna's head honcho. Since Angelo doesn't have a sexual appetite, he's enforcing the maximum punishment. Claudio is a goner for sure...unless Isabella can use her super virgin powers to persuade Angelo that Claudio's life should be spared. According to Lucio, men are suckers for "maidens." Isabella agrees to talk to Angelo on her brother's behalf.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. _An apartment in the DUKE'S palace._ _Enter DUKE, ESCALUS, _Lords_ and _Attendants_._ _Duke._ Escalus. _Escal._ My lord. _Duke._ Of government the properties to unfold, Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse; Since I am put to know that your own science 5 Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice My strength can give you: then no more remains, But that to your sufficiency . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . as your worth is able, And let them work. The nature of our people, 10 Our city's institutions, and the terms For common justice, you're as pregnant in As art and practice hath enriched any That we remember. There is our commission, From which we would not have you warp. Call hither, 15 I say, bid come before us Angelo. [_Exit an Attendant._ What figure of us think you he will bear? For you must know, we have with special soul Elected him our absence to supply; Lent him our terror, dress'd him with our love, 20 And given his deputation all the organs Of our own power: what think you of it? _Escal._ If any in Vienna be of worth To undergo such ample grace and honour, It is Lord Angelo. _Duke._ Look where he comes. 25 _Enter ANGELO._ _Ang._ Always obedient to your Grace's will, I come to know your pleasure. _Duke._ Angelo, There is a kind of character in thy life, That to th' observer doth thy history Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings 30 Are not thine own so proper, as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike 35 As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd But to fine issues; nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence, But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor, 40 Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech To one that can my part in him advertise; Hold therefore, Angelo:-- In our remove be thou at full ourself; Mortality and mercy in Vienna 45 Live in thy tongue and heart: old Escalus, Though first in question, is thy secondary. Take thy commission. _Ang._ Now, good my lord, Let there be some more test made of my metal, Before so noble and so great a figure 50 Be stamp'd upon it. _Duke._ No more evasion: We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours. Our haste from hence is of so quick condition, That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd 55 Matters of needful value. We shall write to you, As time and our concernings shall importune, How it goes with us; and do look to know What doth befall you here. So, fare you well: To the hopeful execution do I leave you 60 Of your commissions. _Ang._ Yet, give leave, my lord, That we may bring you something on the way. _Duke._ My haste may not admit it; Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do With any scruple; your scope is as mine own, 65 So to enforce or qualify the laws As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand: I'll privily away. I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes: Though it do well, I do not relish well 70 Their loud applause and Aves vehement; Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. _Ang._ The heavens give safety to your purposes! _Escal._ Lead forth and bring you back in happiness! 75 _Duke._ I thank you. Fare you well. [_Exit._ _Escal._ I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave To have free speech with you; and it concerns me To look into the bottom of my place: A power I have, but of what strength and nature 80 I am not yet instructed. _Ang._ 'Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together, And we may soon our satisfaction have Touching that point. _Escal._ I'll wait upon your honour. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: I, 1. SCENE I. Lords and Attendants.] Singer. Lords. Ff. and Attendants. Capell. 5: _put_] _not_ Pope. _apt_ Collier MS. 7, 8: _remains, But that_] _remains; Put that_ Rowe. 8, 9: _But that to your sufficiency ..._] _But that to your sufficiency you add Due diligency ..._ Theobald conj. _But that to your sufficiency you joyn A will to serve us ..._ Hanmer. _But that to your sufficiency you put A zeal as willing ..._ Tyrwhitt conj. _But that to your sufficiencies your worth is abled_ Johnson conj. _But your sufficiency as worth is able_ Farmer conj. _Your sufficiency ... able_ Steevens conj. _But that your sufficiency be as your worth is stable_ Becket conj. _But state to your sufficiency ..._ Jackson conj. _But thereto your sufficiency ..._ Singer. _But add to your sufficiency your worth_ Collier MS. _But that_ [tendering his commission] _to your sufficiency. And, as your worth is able, let them work_ Staunton conj. _But that to your sufficiency I add Commission ample_ Spedding conj. See note (I). 11: _city's_] _cities_ Ff. 16: [Exit an Attendant.] Capell. 18: _soul_] _roll_ Warburton. _seal_ Johnson conj. 22: _what_] _say, what_ Pope. 25: SCENE II. Pope. 27: _your pleasure_] F1. _your Graces pleasure_ F2 F3 F4. 28: _life_] _look_ Johnson conj. 28, 29: _character ... history_] _history ... character_ Monck Mason conj. 32: _they_] _them_ Hanmer. 35, 36: _all alike As if we_] _all as if We_ Hanmer. 37: _nor_] om. Pope. 42: _my part in him_] _in my part me_ Hanmer. _my part to him_ Johnson conj. _in him, my part_ Becket conj. 43: _Hold therefore, Angelo:--_] _Hold therefore, Angelo:_ [Giving him his commission] Hanmer. _Hold therefore. Angelo,_ Tyrwhitt conj. _Hold therefore, Angelo, our place and power:_ Grant White. 45: _Mortality_] _Morality_ Pope. 51: _upon it_] _upon 't_ Capell. _No more_] _Come, no more_ Pope. 52: _leaven'd and prepared_] Ff. _leven'd and prepar'd_ Rowe. _prepar'd and leaven'd_ Pope. _prepar'd and level'd_ Warburton. _prepar'd unleaven'd_ Heath conj. 56: _to you_] om. Hanmer. 61: _your commissions_] F1. _your commission_ F2 F3 F4. _our commission_ Pope. 66: _laws_] _law_ Pope. 76: [Exit.] F2. [Exit. (after line 75) F1. 84: _your_] _you_ F2. ----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. _A street._ _Enter LUCIO and two _Gentlemen_._ _Lucio._ If the duke, with the other dukes, come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then all the dukes fall upon the king. _First Gent._ Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of Hungary's! 5 _Sec. Gent._ Amen. _Lucio._ Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pirate, that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scraped one out of the table. _Sec. Gent._ 'Thou shalt not steal'? 10 _Lucio._ Ay, that he razed. _First Gent._ Why, 'twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions: they put forth to steal. There's not a soldier of us all, that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well that 15 prays for peace. _Sec. Gent._ I never heard any soldier dislike it. _Lucio._ I believe thee; for I think thou never wast where grace was said. _Sec. Gent._ No? a dozen times at least. 20 _First Gent._ What, in metre? _Lucio._ In any proportion or in any language. _First Gent._ I think, or in any religion. _Lucio._ Ay, why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy: as, for example, thou thyself art a wicked 25 villain, despite of all grace. _First Gent._ Well, there went but a pair of shears between us. _Lucio._ I grant; as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the list. 30 _First Gent._ And thou the velvet: thou art good velvet; thou'rt a three-piled piece, I warrant thee: I had as lief be a list of an English kersey, as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now? _Lucio._ I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most painful 35 feeling of thy speech: I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee. _First Gent._ I think I have done myself wrong, have I not? 40 _Sec. Gent._ Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free. _Lucio._ Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to-- 45 _Sec. Gent._ To what, I pray? _Lucio._ Judge. _Sec. Gent._ To three thousand dolours a year. _First Gent._ Ay, and more. _Lucio._ A French crown more. 50 _First Gent._ Thou art always figuring diseases in me; but thou art full of error; I am sound. _Lucio._ Nay, not as one would say, healthy; but so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are hollow; impiety has made a feast of thee. 55 _Enter MISTRESS OVERDONE._ _First Gent._ How now! which of your hips has the most profound sciatica? _Mrs Ov._ Well, well; there's one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all. _Sec. Gent._ Who's that, I pray thee? 60 _Mrs Ov._ Marry, sir, that's Claudio, Signior Claudio. _First Gent._ Claudio to prison? 'tis not so. _Mrs Ov._ Nay, but I know 'tis so: I saw him arrested; saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off. 65 _Lucio._ But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this? _Mrs Ov._ I am too sure of it: and it is for getting Madam Julietta with child. _Lucio._ Believe me, this may be: he promised to meet 70 me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping. _Sec. Gent._ Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose. _First Gent._ But, most of all, agreeing with the proclamation. 75 _Lucio._ Away! let's go learn the truth of it. [_Exeunt Lucio and Gentlemen._ _Mrs Ov._ Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows, and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. 80 _Enter POMPEY._ How now! what's the news with you? _Pom._ Yonder man is carried to prison. _Mrs Ov._ Well; what has he done? _Pom._ A woman. _Mrs Ov._ But what's his offence? 85 _Pom._ Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. _Mrs Ov._ What, is there a maid with child by him? _Pom._ No, but there's a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you? _Mrs Ov._ What proclamation, man? 90 _Pom._ All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down. _Mrs Ov._ And what shall become of those in the city? _Pom._ They shall stand for seed: they had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them. 95 _Mrs Ov._ But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down? _Pom._ To the ground, mistress. _Mrs Ov._ Why, here's a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of me? 100 _Pom._ Come; fear not you: good counsellors lack no clients: though you change your place, you need not change your trade; I'll be your tapster still. Courage! there will be pity taken on you: you that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered. 105 _Mrs Ov._ What's to do here, Thomas tapster? let's withdraw. _Pom._ Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison; and there's Madam Juliet. [_Exeunt._ _Enter PROVOST, CLAUDIO, JULIET, and _Officers_._ _Claud._ Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world? 110 Bear me to prison, where I am committed. _Prov._ I do it not in evil disposition, But from Lord Angelo by special charge. _Claud._ Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offence by weight 115 The words of heaven;--on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis just. _Re-enter LUCIO and two _Gentlemen_._ _Lucio._ Why, how now, Claudio! whence comes this restraint? _Claud._ From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty: As surfeit is the father of much fast, 120 So every scope by the immoderate use Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, A thirsty evil; and when we drink we die. _Lucio._ If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I 125 would send for certain of my creditors: and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What's thy offence, Claudio? _Claud._ What but to speak of would offend again. _Lucio._ What, is't murder? 130 _Claud._ No. _Lucio._ Lechery? _Claud._ Call it so. _Prov._ Away, sir! you must go. _Claud._ One word, good friend. Lucio, a word with you. 135 _Lucio._ A hundred, if they'll do you any good. Is lechery so look'd after? _Claud._ Thus stands it with me:--upon a true contract I got possession of Julietta's bed: You know the lady; she is fast my wife, 140 Save that we do the denunciation lack Of outward order: this we came not to, Only for propagation of a dower Remaining in the coffer of her friends; From whom we thought it meet to hide our love 145 Till time had made them for us. But it chances The stealth of our most mutual entertainment With character too gross is writ on Juliet. _Lucio._ With child, perhaps? _Claud._ Unhappily, even so. And the new Deputy now for the Duke,-- 150 Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, Or whether that the body public be A horse whereon the governor doth ride, Who, newly in the seat, that it may know He can command, lets it straight feel the spur; 155 Whether the tyranny be in his place, Or in his eminence that fills it up. I stagger in:--but this new governor Awakes me all the enrolled penalties Which have, like unscour'd armour, hung by the wall So long, that nineteen zodiacs have gone round, And none of them been worn; and, for a name, Now puts the drowsy and neglected act Freshly on me: 'tis surely for a name. _Lucio._ I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle 165 on thy shoulders, that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke, and appeal to him. _Claud._ I have done so, but he's not to be found. I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service: This day my sister should the cloister enter 170 And there receive her approbation: Acquaint her with the danger of my state; Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him: I have great hope in that; for in her youth 175 There is a prone and speechless dialect, Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade. _Lucio._ I pray she may; as well for the encouragement 180 of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I'll to her. _Claud._ I thank you, good friend Lucio. 185 _Lucio._ Within two hours. _Claud._ Come, officer, away! [_Exeunt._ NOTES: I, 2. SCENE II.] SCENE III. Pope. 12: First Gent. _Why, 'twas_] 1. Gent. _Why? 'twas_ Ff. First Gent. _Why?_ Luc. _'Twas_ Singer. 15: _before_] _after_ Hanmer. See note (II). _do_] _doth_ Hanmer. _does_ Warburton. 22-26: Lucio. _In any proportion ... language._ First Gent. _I think ... religion._ Lucio. _Ay, why not?... all grace._] Lucio. _Not in any profession ... language, I ... religion._ 2. Gent. _And why not?... controversy._ Lucio. _As for ... all grace._ Hanmer. See note (III). 29: _lists_] _list_ Anon. conj. 42: Here Ff have _Enter Bawde_, transferred by Theobald to line 56. 43: SCENE IV. Pope. Bawd coming at a distance. Hanmer. 44: _I have_] 1. Gent. _I have_ Pope (ed. 2). _He has_ Halliwell. 48: _dolours_] Rowe. _dollours_ Ff. _dollars_ Pope. 56: SCENE IV. Johnson. 65: _head_] _head is_ Rowe. _head's_ Capell. 81: SCENE V. Pope. 88: _with maid_] _with-made_ Seymour conj. 91: _houses_] _bawdy houses_ Tyrwhitt conj. 96: _all_] om. Pope. 110: SCAENA TERTIA. Ff. Juliet] Ff. Gaoler. Halliwell. om. Collier MS. See note (IV). [Transcriber's Note: Pope's Scene I.VI is not mentioned, but presumably begins here.] 113: _Lord_] om. F2 F3 F4. 115: _offence_] _offence'_ (for _offences_) S. Walker conj. 115, 116: _by weight The words_] Ff. _by weight; I' th' words_ Hanmer. _by weight. The words_ Warburton (after Davenant). _by weight--The sword_ Roberts conj. _by weight The word_ Halliwell. _by weight.--The word's_ Becket conj. _by weight--The works_ Jackson conj. See note (V). 117: _yet still 'tis just_] _yet 'tis just still_ S. Walker conj. 121: _every scope_] _liberty_ Wheeler MS. 124: _A thirsty evil_] _An evil thirst_ Davenant's version. _A thirsted evil_ Spedding conj. 128: _morality_] Rowe (after Davenant). _mortality_ Ff. 141: _denunciation_] _pronunciation_ Collier MS. 143: _propagation_] F2 F3 F4. _propogation_ F1. _prorogation_ Malone conj. _procuration_ Jackson conj. _preservation_ Grant White. 147: _most_] om. Hanmer. 148: _on_] F1. _in_ F2 F3 F4. 151: _fault and_] _flash and_ Johnson conj. _foult or_ Id. conj. _foil and_ Anon. conj. _fault and_] _flash and_ Johnson conj. _fault or_ Id. conj. _foil and_ Anon. conj. _glimpse_] _guise_ Anon. conj. 161: _nineteen_] _fourteen_ Whalley conj. 165: _it is_] _so it is_ Hanmer (who prints line 165-167 as four verses ending _stands, milkmaid, off, him._ 166: _she be_] _she be but_ Hanmer. 173: _voice_] _name_ Wheler MS. 175: _youth_] _zenith_ Johnson conj. 176: _prone_] _prompt_ Johnson conj. _pow'r_ Id. conj. _proue_ Becket conj. 177: _move_] Ff. _moves_ Rowe. _beside_] _besides_ Capell. 181: _under_] F1. _upon_ F2 F3 F4. _on_ Hanmer, who prints 179-185 as six verses ending _may, like, imposition, be, tick-tack, Lucio._ _imposition_] _inquisition_ Johnson conj. (withdrawn). 182: _the enjoying of_] om. Hanmer. _who I would_] _which I'd_ Hanmer. 184: _her_] _her strait_ Hanmer. ----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. _A monastery._ _Enter _Duke_ and FRIAR THOMAS._ _Duke._ No, holy father; throw away that thought; Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends 5 Of burning youth. _Fri. T._ May your grace speak of it? _Duke._ My holy sir, none better knows than you How I have ever loved the life removed, And held in idle price to haunt assemblies Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps. 10 I have deliver'd to Lord Angelo, A man of stricture and firm abstinence, My absolute power and place here in Vienna, And he supposes me travell'd to Poland; For so I have strew'd it in the common ear, 15 And so it is received. Now, pious sir, You will demand of me why I do this? _Fri. T._ Gladly, my lord. _Duke._ We have strict statutes and most biting laws, The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds, 20 Which for this fourteen years we have let slip; Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave, That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers, Having bound up the threatening twigs of birch, Only to stick it in their children's sight 25 For terror, not to use, in time the rod Becomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees. Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead; And liberty plucks justice by the nose; The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart 30 Goes all decorum. _Fri. T._ It rested in your Grace To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased: And it in you more dreadful would have seem'd Than in Lord Angelo. _Duke._ I do fear, too dreadful: Sith 'twas my fault to give the people scope, 35 'Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done, When evil deeds have their permissive pass, And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father, I have on Angelo imposed the office; 40 Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home, And yet my nature never in the fight To do in slander. And to behold his sway, I will, as 'twere a brother of your order, Visit both prince and people: therefore, I prithee, 45 Supply me with the habit, and instruct me How I may formally in person bear me Like a true friar. More reasons for this action At our more leisure shall I render you; Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise; 50 Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses That his blood flows, or that his appetite Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see, If power change purpose, what our seemers be. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: I, 3. SCENE III.] SCENA QUARTA Ff. SCENE VII. Pope. 3: _bosom_] _breast_ Pope. 10: _and witless_] F2 F3 F4. _witless_ F1. _with witless_ Edd. conj. _keeps_] _keep_ Hammer. 12: _stricture_] _strictness_ Davenant's version. _strict ure_ Warburton. 15: _For_] _Far_ F2. 20: _to_] F1. _for_ F2 F3 F4. _weeds_] Ff. _steeds_ Theobald. _wills_ S. Walker conj. 21: _this_] _these_ Theobald. _fourteen_] _nineteen_ Theobald. _slip_] Ff. _sleep_ Theobald (after Davenant). 25: _to_] _do_ Dent. MS. 26: _terror_] F1. _errour_ F2 F3 F4. 26, 27: _the rod Becomes more ... decrees_] Pope (after Davenant). _the rod More ... decrees_ Ff. _the rod's More ... most just decrees_ Collier MS. 27: _mock'd_] _markt_ Davenant's version. 34: _do_] om. Pope. 37: _be done_] om. Pope. 39: _the_] _their_ Dyce conj. _indeed_] om. Pope. 42, 43: _fight To do in slander_] _sight To do in slander_ Pope. _fight So do in slander_ Theobald. _sight To do it slander_ Hanmer. _sight, So doing slander'd_ Johnson conj. _sight To draw on slander_ Collier MS. _right To do him slander_ Singer conj. _light To do it slander_ Dyce conj. _fight To do me slander_ Halliwell. _win the fight To die in slander_ Staunton conj. _never ... slander_] _ever in the fight To dole in slander_ Jackson conj. 43: _And_] om. Pope. 45: _I_] om. Pope. 47: _in person bear me_] Capell. _in person beare_ Ff. _my person bear_ Pope. 49: _our_] F1. _your_ F2 F3 F4. ----------ACT 1, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. _A nunnery._ _Enter ISABELLA and FRANCISCA._ _Isab._ And have you nuns no farther privileges? _Fran._ Are not these large enough? _Isab._ Yes, truly: I speak not as desiring more; But rather wishing a more strict restraint Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare. 5 _Lucio_ [_within_]. Ho! Peace be in this place! _Isab._ Who's that which calls? _Fran._ It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella, Turn you the key, and know his business of him; You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn. When you have vow'd, you must not speak with men 10 But in the presence of the prioress: Then, if you speak, you must not show your face; Or, if you show your face, you must not speak. He calls again; I pray you, answer him. [_Exit._ _Isab._ Peace and prosperity! Who is't that calls? 15 _Enter LUCIO._ _Lucio._ Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses Proclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me As bring me to the sight of Isabella, A novice of this place, and the fair sister To her unhappy brother Claudio? 20 _Isab._ Why, 'her unhappy brother'? let me ask The rather, for I now must make you know I am that Isabella and his sister. _Lucio._ Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you: Not to be weary with you, he's in prison. 25 _Isab._ Woe me! for what? _Lucio._ For that which, if myself might be his judge, He should receive his punishment in thanks: He hath got his friend with child. _Isab._ Sir, make me not your story. _Lucio._ It is true. 30 I would not--though 'tis my familiar sin With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest, Tongue far from heart--play with all virgins so: I hold you as a thing ensky'd and sainted; By your renouncement, an immortal spirit; 35 And to be talk'd with in sincerity, As with a saint. _Isab._ You do blaspheme the good in mocking me. _Lucio._ Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, 'tis thus:-- Your brother and his lover have embraced: 40 As those that feed grow full,--as blossoming time, That from the seedness the bare fallow brings To teeming foison,--even so her plenteous womb Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. _Isab._ Some one with child by him?--My cousin Juliet? 45 _Lucio._ Is she your cousin? _Isab._ Adoptedly; as school-maids change their names By vain, though apt, affection. _Lucio._ She it is. _Isab._ O, let him marry her. _Lucio._ This is the point. The duke is very strangely gone from hence; 50 Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, In hand, and hope of action: but we do learn By those that know the very nerves of state, His givings-out were of an infinite distance From his true-meant design. Upon his place, 55 And with full line of his authority, Governs Lord Angelo; a man whose blood Is very snow-broth; one who never feels The wanton stings and motions of the sense, But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge 60 With profits of the mind, study and fast. He--to give fear to use and liberty, Which have for long run by the hideous law, As mice by lions--hath pick'd out an act, Under whose heavy sense your brother's life 65 Falls into forfeit: he arrests him on it; And follows close the rigour of the statute, To make him an example. All hope is gone, Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer To soften Angelo: and that's my pith of business 70 'Twixt you and your poor brother. _Isab._ Doth he so seek his life? _Lucio._ Has censured him Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath A warrant for his execution. _Isab._ Alas! what poor ability's in me 75 To do him good? _Lucio._ Assay the power you have. _Isab._ My power? Alas, I doubt,-- _Lucio._ Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo, And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, 80 Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel, All their petitions are as freely theirs As they themselves would owe them. _Isab._ I'll see what I can do. _Lucio._ But speedily. _Isab._ I will about it straight; 85 No longer staying but to give the Mother Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you: Commend me to my brother: soon at night I'll send him certain word of my success. _Lucio._ I take my leave of you. _Isab._ Good sir, adieu. 90 [_Exeunt._ NOTES: I, 4. SCENE IV.] SCENA QUINTA Ff. SCENE VIII. Pope. 5: _sisterhood, the votarists_] _sister votarists_ Pope. 27: _For that which_] _That for which_ Malone conj. 30: _make me not your story_] _mock me not:--your story_ Malone. _make me not your scorn_ Collier MS. (after Davenant). _make ... sport_ Singer. _It is true_] Steevens. _'Tis true_ Ff. om. Pope. _Nay, tis true_ Capell. 31: _I would not_] Malone puts a full stop here. 40: _have_] _having_ Rowe. 42: _That ... brings_] _Doth ... bring_ Hanmer. _seedness_] _seeding_ Collier MS. 44: _his_] _its_ Hanmer. 49: _O, let him_] F1. _Let him_ F2 F3 F4. _Let him then_ Pope. 50: _is_] _who's_ Collier MS. 52: _and_] _with_ Johnson conj. _do_] om. Pope. 54: _givings-out_] Rowe. _giving-out_ Ff. 60: _his_] _it's_ Capell. 63: _for long_] _long time_ Pope. 68: _hope is_] _hope's_ Pope. 70: _pith of business 'Twixt_] _pith Of business betwixt_ Hanmer. See note (VI). _pith of_] om. Pope. 72: _so seek_] _so, Seeke_ Ff. _so? seek_ Edd. conj. _Has_] _H'as_ Theobald. 71-75: Ff end the lines thus:-- _so,--already--warrant--poor--good._ Capell first gave the arrangement in the text. 73: _as_] om. Hanmer. 74: _A warrant for his_] _a warrant For's_ Ff. 78: _make_] Pope. _makes_ Ff. 82: _freely_] F1. _truely_ F2 F3 F4. Enter _Provost_ inserted by Capell.

Measure for Measure.act 2

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 2, scene 4 with the given context.

At his house in Vienna, Angelo tells the audience that he's been praying a lot lately, but even when he prays, he thinks of Isabella, which makes him feel slimy. A servant announces that Isabella has arrived and Angelo gets all hot and bothered. Isabella enters and Angelo tells her immediately that Claudio must die. Angelo declares that pardoning a fornicator like Claudio would be as bad as pardoning a murderer and then compares illegitimate children to counterfeit coins. Isabella points out that divine law forbids murder and fornication equally, but earthly law says that murder is worse. Angelo slyly asks Isabella if she would rather "give up body to such sweet uncleanness" or have her brother sentenced to death . Isabella doesn't understand what Claudio is getting at and replies that she'd rather give her "body" than her "soul." Angelo propositions her again and, once more, Isabella doesn't catch his drift. Angelo notes that Isabella is either completely clueless or she's craftily pretending she doesn't know what he means. Angelo finally comes right out and asks what Isabella would do if she had a choice between letting Claudio die or "lay down the treasures of body" to save his life . Isabella says she'd rather die than "yield body up to shame" . Angelo says fine, your brother is going to die. Isabella says that sleeping with a man would be like a death for her. Angelo accuses her of being as cruel as the death penalty and then claims that he loves Isabella. Isabella points out that her brother loves Juliet and he's been sentenced to death for it. She threatens to tell on Angelo if he doesn't set her brother free immediately. Angelo points out that nobody will believe her because he is an important and well-respected member of the community. Also, if Isabella doesn't agree to sleep with him, Angelo is going to make sure Claudio's death is long and painful. Isabella's got until tomorrow to decide. Isabella delivers a "woe is me" type speech and says she'll go to her brother immediately. She's certain that Claudio will agree with her that her chastity is far more important than his life.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. _Another room in the same._ _Enter PROVOST and a _Servant_._ _Serv._ He's hearing of a cause; he will come straight: I'll tell him of you. _Prov._ Pray you, do. [_Exit Servant._] I'll know His pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas, He hath but as offended in a dream! All sects, all ages smack of this vice; and he 5 To die for 't! _Enter ANGELO._ _Ang._ Now, what's the matter, provost? _Prov._ Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow? _Ang._ Did not I tell thee yea? hadst thou not order? Why dost thou ask again? _Prov._ Lest I might be too rash: Under your good correction, I have seen, 10 When, after execution, Judgement hath Repented o'er his doom. _Ang._ Go to; let that be mine: Do you your office, or give up your place, And you shall well be spared. _Prov._ I crave your honour's pardon. What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet? 15 She's very near her hour. _Ang._ Dispose of her To some more fitter place, and that with speed. _Re-enter _Servant_._ _Serv._ Here is the sister of the man condemn'd Desires access to you. _Ang._ Hath he a sister? _Prov._ Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, 20 And to be shortly of a sisterhood, If not already. _Ang._ Well, let her be admitted. [_Exit Servant._ See you the fornicatress be removed: Let her have needful, but not lavish, means; There shall be order for 't. _Enter ISABELLA and LUCIO._ _Prov._ God save your honour! 25 _Ang._ Stay a little while. [_To Isab._] You're welcome: what's your will? _Isab._ I am a woeful suitor to your honour, Please but your honour hear me. _Ang._ Well; what's your suit? _Isab._ There is a vice that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice; 30 For which I would not plead, but that I must; For which I must not plead, but that I am At war 'twixt will and will not. _Ang._ Well; the matter? _Isab._ I have a brother is condemn'd to die: I do beseech you, let it be his fault, 35 And not my brother. _Prov._ [_Aside_] Heaven give thee moving graces! _Ang._ Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it? Why, every fault's condemn'd ere it be done: Mine were the very cipher of a function, To fine the faults whose fine stands in record, 40 And let go by the actor. _Isab._ O just but severe law! I had a brother, then.--Heaven keep your honour! _Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] Give't not o'er so: to him again, entreat him; Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown: You are too cold; if you should need a pin, 45 You could not with more tame a tongue desire it: To him, I say! _Isab._ Must he needs die? _Ang._ Maiden, no remedy. _Isab._ Yes; I do think that you might pardon him, And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. 50 _Ang._ I will not do't. _Isab._ But can you, if you would? _Ang._ Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. _Isab._ But might you do't, and do the world no wrong, If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse As mine is to him. _Ang._ He's sentenced; 'tis too late. 55 _Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] You are too cold. _Isab._ Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word, May call it back again. Well, believe this, No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 60 The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace As mercy does. If he had been as you, and you as he, You would have slipt like him; but he, like you, 65 Would not have been so stern. _Ang._ Pray you, be gone. _Isab._ I would to heaven I had your potency, And you were Isabel! should it then be thus? No; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge, And what a prisoner. _Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] Ay, touch him; there's the vein. 70 _Ang._ Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words. _Isab._ Alas, alas! Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once; And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy. How would you be, 75 If He, which is the top of judgement, should But judge you as you are? O, think on that; And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made. _Ang._ Be you content, fair maid; It is the law, not I condemn your brother: 80 Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, It should be thus with him: he must die to-morrow. _Isab._ To-morrow! O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him! He's not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven 85 With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you; Who is it that hath died for this offence? There's many have committed it. _Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] Ay, well said. _Ang._ The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept: 90 Those many had not dared to do that evil, If the first that did the edict infringe Had answer'd for his deed: now 'tis awake, Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet, Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils, 95 Either now, or by remissness new-conceived, And so in progress to be hatch'd and born, Are now to have no successive degrees, But, ere they live, to end. _Isab._ Yet show some pity. _Ang._ I show it most of all when I show justice; 100 For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall; And do him right that, answering one foul wrong. Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies to-morrow; be content. 105 _Isab._ So you must be the first that gives this sentence. And he, that suffers. O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant. _Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] That's well said. _Isab._ Could great men thunder 110 As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, For every pelting, petty officer Would use his heaven for thunder. Nothing but thunder! Merciful Heaven, Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt 115 Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak Than the soft myrtle: but man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, 120 Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens, Would all themselves laugh mortal. _Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] O, to him, to him, wench! he will relent; He's coming; I perceive't. _Prov._ [_Aside_] Pray heaven she win him! 125 _Isab._ We cannot weigh our brother with ourself: Great men may jest with saints; 'tis wit in them. But in the less foul profanation. _Lucio._ Thou'rt i' the right, girl; more o' that. _Isab._ That in the captain's but a choleric word, 130 Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. _Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] Art avised o' that? more on't. _Ang._ Why do you put these sayings upon me? _Isab._ Because authority, though it err like others. Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, 135 That skins the vice o' the top. Go to your bosom; Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know That's like my brother's fault: if it confess A natural guiltiness such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 140 Against my brother's life. _Ang._ [_Aside_] She speaks, and 'tis Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well. _Isab._ Gentle my lord, turn back. _Ang._ I will bethink me: come again to-morrow. _Isab._ Hark how I'll bribe you: good my lord, turn back. 145 _Ang._ How? bribe me? _Isab._ Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you. _Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] Yon had marr'd all else. _Isab._ Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, Or stones whose rates are either rich or poor 150 As fancy values them; but with true prayers That shall be up at heaven and enter there Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls, From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate To nothing temporal. _Ang._ Well; come to me to-morrow. 155 _Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] Go to; 'tis well; away! _Isab._ Heaven keep your honour safe! _Ang._ [_Aside_] Amen: For I am that way going to temptation, Where prayers cross. _Isab._ At what hour to-morrow Shall I attend your lordship? _Ang._ At any time 'fore noon. 160 _Isab._ 'Save your honour! [_Exeunt Isabella, Lucio, and Provost._ _Ang._ From thee,--even from thy virtue! What's this, what's this? Is this her fault or mine? The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha! Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I 165 That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be That modesty may more betray our sense Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough, 170 Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie! What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo? Dost thou desire her foully for those things That make her good? O, let her brother live: 175 Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves. What, do I love her, That I desire to hear her speak again, And feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on? O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, 180 With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous Is that temptation that doth goad us on To sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet, With all her double vigour, art and nature, Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid 185 Subdues me quite. Ever till now, When men were fond, I smiled, and wonder'd how. [_Exit._ NOTES: II, 2. SCENE II.] SCENE VI. Pope. [Transcriber's Note: Pope's Scene VII is not identified. Scene VIII begins at line 161.] 1: _he will_] _he'll_ Pope. 4: _but as offended_] _offended but as_ Grant White. 5: _sects_] _sorts_ S. Walker conj. _of this_] _o' th'_ Hanmer. 9: _dost thou_] om. Hanmer. 12: _Go to_] om. Hanmer. 14: _honour's_] om. Pope. 17: _fitter_] _fitting_ Pope. 22: _Well_] om. Pope. 25: _for't_] _for it_ Pope. _God save_] _'Save_ Ff. 26: _a little_] _yet a_ Pope. 28: _Please_] _'Please_ Ff. _Well_] om. Pope. 30: _And most_] _And more_ Rowe. 32: _must not plead, but that_] _must plead, albeit_ Hanmer. _must now plead, but yet_ Johnson conj. 40: _To fine_] _to find_ Theobald. _faults_] _fault_ Dyce. 46: _more tame a_] _a more tame_ Rowe. 53: _might you_] _you might_ S. Walker conj. 55: _him._] _him?_ Ff. 56: _You are_] _Yo art_ F2. _Thou art_ Collier MS. 58: _back_] F2 F3 F4. om. F1. _Well,_] _and_ Hanmer. _Well, believe_] _Well believe_ Knight. 59: _'longs_] Theobald, _longs_ Ff. _belongs_ Pope. 73: _that were_] _that are_ Warburton. 76: _top_] _God_ Collier MS. 80: _condemn_] _condemns_ Rowe. 82: _must die_] _dies_ Pope. 83: Printed as two lines in Ff, the first ending _sudden_. 85: _shall we serve_] _serve we_ Pope. 92: _the first_] Ff. _the first man_ Pope. _he, the first_ Capell (Tyrwhitt conj.). _the first one_ Collier MS. _but the first_ Grant White. _the first he_ Spedding conj. _the first that_] _he who first_ Davenant's version. _did the edict_] _the edict did_ Keightley conj. 95: _that shows what_] _which shews that_ Hanmer. 96: _Either now_] _Or new_ Pope. _Either new_ Dyce. 99: _ere_] Hanmer. _here_ Ff. _where_ Malone. 104: _Be_] _Then be_ Pope. 107: _it is_] _'tis_ Pope. 108: _it is_] om. Hanmer. 111: _ne'er_] _never_ F1. 113: _Would_] _Incessantly would_ Hanmer. 114: _Heaven_] _sweet Heaven_ Hanmer. 116: _Split'st_] _splits_ F1. 117: _but_] F1. _O but_ F2 F3 F4. _proud_] _weak, proud_ Malone conj. 120: _glassy_] _grassy_ Lloyd conj. 126: _We_] _You_ Collier MS. _cannot_] _can but_ Anon. conj. _ourself_] _yourself_ Theobald (Warburton). 127: _saints_] _sins_ Anon. conj. 129: _i' the right_] _i' th right_ F1 F2. _i' right_ F3 F4. _right_ Pope. _in the right_ Steevens. 132: _avised_] _avis'd_ F1 F2. _advis'd_ F3 F4. _thou advis'd_ Hanmer. _more on't_] _more on't, yet more_ Hanmer. 140: _your_] _you_ F2. 142: _breeds_] _bleeds_ Pope. 149: _shekels_] Pope. _sickles_ Ff. _cycles_ Collier conj. _circles_ Collier MS. See note (VII). 150: _rates are_] Johnson. _rate are_ Ff. _rate is_ Hanmer. 157: _Amen_] _Amen! I say_ Hanmer. See note (VIII). 159: _Where_] _Which your_ Johnson conj. 160: _your lordship_] _you lordship_ F2. _you_ Hanmer. 161: _'Save_] _God save_ Edd. conj. 161: SCENE VIII. Pope. 163: _Ha!_] om. Pope. 166: _by_] _with_ Capell. 172: _evils_] _offals_ Collier MS. 183: _never_] _ne'er_ Pope. 186: _Ever till now_] F1. _Even till now_ F2 F3 F4. _Even till this very now_ Pope. _Ever till this very now_ Theobald. _Even from youth till now_ Collier MS. ----------ACT 2, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. _A room in a prison._ _Enter, severally, DUKE disguised as a friar, and PROVOST._ _Duke._ Hail to you, provost!--so I think you are. _Prov._ I am the provost. What's your will, good friar? _Duke._ Bound by my charity and my blest order, I come to visit the afflicted spirits Here in the prison. Do me the common right 5 To let me see them, and to make me know The nature of their crimes, that I may minister To them accordingly. _Prov._ I would do more than that, if more were needful. _Enter JULIET._ Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine, 10 Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth, Hath blister'd her report: she is with child; And he that got it, sentenced; a young man More fit to do another such offence Than die for this. 15 _Duke._ When must he die? _Prov._ As I do think, to-morrow. I have provided for you: stay awhile, [_To Juliet._ And you shall be conducted. _Duke._ Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry? _Jul._ I do; and bear the shame most patiently. 20 _Duke._ I'll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience, And try your penitence, if it be sound, Or hollowly put on. _Jul._ I'll gladly learn. _Duke._ Love you the man that wrong'd you? _Jul._ Yes, as I love the woman that wrong'd him. 25 _Duke._ So, then, it seems your most offenceful act Was mutually committed? _Jul._ Mutually. _Duke._ Then was your sin of heavier kind than his. _Jul._ I do confess it, and repent it, father. _Duke._ 'Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent, 30 As that the sin hath brought you to this shame, Which sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven, Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it, But as we stand in fear,-- _Jul._ I do repent me, as it is an evil, 35 And take the shame with joy. _Duke._ There rest. Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow, And I am going with instruction to him. Grace go with you, _Benedicite!_ [_Exit._ _Jul._ Must die to-morrow! O injurious love, 40 That respites me a life, whose very comfort Is still a dying horror! _Prov._ 'Tis pity of him. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: II, 3. SCENE III.] SCENE IX. Pope. Act III. SCENE I. Johnson conj. 7: _crimes that I may_] _several crimes that I May_ Seymour conj. 9: Enter JULIET] Transferred by Dyce to line 15. 11: _flaws_] F3 F4. _flawes_ F1 F2. _flames_ Warburton (after Davenant). 26: _offenceful_] _offence full_ F1. 30: _lest you do repent_] F4. _least you do repent_ F1 F2 F3. _repent you not_ Pope. 33: _we would not spare_] Ff. _we'd not seek_ Pope. _we'd not spare_ Malone. _we would not serve_ Collier MS. _we'd not appease_ Singer conj. 36: _There rest_] _Tis well; there rest_ Hammer. 39: _Grace_] _So grace_ Pope. _May grace_ Steevens conj. _All grace_ Seymour conj. _Grace go with you_ is assigned to Juliet by Dyce (Ritson conj.). 40: _love_] _law_ Hanmer. ----------ACT 2, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. _A room in ANGELO'S house._ _Enter ANGELO._ _Ang._ When I would pray and think, I think and pray To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words; Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue, Anchors on Isabel: Heaven in my mouth, As if I did but only chew his name; 5 And in my heart the strong and swelling evil Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied, Is like a good thing, being often read, Grown fear'd and tedious; yea, my gravity, Wherein--let no man hear me--I take pride, 10 Could I with boot change for an idle plume, Which the air beats for vain. O place, O form, How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood: 15 Let's write good angel on the devil's horn; 'Tis not the devil's crest. _Enter a _Servant_._ How now! who's there? _Serv._ One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you. _Ang._ Teach her the way. O heavens! Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, 20 Making both it unable for itself, And dispossessing all my other parts Of necessary fitness? So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons: Come all to help him, and so stop the air 25 By which he should revive: and even so The general, subject to a well-wish'd king, Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love Must needs appear offence. _Enter ISABELLA._ How now, fair maid? 30 _Isab._ I am come to know your pleasure. _Ang._ That you might know it, would much better please me Than to demand what 'tis. Your brother cannot live. _Isab._ Even so.--Heaven keep your honour! _Ang._ Yet may he live awhile; and, it may be, 35 As long as you or I: yet he must die. _Isab._ Under your sentence? _Ang._ Yea. _Isab._ When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve, Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted 40 That his soul sicken not. _Ang._ Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as good To pardon him that hath from nature stolen A man already made, as to remit Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven's image 45 In stamps that are forbid: 'tis all as easy Falsely to take away a life true made, As to put metal in restrained means To make a false one. _Isab._ 'Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth. 50 _Ang._ Say you so? then I shall pose you quickly. Which had you rather,--that the most just law Now took your brother's life; or, to redeem him, Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness As she that he hath stain'd? _Isab._ Sir, believe this, 55 I had rather give my body than my soul. _Ang._ I talk not of your soul: our compell'd sins Stand more for number than for accompt. _Isab._ How say you? _Ang._ Nay, I'll not warrant that; for I can speak Against the thing I say. Answer to this:-- 60 I, now the voice of the recorded law, Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life: Might there not be a charity in sin To save this brother's life? _Isab._ Please you to do't, I'll take it as a peril to my soul, 65 It is no sin at all, but charity. _Ang._ Pleased you to do't at peril of your soul, Were equal poise of sin and charity. _Isab._ That I do beg his life, if it be sin, Heaven let me bear it! you granting of my suit, 70 If that be sin, I'll make it my morn prayer To have it added to the faults of mine, And nothing of your answer. _Ang._ Nay, but hear me. Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ignorant, Or seem so, craftily; and that's not good. 75 _Isab._ Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, But graciously to know I am no better. _Ang._ Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright When it doth tax itself; as these black masks Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder 80 Than beauty could, display'd. But mark me; To be received plain, I'll speak more gross: Your brother is to die. _Isab._ So. _Ang._ And his offence is so, as it appears, 85 Accountant to the law upon that pain. _Isab._ True. _Ang._ Admit no other way to save his life,-- As I subscribe not that, nor any other, But in the loss of question,--that you, his sister, 90 Finding yourself desired of such a person, Whose credit with the judge, or own great place, Could fetch your brother from the manacles Of the all-building law; and that there were No earthly mean to save him, but that either 95 You must lay down the treasures of your body To this supposed, or else to let him suffer; What would you do? _Isab._ As much for my poor brother as myself: That is, were I under the terms of death, 100 The impression of keen whips I'ld wear as rubies, And strip myself to death, as to a bed That longing have been sick for, ere I'ld yield My body up to shame. _Ang._ Then must your brother die. _Isab._ And 'twere the cheaper way: 105 Better it were a brother died at once, Than that a sister, by redeeming him, Should die for ever. _Ang._ Were not you, then, as cruel as the sentence That you have slander'd so? 110 _Isab._ Ignomy in ransom and free pardon Are of two houses: lawful mercy Is nothing kin to foul redemption. _Ang._ You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant; And rather proved the sliding of your brother 115 A merriment than a vice. _Isab._ O, pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out, To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean: I something do excuse the thing I hate, For his advantage that I dearly love. 120 _Ang._ We are all frail. _Isab._ Else let my brother die, If not a feodary, but only he Owe and succeed thy weakness. _Ang._ Nay, women are frail too. _Isab._ Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves; 125 Which are as easy broke as they make forms. Women!--Help Heaven! men their creation mar In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail; For we are soft as our complexions are, And credulous to false prints. _Ang._ I think it well: 130 And from this testimony of your own sex,-- Since, I suppose, we are made to be no stronger Than faults may shake our frames,--let me be bold;-- I do arrest your words. Be that you are, That is, a woman; if you be more, you're none; 135 If you be one,--as you are well express'd By all external warrants,--show it now, By putting on the destined livery. _Isab._ I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord, Let me entreat you speak the former language. 140 _Ang._ Plainly conceive, I love you. _Isab._ My brother did love Juliet, And you tell me that he shall die for it. _Ang._ He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love. _Isab._ I know your virtue hath a license in't, 145 Which seems a little fouler than it is, To pluck on others. _Ang._ Believe me, on mine honour, My words express my purpose. _Isab._ Ha! little honour to be much believed, And most pernicious purpose!--Seeming, seeming!-- 150 I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't: Sign me a present pardon for my brother, Or with an outstretch'd throat I'll tell the world aloud What man thou art. _Ang._ Who will believe thee, Isabel? My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life, 155 My vouch against you, and my place i' the state, Will so your accusation overweigh, That you shall stifle in your own report, And smell of calumny. I have begun; And now I give my sensual race the rein: 160 Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite; Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes, That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will; Or else he must not only die the death, 165 But thy unkindness shall his death draw out To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow. Or, by the affection that now guides me most, I'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your true. [_Exit._ 170 _Isab._ To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, Who would believe me? O perilous mouths, That bear in them one and the self-same tongue, Either of condemnation or approof; Bidding the law make court'sy to their will; 175 Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite, To follow as it draws! I'll to my brother: Though he hath fall'n by prompture of the blood, Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour, That, had he twenty heads to tender down 180 On twenty bloody blocks, he'ld yield them up, Before his sister should her body stoop To such abhorr'd pollution. Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die: More than our brother is our chastity. 185 I'll tell him yet of Angelo's request, And fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest. [_Exit._ NOTES: II, 4. SCENE IV.] SCENE X. Pope. 2: _empty_] om. Seymour conj. 3: _invention_] _intention_ Pope. 4: _Heaven_] _Heaven's_ Rowe. _Heaven is_ Capell. 5: _his_] _its_ Pope. 9: _fear'd_] _scar'd_ Hanmer. _sear_ Heath conj. _stale_ Anon. conj. See note (IX). 10: _take_] _took_ Seymour conj. 12: _for vain. O place,_] F4. _for vaine. O place,_ F1 F2 F3. _for vane. O place,_ or _for vane o' the place._ Manlone conj. 15: _thou art blood_] _thou art but blood_ Pope. _thou still art blood_ Malone. 17: _'Tis not_] _Is't not_ Hanmer. _'Tis yet_ Johnson conj. 18: _desires_] _asks_ Pope. 21: _both it_] _both that_ Pope. _it both_ Collier MS. 22: _all_] om. Hanmer, who makes lines 19-23 end at _blood, both that, dispossessing, fitness._ 27: _subject_] F1 F2 F3. _subjects_ F4. 28: _part_] _path_ Collier MS. 31: SCENE XI. Pope. 33: _demand_] _declare_ Hanmer. _Your brother_] _He_ Hanmer. 34: _your honour_] _you_ Hanmer. 45: _sweetness_] _lewdness_ Hanmer. 46: _easy_] _just_ Hanmer. 48: _metal_] Theobald. _mettle_ Ff. _means_] _mints_ Steevens conj. _moulds_ Malone conj. 50: _'Tis ... earth_] _'Tis so set down in earth but not in heaven_ Johnson conj. 51: _Say_] _And say_ Pope. _Yea, say_ S. Walker conj. ending lines 50, 51 at _heaven, then I._ 53: _or_] Rowe (after Davenant), _and_ Ff. 58: _for accompt_] _accompt_ Pope. 68: _Were ... charity._] _Were't ... charity?_ Hanmer. _'Twere ... charity._ Seymour conj. 70: _of_] om. Pope. 71: _make it my morn prayer_] _make't my morning prayer_ Hanmer. 73: _your_] _yours_ Johnson conj. 75: _craftily_] Rowe (after Davenant). _crafty_ Ff. 76: _me_] om. F1. 80: _enshield_] _in-shell'd_ Tyrwhitt conj. 81: _mark me_] _mark me well_ Hanmer. 90: _loss_] _loose_ Singer MS. _toss_ Johnson conj. _list_ Heath conj. _force_ Collier MS. 94: _all-building_] Ff. _all-holding_ Rowe. _all-binding_ Johnson. See note (X). 97: _to let_] _let_ Hanmer. 103: _have_] _I've_ Rowe. _I have_ Capell. _had_ Knight. See note (XI). _sick_] _seek_ Johnson (a misprint). 104, 105: Capell (conj.) and Collier end the first line at _must_. 106: _at_] _for_ Johnson conj. 111: _Ignomy in_] _Ignomie in_ F1. _Ignominy in_ F2 F3 F4. _An ignominious_ Pope. 112, 113: _mercy Is nothing kin_] Ff. _mercy sure Is nothing kin_ Pope. _mercy is Nothing akin_ Steevens. See note (XII). 117: _oft_] _very oft_ Hanmer, who ends lines 116, 117 at _me ... have_. 118: _we would_] _we'd_ Steevens. This line printed as two in Ff. 122: _feodary_] F2 F3 F4. _fedarie_ F1. 123: _thy weakness_] _by weakness_ Rowe. _to weakness_ Capell. _this weakness_ Harness (Malone conj.). 126: _make_] _take_ Johnson conj. 127: _their_] _thy_ Edd. conj. 135: _you be_] _you're_ Pope. 140: _former_] _formal_ Warburton. 143: _for it_] Pope. _for't_ Ff. 153: Pope ends the line at _world_. 163: _redeem_] _save_ Pope. 171: _should_] _shall_ Steevens. 172: _perilous_] _most perilous_ Theobald. _these perilous_ Seymour conj. _pernicious_ S. Walker conj. 175: _court'sy_] _curtsie_ Ff. 179: _mind_] _mine_ Jackson conj. 185: Inverted commas prefixed to this line in Ff.

Measure for Measure.act 4

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 4, scene 1 with the given context.

act 4, scene 1|act 4, scene 2

The Duke and Isabella pay Mariana a little visit at her farm, which is surrounded by a moat. When they arrive, Mariana is listening to a Boy singing a sad song about a jilted lover. When Mariana sees the Duke she tells the kid to scram so she can talk in privacy. Apparently, the Duke has visited with Mariana before and listened to her confession. Isabella and the Duke confer about where and when her secret rendezvous with Angelo is supposed to go down - Isabella is supposed to meet Angelo in a secret garden. Isabella and Marianna take a walk together during which time Isabella fills in Marianna on the Duke's plot to trick Angelo. Marianna is all for the Duke's little bed trick. Brain Snack: "Bed trick," by the way, is a common term for one of Shakespeare's favorite plot devices - it always involves one person who thinks he/she is going to bed with another person, but who is then tricked into sleeping with someone else. In Shakespeare, the duped party is usually a guy, like Bertram in All's Well That Ends Well. The Duke explains that Marianna's actions won't be counted as a sin or a crime because Angelo is her "husband on a pre-contract," meaning, they were formally betrothed before Angelo backed out of the wedding at the last minute. Everybody runs off to put the sneaky plan into action.

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

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 4, scene 6 with the given context.

On a street near the gate to Vienna, we catch Mariana and Isabella in mid-conversation about the plan to punk Angelo. Isabella reveals that the Friar has advised her to accuse Angelo of sleeping with her. Even though she knows it's a lie , she's willing to go along with the scheme. We also learn that Isabella has been told she shouldn't worry if the Friar pretends like he's not on her side. It's all part of the plan. Friar Peter announces that the women should get ready because the Duke is coming.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. _Another room in the same._ _Enter POMPEY._ _Pom._ I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house of profession: one would think it were Mistress Overdone's own house, for here be many of her old customers. First, here's young Master Rash; he's in for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger, nine-score and seventeen 5 pounds; of which he made five marks, ready money: marry, then ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of Master Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-coloured satin, which now peaches him a 10 beggar. Then have we here young Dizy, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copper-spur, and Master Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight the tilter, and brave Master Shooty the great traveller, and 15 wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in our trade, and are now 'for the Lord's sake.' _Enter ABHORSON._ _Abhor._ Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither. _Pom._ Master Barnardine! you must rise and be hanged, 20 Master Barnardine! _Abhor._ What, ho, Barnardine! _Bar._ [_Within_] A pox o' your throats! Who makes that noise there? What are you? _Pom._ Your friends, sir; the hangman. You must be 25 so good, sir, to rise and be put to death. _Bar._ [_Within_] Away, you rogue, away! I am sleepy. _Abhor._ Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too. _Pom._ Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards. 30 _Abhor._ Go in to him, and fetch him out. _Pom._ He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear his straw rustle. _Abhor._ Is the axe upon the block, sirrah? _Pom._ Very ready, sir. 35 _Enter BARNARDINE._ _Bar._ How now, Abhorson? what's the news with you? _Abhor._ Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look you, the warrant's come. _Bar._ You rogue, I have been drinking all night; I am not fitted for 't. 40 _Pom._ O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night, and is hanged betimes in the morning, may sleep the sounder all the next day. _Abhor._ Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly father: do we jest now, think you? 45 _Enter DUKE disguised as before._ _Duke._ Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you and pray with you. _Bar._ Friar, not I: I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat 50 out my brains with billets: I will not consent to die this day, that's certain. _Duke._ O, sir, you must: and therefore I beseech you Look forward on the journey you shall go. _Bar._ I swear I will not die to-day for any man's persuasion. 55 _Duke._ But hear you. _Bar._ Not a word: if you have any thing to say to me, come to my ward; for thence will not I to-day. [_Exit._ _Duke._ Unfit to live or die: O gravel heart! 60 After him, fellows; bring him to the block. [_Exeunt Abhorson and Pompey._ _Re-enter PROVOST._ _Prov._ Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner? _Duke._ A creature unprepared, unmeet for death; And to transport him in the mind he is Were damnable. _Prov._ Here in the prison, father, 65 There died this morning of a cruel fever One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, A man of Claudio's years; his beard and head Just of his colour. What if we do omit This reprobate till he were well inclined; 70 And satisfy the Deputy with the visage Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio? _Duke._ O, 'tis an accident that heaven provides! Dispatch it presently; the hour draws on Prefix'd by Angelo: see this be done, 75 And sent according to command; whiles I Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. _Prov._ This shall be done, good father, presently. But Barnardine must die this afternoon: And how shall we continue Claudio, 80 To save me from the danger that might come If he were known alive? _Duke._ Let this be done. Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and Claudio: Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting To the under generation, you shall find 85 Your safety manifested. _Prov._ I am your free dependant. _Duke._ Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo. [_Exit Provost._ Now will I write letters to Angelo,-- The provost, he shall bear them,--whose contents 90 Shall witness to him I am near at home, And that, by great injunctions, I am bound To enter publicly: him I'll desire To meet me at the consecrated fount, A league below the city; and from thence, 95 By cold gradation and well-balanced form, We shall proceed with Angelo. _Re-enter PROVOST._ _Prov._ Here is the head; I'll carry it myself. _Duke._ Convenient is it. Make a swift return; For I would commune with you of such things 100 That want no ear but yours. _Prov._ I'll make all speed. [_Exit._ _Isab._ [_Within_] Peace, ho, be here! _Duke._ The tongue of Isabel. She's come to know If yet her brother's pardon be come hither: But I will keep her ignorant of her good, 105 To make her heavenly comforts of despair, When it is least expected. _Enter ISABELLA._ _Isab._ Ho, by your leave! _Duke._ Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter. _Isab._ The better, given me by so holy a man. Hath yet the Deputy sent my brother's pardon? 110 _Duke._ He hath released him, Isabel, from the world: His head is off, and sent to Angelo. _Isab._ Nay, but it is not so. _Duke._ It is no other: show your wisdom, daughter, In your close patience. 115 _Isab._ O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes! _Duke._ You shall not be admitted to his sight. _Isab._ Unhappy Claudio! wretched Isabel! Injurious world! most damned Angelo! _Duke._ This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot; 120 Forbear it therefore; give your cause to heaven. Mark what I say, which you shall find By every syllable a faithful verity: The Duke comes home to-morrow;--nay, dry your eyes; One of our covent, and his confessor, 125 Gives me this instance: already he hath carried Notice to Escalus and Angelo; Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom In that good path that I would wish it go; 130 And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart, And general honour. _Isab._ I am directed by you. _Duke._ This letter, then, to Friar Peter give; 'Tis that he sent me of the Duke's return: 135 Say, by this token, I desire his company At Mariana's house to-night. Her cause and yours I'll perfect him withal; and he shall bring you Before the Duke; and to the head of Angelo Accuse him home and home. For my poor self, 140 I am combined by a sacred vow, And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter: Command these fretting waters from your eyes With a light heart; trust not my holy order, If I pervert your course.--Who's here? 145 _Enter LUCIO._ _Lucio._ Good even. Friar, where's the provost? _Duke._ Not within, sir. _Lucio._ O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red: thou must be patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for my 150 head fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set me to't. But they say the Duke will be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother: if the old fantastical Duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived. [_Exit Isabella._ _Duke._ Sir, the Duke is marvellous little beholding to 155 your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them. _Lucio._ Friar, thou knowest not the Duke so well as I do: he's a better woodman than thou takest him for. _Duke._ Well, you'll answer this one day. Fare ye well. _Lucio._ Nay, tarry; I'll go along with thee: I can tell 160 thee pretty tales of the Duke. _Duke._ You have told me too many of him already, sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough. _Lucio._ I was once before him for getting a wench with child. 165 _Duke._ Did you such a thing? _Lucio._ Yes, marry, did I: but I was fain to forswear it; they would else have married me to the rotten medlar. _Duke._ Sir, your company is fairer than honest. Rest you well. 170 _Lucio._ By my troth, I'll go with thee to the lane's end: if bawdy talk offend you, we'll have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr; I shall stick. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: IV, 3. SCENE III.] SCENE VIII. Pope. 5: _paper_] _pepper_ Rowe. 11: _Dizy_] F2 F3 F4. _Dizie_ F1. _Dizzy_ Pope. _Dicey_ Steevens conj. 14: _Forthlight_] Ff. _Forthright_ Warburton. 15: _Shooty_] F2 F3 F4. _Shootie_ F1. _Shooter_ Warburton. _Shoo-tye_ Capell. 17: _are_] _cry_ Anon. conj. See note (XIX). _now_] _now in_ Pope. 25: _friends_] F1 F2. _friend_ F3 F4. 32: _his_] _the_ Pope. 49: _I_] om. F4. [Transcriber's Note: The text does not specify which occurrence of "I" is meant. The speech begins "Not I: I have..."] 57: _hear_] _heave_ F2. 59: SCENE IX. Pope. 60: _gravel heart_] _grovelling beast_ Collier MS. 61: Given by Hanmer to _Prov._ 69: _his_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _do_] om. Pope. 76: _whiles_] _while_ Pope. 83: _both Barnardine and Claudio_] _Claudio and Barnardine_ Hanmer. See note (XX). 85: _the under_] Hanmer. _yond_ Ff. _yonder_ Pope. 86: _manifested_] _manifest_ Hanmer. 88: _Quick_] _Quick, then,_ Capell. 96: _well-_] Rowe. _weale-_ F1 F2 F3. _weal_ F4. 102: SCENE X. Pope. 103: _She's come_] _She comes_ Pope. 106: _comforts_] _comfort_ Hanmer. 107: _Ho,_] om. Pope. 113, 114, 115: Ff make two lines ending at _other ... patience._ Text as proposed by Spedding. 114, 115: _show ... patience_] _In your close patience, daughter, shew your wisdom_ Capell. 114: _your wisdom_] _wisdom_ Pope. 115: _close_] _closest_ Pope. 119: _Injurious_] _perjurious_ Collier MS. 120: _nor hurts_] _not hurts_ F4. _hurts not_ Rowe. 122: _say_] _say to you_ Collier MS. _find_] _surely find_ Pope. 124: _nay_] om. Pope. 125: _covent_] Ff. _convent_ Rowe. 126: _instance_] _news_ Pope. 129: _If you can, pace_] Rowe. _If you can pace_ Ff. _Pace_ Pope. S. Walker thinks a line is lost after 131. 129, 130: _If you can pace ... wish it, go,_ Edd. conj. 137: _to-night_] om. Pope. 141: _combined_] _confined_ Johnson conj. (withdrawn). 145: _Who's_] _whose_ F1. 146: SCENE XI. Pope. 154: [Exit ISABELLA] Theobald. om. Ff. 155: _beholding_] Ff. _beholden_ Rowe. 163: _not true_] _not_ Rowe. 172: _it_] om. F2. ----------ACT 4, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. _A room in ANGELO'S house._ _Enter ANGELO and ESCALUS._ _Escal._ Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other. _Ang._ In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions show much like to madness: pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted! And why meet him at the gates, and redeliver our authorities there? 5 _Escal._ I guess not. _Ang._ And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street? _Escal._ He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch 10 of complaints, and to deliver us from devices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us. _Ang._ Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed betimes i' the morn; I'll call you at your house: give notice to such men of sort and suit as are to meet him. 15 _Escal._ I shall, sir. Fare you well. _Ang._ Good night. [_Exit Escalus._ This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant, And dull to all proceedings. A deflower'd maid! And by an eminent body that enforced 20 The law against it! But that her tender shame Will not proclaim against her maiden loss, How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no; For my authority bears of a credent bulk, That no particular scandal once can touch 25 But it confounds the breather. He should have lived, Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, Might in the times to come have ta'en revenge, By so receiving a dishonour'd life With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived! 30 Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right: we would, and we would not. [_Exit._ NOTES: IV, 4. SCENE IV.] SCENE XII. Pope. A room ... house.] Capell. The palace. Rowe. 2, sqq.: Angelo's speeches in this scene Collier prints as verse. 5: _redeliver_] Capell. _re-liver_] F1. _deliver_ F2 F3 F4. 13: A colon is put after _proclaim'd_ by Capell, who prints lines 13-16 as verse. 19: _And_] om. Hanmer. 23: _dares her no;_] Ff. _dares her:_ Pope. _dares her: no,_ Hanmer. _dares her No_ Warburton. _dares her? no:_ Capell. _dares her note_ Theobald conj. _dares her not_ Steevens conj. _dares her on_ Grant White (Becket conj.). _reason ... no_] _treason dares her?--No_ Jackson conj. 24: _bears of a credent bulk_] F1 F2 F3. _bears off a credent bulk_ F4. _bears off all credence_ Pope. _bears a credent bulk_ Theobald. _bears such a credent bulk_ Collier MS. _here's of a credent bulk_ Singer. _bears so credent bulk_ Dyce. _bears up a credent bulk_ Grant White. ----------ACT 4, SCENE 5--------- SCENE V. _Fields without the town._ _Enter DUKE in his own habit, and FRIAR PETER._ _Duke._ These letters at fit time deliver me: [_Giving letters._ The provost knows our purpose and our plot. The matter being afoot, keep your instruction, And hold you ever to our special drift; Though sometimes you do blench from this to that, 5 As cause doth minister. Go call at Flavius' house, And tell him where I stay: give the like notice To Valentius, Rowland, and to Crassus, And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate; But send me Flavius first. _Fri. P._ It shall be speeded well. [_Exit._ 10 _Enter VARRIUS._ _Duke._ I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made good haste: Come, we will walk. There's other of our friends Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: IV, 5. SCENE V.] SCENE XIII. Pope. FRIAR PETER] See note (XXI). 6: _Go_] om. Hanmer. _Flavius'_] Rowe. _Flavio's_ Ff. 8: _To Valentius_] _To Valencius_ Ff. _Unto Valentius_ Pope. _To Valentinus_ Capell. ----------ACT 4, SCENE 6--------- SCENE VI. _Street near the city-gate._ _Enter ISABELLA and MARIANA._ _Isab._ To speak so indirectly I am loath: I would say the truth; but to accuse him so, That is your part: yet I am advised to do it; He says, to veil full purpose. _Mari._ Be ruled by him. _Isab._ Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure 5 He speak against me on the adverse side, I should not think it strange; for 'tis a physic That's bitter to sweet end. _Mari._ I would Friar Peter-- _Isab._ O, peace! the friar is come. _Enter FRIAR PETER._ _Fri. P._ Come, I have found you out a stand most fit, 10 Where you may have such vantage on the Duke, He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded; The generous and gravest citizens Have hent the gates, and very near upon The Duke is entering: therefore, hence, away! [_Exeunt._ 15 NOTES: IV, 6. SCENE VI.] SCENE XIV. Pope. 2: _I would_] _I'd_ Pope. 3: _I am_] _I'm_ Pope. 4: _to veil full_] Malone. _to vaile full_ F1 F2 F3. _to vail full_ F4. _t' availful_ Theobald. _to 'vailful_ Hanmer.

Merry Wives of Windsor.ac

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 1 scene 3, utilizing the provided context.

act 1 scene 1-2|act 1 scene 3|act 1 scene 4

Falstaff tells the Host that he must get rid of some of his hangers-on, since his expenses are too high. The Host says he will give Bardolph a job as a tapster, serving liquor. Bardolph likes this idea, saying he has wanted such a life. Falstaff is pleased to get rid of him. Falstaff then confides to Pistol and Nym that he has almost run out of money, but he has hatched a scheme that will remedy his fortunes. He plans to seduce Ford's wife, since she has control of her husband's money. He has written her a love letter, and has also written to Mrs. Page with a similar idea in mind. She also controls her husband's money. Falstaff tells Pistol and Nym to deliver the respective letters, promising them that they will all thrive. But Pistol and Nym refuse, and Falstaff cuts them off from his company and gives the letters to Robin to deliver. . Seeking revenge on Falstaff, Nym says he will inform Page of Falstaff's plan. Pistol says he will inform Ford. .

----------ACT 1 SCENE 1-2--------- ACT I. SCENE 1. Windsor. Before PAGE'S house. [Enter JUSTICE SHALLOW, SLENDER, and SIR HUGH EVANS.] SHALLOW. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire. SLENDER. In the county of Gloucester, Justice of Peace, and 'coram.' SHALLOW. Ay, cousin Slender, and 'cust-alorum.' SLENDER. Ay, and 'rato-lorum' too; and a gentleman born, Master Parson, who writes himself 'armigero' in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation--'armigero.' SHALLOW. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years. SLENDER. All his successors, gone before him, hath done't; and all his ancestors, that come after him, may: they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. SHALLOW. It is an old coat. EVANS. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well; it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love. SHALLOW. The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an old coat. SLENDER. I may quarter, coz? SHALLOW. You may, by marrying. EVANS. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it. SHALLOW. Not a whit. EVANS. Yes, py'r lady! If he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures; but that is all one. If Sir John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the church, and will be glad to do my benevolence to make atonements and compremises between you. SHALLOW. The Council shall hear it; it is a riot. EVANS. It is not meet the Council hear a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot; the Council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. SHALLOW. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it. EVANS. It is petter that friends is the sword and end it; and there is also another device in my prain, which peradventure prings goot discretions with it. There is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master George Page, which is pretty virginity. SLENDER. Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman. EVANS. It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed--Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!--give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old. It were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page. SHALLOW. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound? EVANS. Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny. SHALLOW. I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts. EVANS. Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities, is goot gifts. SHALLOW. Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there? EVANS. Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a liar as I do despise one that is false; or as I despise one that is not true. The knight Sir John is there; and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page. [Knocks.] What, hoa! Got pless your house here! PAGE. [Within.] Who's there? EVANS. Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow; and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings. [Enter PAGE.] PAGE. I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. Master Page, I am glad to see you; much good do it your good heart! I wished your venison better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page?--and I thank you always with my heart, la! with my heart. PAGE. Sir, I thank you. SHALLOW. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do. PAGE. I am glad to see you, good Master Slender. SLENDER. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. PAGE. It could not be judged, sir. SLENDER. You'll not confess, you'll not confess. SHALLOW. That he will not: 'tis your fault; 'tis your fault. 'Tis a good dog. PAGE. A cur, sir. SHALLOW. Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog; can there be more said? he is good, and fair. Is Sir John Falstaff here? PAGE. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you. EVANS. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. SHALLOW. He hath wronged me, Master Page. PAGE. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. SHALLOW. If it be confessed, it is not redressed: is not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged me; indeed he hath;--at a word, he hath, --believe me; Robert Shallow, esquire, saith he is wronged. PAGE. Here comes Sir John. [Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, NYM, and PISTOL.] FALSTAFF. Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me to the King? SHALLOW. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge. FALSTAFF. But not kiss'd your keeper's daughter? SHALLOW. Tut, a pin! this shall be answered. FALSTAFF. I will answer it straight: I have done all this. That is now answered. SHALLOW. The Council shall know this. FALSTAFF. 'Twere better for you if it were known in counsel: you'll be laughed at. EVANS. Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts. FALSTAFF. Good worts! good cabbage! Slender, I broke your head; what matter have you against me? SLENDER. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you; and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern, and made me drunk, and afterwards picked my pocket. BARDOLPH. You Banbury cheese! SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. PISTOL. How now, Mephostophilus! SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. NYM. Slice, I say! pauca, pauca; slice! That's my humour. SLENDER. Where's Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin? EVANS. Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand. There is three umpires in this matter, as I understand: that is--Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is myself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter. PAGE. We three to hear it and end it between them. EVANS. Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-book; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can. FALSTAFF. Pistol! PISTOL. He hears with ears. EVANS. The tevil and his tam! what phrase is this, 'He hears with ear'? Why, it is affectations. FALSTAFF. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender's purse? SLENDER. Ay, by these gloves, did he--or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else!--of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards that cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece of Yead Miller, by these gloves. FALSTAFF. Is this true, Pistol? EVANS. No, it is false, if it is a pick-purse. PISTOL. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner!--Sir John and master mine, I combat challenge of this latten bilbo. Word of denial in thy labras here! Word of denial! Froth and scum, thou liest. SLENDER. By these gloves, then, 'twas he. NYM. Be avised, sir, and pass good humours; I will say 'marry trap' with you, if you run the nuthook's humour on me; that is the very note of it. SLENDER. By this hat, then, he in the red face had it; for though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass. FALSTAFF. What say you, Scarlet and John? BARDOLPH. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences. EVANS. It is his 'five senses'; fie, what the ignorance is! BARDOLPH. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashier'd; and so conclusions passed the careires. SLENDER. Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but 'tis no matter; I'll ne'er be drunk whilst I live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick; if I be drunk, I'll be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves. EVANS. So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind. FALSTAFF. You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen; you hear it. [Enter ANNE PAGE with wine; MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE.] PAGE. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we'll drink within. [Exit ANNE PAGE.] SLENDER. O heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page. PAGE. How now, Mistress Ford! FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met; by your leave, good mistress. [Kissing her.] PAGE. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner; come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. [Exeunt all but SHALLOW, SLENDER, and EVANS.] SLENDER. I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here. [Enter SIMPLE.] How, Simple! Where have you been? I must wait on myself, must I? You have not the Book of Riddles about you, have you? SIMPLE. Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon Allhallowmas last, a fortnight afore Michaelmas? SHALLOW. Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you. A word with you, coz; marry, this, coz: there is, as 'twere, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh here: do you understand me? SLENDER. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable; if it be so, I shall do that that is reason. SHALLOW. Nay, but understand me. SLENDER. So I do, sir. EVANS. Give ear to his motions, Master Slender: I will description the matter to you, if you pe capacity of it. SLENDER. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says; I pray you pardon me; he's a justice of peace in his country, simple though I stand here. EVANS. But that is not the question; the question is concerning your marriage. SHALLOW. Ay, there's the point, sir. EVANS. Marry is it; the very point of it; to Mistress Anne Page. SLENDER. Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonable demands. EVANS. But can you affection the 'oman? Let us command to know that of your mouth or of your lips; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth: therefore, precisely, can you carry your good will to the maid? SHALLOW. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her? SLENDER. I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one that would do reason. EVANS. Nay, Got's lords and his ladies! you must speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires towards her. SHALLOW. That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her? SLENDER. I will do a greater thing than that upon your request, cousin, in any reason. SHALLOW. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz; what I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid? SLENDER. I will marry her, sir, at your request; but if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another; I hope upon familiarity will grow more contempt. But if you say 'Marry her,' I will marry her; that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely. EVANS. It is a fery discretion answer; save, the fall is in the ort 'dissolutely:' the ort is, according to our meaning, 'resolutely.' His meaning is good. SHALLOW. Ay, I think my cousin meant well. SLENDER. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la! SHALLOW. Here comes fair Mistress Anne. [Re-enter ANNE PAGE.] Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne! ANNE. The dinner is on the table; my father desires your worships' company. SHALLOW. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne! EVANS. Od's plessed will! I will not be absence at the grace. [Exeunt SHALLOW and EVANS.] ANNE. Will't please your worship to come in, sir? SLENDER. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am very well. ANNE. The dinner attends you, sir. SLENDER. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow. [Exit SIMPLE.] A justice of peace sometime may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead. But what though? Yet I live like a poor gentleman born. ANNE. I may not go in without your worship: they will not sit till you come. SLENDER. I' faith, I'll eat nothing; I thank you as much as though I did. ANNE. I pray you, sir, walk in. SLENDER. I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my shin th' other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence; three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes--and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? Be there bears i' the town? ANNE. I think there are, sir; I heard them talked of. SLENDER. I love the sport well; but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not? ANNE. Ay, indeed, sir. SLENDER. That's meat and drink to me now. I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain; but I warrant you, the women have so cried and shrieked at it that it passed; but women, indeed, cannot abide 'em; they are very ill-favoured rough things. [Re-enter PAGE.] PAGE. Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we stay for you. SLENDER. I'll eat nothing, I thank you, sir. PAGE. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! come, come. SLENDER. Nay, pray you lead the way. PAGE. Come on, sir. SLENDER. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. ANNE. Not I, sir; pray you keep on. SLENDER. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la! I will not do you that wrong. ANNE. I pray you, sir. SLENDER. I'll rather be unmannerly than troublesome. You do yourself wrong indeed, la! [Exeunt.] SCENE 2. The same. [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE.] EVANS. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius' house which is the way; and there dwells one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer. SIMPLE. Well, sir. EVANS. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter; for it is a 'oman that altogether's acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page; and the letter is to desire and require her to solicit your master's desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you be gone: I will make an end of my dinner; there's pippins and cheese to come. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. A room in the Garter Inn. [Enter FALSTAFF, HOST, BARDOLPH, NYM, PISTOL, and ROBIN.] FALSTAFF. Mine host of the Garter! HOST. What says my bully rook? Speak scholarly and wisely. FALSTAFF. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers. HOST. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier; let them wag; trot, trot. FALSTAFF. I sit at ten pounds a week. HOST. Thou'rt an emperor, Caesar, Keiser, and Pheazar. I will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall tap; said I well, bully Hector? FALSTAFF. Do so, good mine host. HOST. I have spoke; let him follow. [To BARDOLPH] Let me see thee froth and lime. I am at a word; follow. [Exit.] FALSTAFF. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade; an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered serving-man a fresh tapster. Go; adieu. BARDOLPH. It is a life that I have desired; I will thrive. PISTOL. O base Hungarian wight! Wilt thou the spigot wield? [Exit BARDOLPH.] NYM. He was gotten in drink. Is not the humour conceited? FALSTAFF. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box: his thefts were too open; his filching was like an unskilful singer--he kept not time. NYM. The good humour is to steal at a minim's rest. PISTOL. 'Convey' the wise it call. 'Steal!' foh! A fico for the phrase! FALSTAFF. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. PISTOL. Why, then, let kibes ensue. FALSTAFF. There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I must shift. PISTOL. Young ravens must have food. FALSTAFF. Which of you know Ford of this town? PISTOL. I ken the wight; he is of substance good. FALSTAFF. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. PISTOL. Two yards, and more. FALSTAFF. No quips now, Pistol. Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's wife; I spy entertainment in her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation; I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished rightly, is 'I am Sir John Falstaff's.' PISTOL. He hath studied her will, and translated her will out of honesty into English. NYM. The anchor is deep; will that humour pass? FALSTAFF. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband's purse; he hath a legion of angels. PISTOL. As many devils entertain; and 'To her, boy,' say I. NYM. The humour rises; it is good; humour me the angels. FALSTAFF. I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page's wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious oeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly. PISTOL. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. NYM. I thank thee for that humour. FALSTAFF. O! she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a greedy intention that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass. Here's another letter to her: she bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheator to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive. PISTOL. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, And by my side wear steel? then Lucifer take all! NYM. I will run no base humour. Here, take the humour-letter; I will keep the haviour of reputation. FALSTAFF. [To ROBIN] Hold, sirrah; bear you these letters tightly; Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go; Trudge, plod away o' hoof; seek shelter, pack! Falstaff will learn the humour of this age; French thrift, you rogues; myself, and skirted page. [Exeunt FALSTAFF and ROBIN.] PISTOL. Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds, And high and low beguile the rich and poor; Tester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk! NYM. I have operations in my head which be humours of revenge. PISTOL. Wilt thou revenge? NYM. By welkin and her star! PISTOL. With wit or steel? NYM. With both the humours, I: I will discuss the humour of this love to Page. PISTOL. And I to Ford shall eke unfold How Falstaff, varlet vile, His dove will prove, his gold will hold, And his soft couch defile. NYM. My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to deal with poison; I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous: that is my true humour. PISTOL. Thou art the Mars of malcontents; I second thee; troop on. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 4--------- SCENE 4. A room in DOCTOR CAIUS'S house. [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY, and SIMPLE.] QUICKLY. What, John Rugby! [Enter RUGBY.] I pray thee go to the casement, and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming: if he do, i' faith, and find anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the King's English. RUGBY. I'll go watch. QUICKLY. Go; and we'll have a posset for't soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire. [Exit RUGBY.] An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate; his worst fault is that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way; but nobody but has his fault; but let that pass. Peter Simple you say your name is? SIMPLE. Ay, for fault of a better. QUICKLY. And Master Slender's your master? SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth. QUICKLY. Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover's paring-knife? SIMPLE. No, forsooth; he hath but a little whey face, with a little yellow beard--a cane-coloured beard. QUICKLY. A softly-sprighted man, is he not? SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth; but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between this and his head; he hath fought with a warrener. QUICKLY. How say you?--O! I should remember him. Does he not hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait? SIMPLE. Yes, indeed, does he. QUICKLY. Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your master: Anne is a good girl, and I wish-- [Re-enter RUGBY.] RUGBY. Out, alas! here comes my master. QUICKLY. We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this closet. [Shuts SIMPLE in the closet.] He will not stay long. What, John Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master; I doubt he be not well that he comes not home. [Exit Rugby.] [Sings.] And down, down, adown-a, &c. [Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.] CAIUS. Vat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet une boitine verde--a box, a green-a box: do intend vat I speak? a green-a box. QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth, I'll fetch it you. [Aside] I am glad he went not in himself: if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad. CAIUS. Fe, fe, fe fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m'en vais a la cour-- la grande affaire. QUICKLY. Is it this, sir? CAIUS. Oui; mettez le au mon pocket: depechez, quickly--Vere is dat knave, Rugby? QUICKLY. What, John Rugby? John! [Re-enter Rugby.] RUGBY. Here, sir. CAIUS. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby: come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to de court. RUGBY. 'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch. CAIUS. By my trot, I tarry too long--Od's me! Qu'ay j'oublie? Dere is some simples in my closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind. QUICKLY. [Aside.] Ay me, he'll find the young man there, and be mad! CAIUS. O diable, diable! vat is in my closet?--Villainy! larron! [Pulling SIMPLE out.] Rugby, my rapier! QUICKLY. Good master, be content. CAIUS. Verefore shall I be content-a? QUICKLY. The young man is an honest man. CAIUS. What shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet. QUICKLY. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it: he came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh. CAIUS. Vell. SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth, to desire her to-- QUICKLY. Peace, I pray you. CAIUS. Peace-a your tongue!--Speak-a your tale. SIMPLE. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my master, in the way of marriage. QUICKLY. This is all, indeed, la! but I'll ne'er put my finger in the fire, and need not. CAIUS. Sir Hugh send-a you?--Rugby, baillez me some paper: tarry you a little-a while. [Writes.] QUICKLY. I am glad he is so quiet: if he had been throughly moved, you should have heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding, man, I'll do you your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master--I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself-- SIMPLE. 'Tis a great charge to come under one body's hand. QUICKLY. Are you avis'd o' that? You shall find it a great charge; and to be up early and down late; but notwithstanding,--to tell you in your ear,--I would have no words of it--my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind, that's neither here nor there. CAIUS. You jack'nape; give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a shallenge: I will cut his troat in de Park; and I will teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good you tarry here: by gar, I will cut all his two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his dog. [Exit SIMPLE.] QUICKLY. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. CAIUS. It is no matter-a ver dat:--do not you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine host of de Jartiere to measure our weapon. By gar, I vill myself have Anne Page. QUICKLY. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks leave to prate: what, the good-jer! CAIUS. Rugby, come to the court vit me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby. [Exeunt CAIUS and RUGBY.] QUICKLY. You shall have An fool's-head of your own. No, I know Anne's mind for that: never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind than I do; nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven. FENTON. [Within.] Who's within there? ho! QUICKLY. Who's there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you. [Enter FENTON.] FENTON. How now, good woman! how dost thou? QUICKLY. The better, that it pleases your good worship to ask. FENTON. What news? how does pretty Mistress Anne? QUICKLY. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it. FENTON. Shall I do any good, thinkest thou? Shall I not lose my suit? QUICKLY. Troth, sir, all is in His hands above; but notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I'll be sworn on a book she loves you. Have not your worship a wart above your eye? FENTON. Yes, marry, have I; what of that? QUICKLY. Well, thereby hangs a tale; good faith, it is such another Nan; but, I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread. We had an hour's talk of that wart; I shall never laugh but in that maid's company;--but, indeed, she is given too much to allicholy and musing. But for you --well, go to. FENTON. Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there's money for thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf: if thou seest her before me, commend me. QUICKLY. Will I? i' faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers. FENTON. Well, farewell; I am in great haste now. QUICKLY. Farewell to your worship.--[Exit FENTON.] Truly, an honest gentleman; but Anne loves him not; for I know Anne's mind as well as another does. Out upon 't, what have I forgot? [Exit.]

cliffnotes

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

act 2 scene 1|act 2 scene 2

Pistol asks Falstaff to lend him money, but Falstaff refuses. He says he has had enough of deflecting the demands of Pistol's creditors and swearing to them that Pistol is a reliable man. He is still annoyed by Pistol's refusal to deliver his letter, and this prompts Pistol to relent. . Mistress Quickly enters, and informs Falstaff that Mrs. Ford is thrilled by his letter. She thanks him a thousand times for it. She also wants him to know that her husband will be away from his house from ten to eleven. She invites Falstaff to visit. Quickly also informs Falstaff that his letter to Mrs. Page has also been well received. Mrs. Page's husband is seldom out of the house, however, but Mrs. Page hopes there will be a time when he is. . Quickly then arranges for Falstaff's page, Robin, to be the go-between for him and Mrs. Page. . Falstaff is delighted with his apparent success, and looks forward to getting some money from the two women. . Bardolph enters, announcing to Falstaff that a man named Brook wishes to see him. Ford enters, disguised as Brook. Ford asks Falstaff for his help. He says he is in love with Mrs. Ford, and has pursued her in earnest, but she is not the slightest bit interested in him. Ford flatters Falstaff about how accomplished a man he is, and asks him to seduce Ford's wife, since he will be able to do it as easily as any man. Ford also offers him money. . Falstaff does not understand what Ford's purpose is in asking him to do this. Ford explains that Mrs. Ford prides herself on her honor and her virtue. But if he could show her that he knows she has been having an affair with Falstaff, her defenses against him would no longer have any validity, and he would have a better chance with her. . Falstaff willingly agrees to the proposition, and accepts Ford's money. He says he will be with Ford's wife between ten and eleven. He also takes the opportunity, in the presence of Brook, to insult and deride Ford as a cuckold and a rogue. . After Falstaff leaves, Ford gives vent to his jealousy, thinking he has proof of his wife's infidelity. He vows to prevent it from happening and be revenged on Falstaff. .

----------ACT 2 SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE 1. Before PAGE'S house [Enter MISTRESS PAGE, with a letter.] MRS. PAGE. What! have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see. 'Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I; go to, then, there's sympathy: you are merry, so am I; ha! ha! then there's more sympathy; you love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice, that I love thee. I will not say, pity me: 'tis not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, Love me. By me, Thine own true knight, By day or night, Or any kind of light, With all his might, For thee to fight, JOHN FALSTAFF.' What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant. What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked, with the devil's name! out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth:--Heaven forgive me! Why, I'll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men. How shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings. [Enter MISTRESS FORD.] MRS. FORD. Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house. MRS. PAGE. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. MRS. FORD. Nay, I'll ne'er believe that; I have to show to the contrary. MRS. PAGE. Faith, but you do, in my mind. MRS. FORD. Well, I do, then; yet, I say, I could show you to the contrary. O, Mistress Page! give me some counsel. MRS. PAGE. What's the matter, woman? MRS. FORD. O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour! MRS. PAGE. Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it?--Dispense with trifles;--what is it? MRS. FORD. If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be knighted. MRS. PAGE. What? thou liest. Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack; and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. MRS. FORD. We burn daylight: here, read, read; perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make difference of men's liking: and yet he would not swear; praised women's modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of 'Greensleeves.' What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like? MRS. PAGE. Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs. To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother of thy letter; but let thine inherit first, for, I protest, mine never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names, sure, more, and these are of the second edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he would put us two: I had rather be a giantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. MRS. FORD. Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us? MRS. PAGE. Nay, I know not; it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I'll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury. MRS. FORD. 'Boarding' call you it? I'll be sure to keep him above deck. MRS. PAGE. So will I; if he come under my hatches, I'll never to sea again. Let's be revenged on him; let's appoint him a meeting, give him a show of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter. MRS. FORD. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! It would give eternal food to his jealousy. MRS. PAGE. Why, look where he comes; and my good man too: he's as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause; and that, I hope, is an unmeasurable distance. MRS. FORD. You are the happier woman. MRS. PAGE. Let's consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither. [They retire.] [Enter FORD, PISTOL, and PAGE and NYM.] FORD. Well, I hope it be not so. PISTOL. Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs: Sir John affects thy wife. FORD. Why, sir, my wife is not young. PISTOL. He woos both high and low, both rich and poor, Both young and old, one with another, Ford; He loves the gallimaufry. Ford, perpend. FORD. Love my wife! PISTOL. With liver burning hot: prevent, or go thou, Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels.-- O! odious is the name! FORD. What name, sir? PISTOL. The horn, I say. Farewell: Take heed; have open eye, for thieves do foot by night; Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds do sing. Away, Sir Corporal Nym. Believe it, Page; he speaks sense. [Exit PISTOL.] FORD. [Aside] I will be patient: I will find out this. NYM. [To PAGE] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours: I should have borne the humoured letter to her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; there's the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym; I speak, and I avouch 'tis true. My name is Nym, and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese; and there's the humour of it. Adieu. [Exit NYM.] PAGE. [Aside.] 'The humour of it,' quoth 'a! Here's a fellow frights English out of his wits. FORD. I will seek out Falstaff. PAGE. I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue. FORD. If I do find it: well. PAGE. I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o' the town commended him for a true man. FORD. 'Twas a good sensible fellow: well. PAGE. How now, Meg! MRS. PAGE. Whither go you, George?--Hark you. MRS. FORD. How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy? FORD. I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go. MRS. FORD. Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now. Will you go, Mistress Page? MRS. PAGE. Have with you. You'll come to dinner, George? [Aside to MRS. FORD] Look who comes yonder: she shall be our messenger to this paltry knight. MRS. FORD. [Aside to MRS. PAGE] Trust me, I thought on her: she'll fit it. [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.] MRS. PAGE. You are come to see my daughter Anne? QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne? MRS. PAGE. Go in with us and see; we'd have an hour's talk with you. [Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and MISTRESS QUICKLY.] PAGE. How now, Master Ford! FORD. You heard what this knave told me, did you not? PAGE. Yes; and you heard what the other told me? FORD. Do you think there is truth in them? PAGE. Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it; but these that accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service. FORD. Were they his men? PAGE. Marry, were they. FORD. I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter? PAGE. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage toward my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head. FORD. I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to turn them together. A man may be too confident. I would have nothing 'lie on my head': I cannot be thus satisfied. PAGE. Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes. There is either liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily. [Enter HOST and SHALLOW.] How now, mine host! HOST. How now, bully-rook! Thou'rt a gentleman. Cavaliero-justice, I say! SHALLOW. I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master Page! Master Page, will you go with us? We have sport in hand. HOST. Tell him, cavaliero-justice; tell him, bully-rook. SHALLOW. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor. FORD. Good mine host o' the Garter, a word with you. HOST. What say'st thou, my bully-rook? [They go aside.] SHALLOW. [To PAGE.] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons; and, I think, hath appointed them contrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. [They converse apart.] HOST. Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavaliero? FORD. None, I protest: but I'll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him, and tell him my name is Brook, only for a jest. HOST. My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress; said I well? and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, mynheers? SHALLOW. Have with you, mine host. PAGE. I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier. SHALLOW. Tut, sir! I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what: 'tis the heart, Master Page; 'tis here, 'tis here. I have seen the time with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats. HOST. Here, boys, here, here! Shall we wag? PAGE. Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight. [Exeunt HOST, SHALLOW, and PAGE.] FORD. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife's frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his company at Page's house, and what they made there I know not. Well, I will look further into 't; and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she be otherwise, 'tis labour well bestowed. [Exit.] ----------ACT 2 SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. A room in the Garter Inn. [Enter FALSTAFF and PISTOL.] FALSTAFF. I will not lend thee a penny. PISTOL. Why then, the world's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open. I will retort the sum in equipage. FALSTAFF. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow, Nym; or else you had looked through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends you were good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took 't upon mine honour thou hadst it not. PISTOL. Didst not thou share? Hadst thou not fifteen pence? FALSTAFF. Reason, you rogue, reason. Thinkest thou I'll endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for you: go: a short knife and a throng!--to your manor of Picht-hatch! go. You'll not bear a letter for me, you rogue!--you stand upon your honour!--Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise. I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will not do it, you! PISTOL. I do relent; what wouldst thou more of man? [Enter ROBIN.] ROBIN. Sir, here's a woman would speak with you. FALSTAFF. Let her approach. [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.] QUICKLY. Give your worship good morrow. FALSTAFF. Good morrow, good wife. QUICKLY. Not so, an't please your worship. FALSTAFF. Good maid, then. QUICKLY. I'll be sworn; As my mother was, the first hour I was born. FALSTAFF. I do believe the swearer. What with me? QUICKLY. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two? FALSTAFF. Two thousand, fair woman; and I'll vouchsafe thee the hearing. QUICKLY. There is one Mistress Ford, sir,--I pray, come a little nearer this ways:--I myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius. FALSTAFF. Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say,-- QUICKLY. Your worship says very true;--I pray your worship come a little nearer this ways. FALSTAFF. I warrant thee nobody hears--mine own people, mine own people. QUICKLY. Are they so? God bless them, and make them His servants! FALSTAFF. Well: Mistress Ford, what of her? QUICKLY. Why, sir, she's a good creature. Lord, Lord! your worship's a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you, and all of us, I pray. FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford-- QUICKLY. Marry, this is the short and the long of it. You have brought her into such a canaries as 'tis wonderful: the best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary; yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches; I warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift; smelling so sweetly,--all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in such alligant terms; and in such wine and sugar of the best and the fairest, that would have won any woman's heart; and I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her. I had myself twenty angels given me this morning; but I defy all angels, in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty: and, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all; and yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, pensioners; but, I warrant you, all is one with her. FALSTAFF. But what says she to me? be brief, my good she-Mercury. QUICKLY. Marry, she hath received your letter; for the which she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven. FALSTAFF. Ten and eleven? QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of: Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas! the sweet woman leads an ill life with him; he's a very jealousy man; she leads a very frampold life with him, good heart. FALSTAFF. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her; I will not fail her. QUICKLY. Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to your worship: Mistress Page hath her hearty commendations to you too; and let me tell you in your ear, she's as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe'er be the other; and she bade me tell your worship that her husband is seldom from home, but she hopes there will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon a man: surely I think you have charms, la! yes, in truth. FALSTAFF. Not I, I assure thee; setting the attraction of my good parts aside, I have no other charms. QUICKLY. Blessing on your heart for 't! FALSTAFF. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford's wife and Page's wife acquainted each other how they love me? QUICKLY. That were a jest indeed! They have not so little grace, I hope: that were a trick indeed! But Mistress Page would desire you to send her your little page, of all loves: her husband has a marvellous infection to the little page; and, truly, Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does; do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she will; and truly she deserves it; for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send her your page; no remedy. FALSTAFF. Why, I will. QUICKLY. Nay, but do so then; and, look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another's mind, and the boy never need to understand any thing; for 'tis not good that children should know any wickedness: old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world. FALSTAFF. Fare thee well; commend me to them both. There's my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with this woman.-- [Exeunt MISTRESS QUICKLY and ROBIN.] This news distracts me. PISTOL. This punk is one of Cupid's carriers; Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights; Give fire; she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all! [Exit.] FALSTAFF. Say'st thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I'll make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say 'tis grossly done; so it be fairly done, no matter. [Enter BARDOLPH, with a cup of sack.] BARDOLPH. Sir John, there's one Master Brook below would fain speak with you and be acquainted with you: and hath sent your worship a morning's draught of sack. FALSTAFF. Brook is his name? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir. FALSTAFF. Call him in. [Exit BARDOLPH.] Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o'erflow such liquor. Ah, ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, have I encompassed you? Go to; via! [Re-enter BARDOLPH, with FORD disguised.] FORD. Bless you, sir! FALSTAFF. And you, sir; would you speak with me? FORD. I make bold to press with so little preparation upon you. FALSTAFF. You're welcome. What's your will?--Give us leave, drawer. [Exit BARDOLPH.] FORD. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much: my name is Brook. FALSTAFF. Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaintance of you. FORD. Good Sir John, I sue for yours: not to charge you; for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are: the which hath something embold'ned me to this unseasoned intrusion; for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open. FALSTAFF. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on. FORD. Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me; if you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. FALSTAFF. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter. FORD. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing. FALSTAFF. Speak, good Master Brook; I shall be glad to be your servant. FORD. Sir, I hear you are a scholar,--I will be brief with you, and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means, as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection; but, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the register of your own, that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy is it to be such an offender. FALSTAFF. Very well, sir; proceed. FORD. There is a gentlewoman in this town, her husband's name is Ford. FALSTAFF. Well, sir. FORD. I have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting observance; engrossed opportunities to meet her; fee'd every slight occasion that could but niggardly give me sight of her; not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many to know what she would have given; briefly, I have pursued her as love hath pursued me; which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none, unless experience be a jewel that I have purchased at an infinite rate, and that hath taught me to say this, Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues; Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues. FALSTAFF. Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Have you importuned her to such a purpose? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Of what quality was your love, then? FORD. Like a fair house built on another man's ground; so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it. FALSTAFF. To what purpose have you unfolded this to me? FORD. When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allowed for your many war-like, court-like, and learned preparations. FALSTAFF. O, sir! FORD. Believe it, for you know it. There is money; spend it, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only give me so much of your time in exchange of it as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford's wife: use your art of wooing, win her to consent to you; if any man may, you may as soon as any. FALSTAFF. Would it apply well to the vehemency of your affection, that I should win what you would enjoy? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously. FORD. O, understand my drift. She dwells so securely on the excellency of her honour that the folly of my soul dares not present itself; she is too bright to be looked against. Now, could I come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commend themselves; I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage-vow, and a thousand other her defences, which now are too too strongly embattled against me. What say you to't, Sir John? FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford's wife. FORD. O good sir! FALSTAFF. I say you shall. FORD. Want no money, Sir John; you shall want none. FALSTAFF. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as you came in to me her assistant or go-between parted from me: I say I shall be with her between ten and eleven; for at that time the jealous rascally knave, her husband, will be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall know how I speed. FORD. I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford, sir? FALSTAFF. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not; yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer; and there's my harvest-home. FORD. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him. FALSTAFF. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my cudgel; it shall hang like a meteor o'er the cuckold's horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford's a knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night. [Exit.] FORD. What a damned Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy? My wife hath sent to him; the hour is fixed; the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils' additions, the names of fiends. But Cuckold! Wittol!--Cuckold! the devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass; he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous; I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself; then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my jealousy! Eleven o'clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold! [Exit.]

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 2 scene 3; act 3 scene 1 using the context provided.

act 2 scene 3; act 3 scene 1|act 3 scene 2|act 3 scene 3|act 3 scene 4

In a field near Windsor, Dr. Caius is angry that Evans has not shown up for the duel. Page, Shallow, Slender and the Host enter, telling Caius that they have come to see the duel, even though they know that Evans has been directed to another place, the other side of town. Caius claims Evans is a coward. He still wants to kill him. . The men plan to continue their joke at Caius's expense. They agree to take him to Frogmore, where Evans has been sent. But they tell Caius they are taking him to see Anne Page, and he will have the opportunity to woo her. The Host even promises to be his advocate. . In the next scene, at a field near Frogmore, Evans awaits Caius for the duel and sends Simple out to look for him. After Simple exits, Evans reveals that secretly he is relieved Caius has not shown up. . Page, Shallow and Slender enter. Pretending that they do not know what the situation is, they tell Evans that Caius is nearby, and is very upset at being wronged. In a show of bravado, Evans denounces him as a cowardly knave. . The Host, Caius and Rugby enter. Evans and Caius offer to fight, but Evans also takes Caius aside and offers him friendship, while saying aloud for the benefit of the others that he will beat Caius up for reneging on his appointment. Caius makes some aggressive remarks, but the Host calms the situation down and confesses that he deliberately directed them to different places because he did not want to lose either his doctor or his priest . He asks them to put away their swords and be reconciled. After the Host exits, Caius and Evans agree to be revenged on him for his deceit. Caius is angry because he was told that he would be meeting Anne Page there. .

----------ACT 2 SCENE 3; ACT 3 SCENE 1--------- SCENE 3. A field near Windsor. [Enter CAIUS and RUGBY.] CAIUS. Jack Rugby! RUGBY. Sir? CAIUS. Vat is de clock, Jack? RUGBY. 'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet. CAIUS. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he has pray his Pible vell dat he is no come: by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. RUGBY. He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him if he came. CAIUS. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him. RUGBY. Alas, sir, I cannot fence! CAIUS. Villany, take your rapier. RUGBY. Forbear; here's company. [Enter HOST, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE.] HOST. Bless thee, bully doctor! SHALLOW. Save you, Master Doctor Caius! PAGE. Now, good Master Doctor! SLENDER. Give you good morrow, sir. CAIUS. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for? HOST. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? Is he dead, my Francisco? Ha, bully! What says my Aesculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? Ha! is he dead, bully stale? Is he dead? CAIUS. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de world; he is not show his face. HOST. Thou art a Castalion King Urinal! Hector of Greece, my boy! CAIUS. I pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come. SHALLOW. He is the wiser man, Master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true, Master Page? PAGE. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace. SHALLOW. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices, and doctors, and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page. PAGE. 'Tis true, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace; you have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor. HOST. Pardon, guest-justice.--A word, Monsieur Mockwater. CAIUS. Mock-vater! Vat is dat? HOST. Mockwater, in our English tongue, is valour, bully. CAIUS. By gar, then I have as much mockvater as de Englishman.--Scurvy jack-dog priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears. HOST. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. CAIUS. Clapper-de-claw! Vat is dat? HOST. That is, he will make thee amends. CAIUS. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me vill have it. HOST. And I will provoke him to't, or let him wag. CAIUS. Me tank you for dat. HOST. And, moreover, bully--but first: Master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. [Aside to them.] PAGE. Sir Hugh is there, is he? HOST. He is there: see what humour he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well? SHALLOW. We will do it. PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER. Adieu, good Master Doctor. [Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.] CAIUS. By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. HOST. Let him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler; go about the fields with me through Frogmore; I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim? Said I well? CAIUS. By gar, me tank you for dat: by gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients. HOST. For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page: said I well? CAIUS. By gar, 'tis good; vell said. HOST. Let us wag, then. CAIUS. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. [Exeunt.] ACT III SCENE 1. A field near Frogmore. [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE.] EVANS. I pray you now, good Master Slender's serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic? SIMPLE. Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every way; old Windsor way, and every way but the town way. EVANS. I most fehemently desire you you will also look that way. SIMPLE. I will, Sir. [Exit.] EVANS. Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, and trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am! I will knog his urinals about his knave's costard when I have goot opportunities for the 'ork: pless my soul! [Sings] To shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sings madrigals; There will we make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies. To shallow-- Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry. [Sings.] Melodious birds sing madrigals,-- Whenas I sat in Pabylon,-- And a thousand vagram posies. To shallow,-- [Re-enter SIMPLE.] SIMPLE. Yonder he is, coming this way, Sir Hugh. EVANS. He's welcome. [Sings] To shallow rivers, to whose falls-- Heaven prosper the right!--What weapons is he? SIMPLE. No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way. EVANS. Pray you give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms. [Reads in a book.] [Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.] SHALLOW. How now, Master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. SLENDER. [Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page! PAGE. 'Save you, good Sir Hugh! EVANS. Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you! SHALLOW. What, the sword and the word! Do you study them both, Master Parson? PAGE. And youthful still, in your doublet and hose, this raw rheumatic day! EVANS. There is reasons and causes for it. PAGE. We are come to you to do a good office, Master Parson. EVANS. Fery well; what is it? PAGE. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw. SHALLOW. I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect. EVANS. What is he? PAGE. I think you know him: Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician. EVANS. Got's will and His passion of my heart! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. PAGE. Why? EVANS. He has no more knowledge in Hibbocrates and Galen,--and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal. PAGE. I warrant you, he's the man should fight with him. SLENDER. [Aside] O, sweet Anne Page! SHALLOW. It appears so, by his weapons. Keep them asunder; here comes Doctor Caius. [Enter HOST, CAIUS, and RUGBY.] PAGE. Nay, good Master Parson, keep in your weapon. SHALLOW. So do you, good Master Doctor. HOST. Disarm them, and let them question; let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English. CAIUS. I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear: verefore will you not meet-a me? EVANS. [Aside to CAIUS.] Pray you use your patience; in good time. CAIUS. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape. EVANS. [Aside to CAIUS.] Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to other men's humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends. [Aloud.] I will knog your urinals about your knave's cogscomb for missing your meetings and appointments. CAIUS. Diable!--Jack Rugby,--mine Host de Jarretiere,--have I not stay for him to kill him? Have I not, at de place I did appoint? EVANS. As I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is the place appointed. I'll be judgment by mine host of the Garter. HOST. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaullia; French and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer! CAIUS. Ay, dat is very good; excellent! HOST. Peace, I say! Hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? No; he gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? No; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so;--give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places; your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow. SHALLOW. Trust me, a mad host!--Follow, gentlemen, follow. SLENDER. [Aside] O, sweet Anne Page! [Exeunt SHALLOW, SLENDER, PAGE, and HOST.] CAIUS. Ha, do I perceive dat? Have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha? EVANS. This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog. I desire you that we may be friends; and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. CAIUS. By gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, he deceive me too. EVANS. Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you follow. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3 SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. A street in Windsor. [Enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN.] MRS. PAGE. Nay, keep your way, little gallant: you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master's heels? ROBIN. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf. MRS. PAGE. O! you are a flattering boy: now I see you'll be a courtier. [Enter FORD.] FORD. Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you? MRS. PAGE. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home? FORD. Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry. MRS. PAGE. Be sure of that--two other husbands. FORD. Where had you this pretty weathercock? MRS. PAGE. I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight's name, sirrah? ROBIN. Sir John Falstaff. FORD. Sir John Falstaff! MRS. PAGE. He, he; I can never hit on's name. There is such a league between my good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed? FORD. Indeed she is. MRS. PAGE. By your leave, sir: I am sick till I see her. [Exeunt MRS. PAGE and ROBIN.] FORD. Has Page any brains? Hath he any eyes? Hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife's inclination; he gives her folly motion and advantage; and now she's going to my wife, and Falstaff's boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the wind: and Falstaff's boy with her! Good plots! They are laid; and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock strikes] The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search; there I shall find Falstaff. I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there. I will go. [Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, SLENDER, HOST, SIR HUGH EVANS, CAIUS, and RUGBY.] SHALLOW, PAGE, &c. Well met, Master Ford. FORD. Trust me, a good knot; I have good cheer at home, and I pray you all go with me. SHALLOW. I must excuse myself, Master Ford. SLENDER. And so must I, sir; we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for more money than I'll speak of. SHALLOW. We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer. SLENDER. I hope I have your good will, father Page. PAGE. You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you. But my wife, Master doctor, is for you altogether. CAIUS. Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me: my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. HOST. What say you to young Master Fenton? He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May; he will carry 't, he will carry 't; 'tis in his buttons; he will carry 't. PAGE. Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having: he kept company with the wild Prince and Pointz; he is of too high a region, he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance; if he take her, let him take her simply; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way. FORD. I beseech you, heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner: besides your cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you a monster. Master Doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you, Sir Hugh. SHALLOW. Well, fare you well; we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page's. [Exeunt SHALLOW and SLENDER.] CAIUS. Go home, John Rugby; I come anon. [Exit RUGBY.] HOST. Farewell, my hearts; I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him. [Exit HOST.] FORD. [Aside] I think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him. I'll make him dance. Will you go, gentles? ALL. Have with you to see this monster. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3 SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. A room in FORD'S house. [Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE.] MRS. FORD. What, John! what, Robert! MRS. PAGE. Quickly, quickly:--Is the buck-basket-- MRS. FORD. I warrant. What, Robin, I say! [Enter SERVANTS with a basket.] MRS. PAGE. Come, come, come. MRS. FORD. Here, set it down. MRS. PAGE. Give your men the charge; we must be brief. MRS. FORD. Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house; and when I suddenly call you, come forth, and, without any pause or staggering, take this basket on your shoulders: that done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet-Mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side. MRS. PAGE. You will do it? MRS. FORD. I have told them over and over; they lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are called. [Exeunt SERVANTS.] MRS. PAGE. Here comes little Robin. [Enter ROBIN.] MRS. FORD. How now, my eyas-musket! what news with you? ROBIN. My Master Sir John is come in at your back-door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company. MRS. PAGE. You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us? ROBIN. Ay, I'll be sworn. My master knows not of your being here, and hath threatened to put me into everlasting liberty, if I tell you of it; for he swears he'll turn me away. MRS. PAGE. Thou 'rt a good boy; this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee, and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I'll go hide me. MRS. FORD. Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone. [Exit ROBIN.] Mistress Page, remember you your cue. MRS. PAGE. I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me. [Exit.] MRS. FORD. Go to, then; we'll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross watery pumpion; we'll teach him to know turtles from jays. [Enter FALSTAFF.] FALSTAFF. 'Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel?' Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough: this is the period of my ambition: O this blessed hour! MRS. FORD. O, sweet Sir John! FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish; I would thy husband were dead. I'll speak it before the best lord, I would make thee my lady. MRS. FORD. I your lady, Sir John! Alas, I should be a pitiful lady. FALSTAFF. Let the court of France show me such another. I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond; thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. MRS. FORD. A plain kerchief, Sir John; my brows become nothing else; nor that well neither. FALSTAFF. By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: thou wouldst make an absolute courtier; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. MRS. FORD. Believe me, there's no such thing in me. FALSTAFF. What made me love thee? Let that persuade thee there's something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn-buds that come like women in men's apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in simple-time; I cannot; but I love thee, none but thee; and thou deservest it. MRS. FORD. Do not betray me, sir; I fear you love Mistress Page. FALSTAFF. Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln. MRS. FORD. Well, heaven knows how I love you; and you shall one day find it. FALSTAFF. Keep in that mind; I'll deserve it. MRS. FORD. Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or else I could not be in that mind. ROBIN. [Within] Mistress Ford! Mistress Ford! here's Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blowing and looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently. FALSTAFF. She shall not see me; I will ensconce me behind the arras. MRS. FORD. Pray you, do so; she's a very tattling woman. [FALSTAFF hides himself.] [Re-enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN.] What's the matter? How now! MRS. PAGE. O Mistress Ford, what have you done? You're shamed, you are overthrown, you are undone for ever! MRS. FORD. What's the matter, good Mistress Page? MRS. PAGE. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford! having an honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion! MRS. FORD. What cause of suspicion? MRS. PAGE. What cause of suspicion? Out upon you! how am I mistook in you! MRS. FORD. Why, alas, what's the matter? MRS. PAGE. Your husband's coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house, by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his absence: you are undone. MRS. FORD. [Aside.] Speak louder.-- 'Tis not so, I hope. MRS. PAGE. Pray heaven it be not so that you have such a man here! but 'tis most certain your husband's coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. Be not amazed; call all your senses to you; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever. MRS. FORD. What shall I do?--There is a gentleman, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame as much as his peril: I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. MRS. PAGE. For shame! never stand 'you had rather' and 'you had rather': your husband's here at hand; bethink you of some conveyance; in the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you deceived me! Look, here is a basket; if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking: or--it is whiting-time--send him by your two men to Datchet-Mead. MRS. FORD. He's too big to go in there. What shall I do? FALSTAFF. [Coming forward] Let me see 't, let me see 't. O, let me see 't! I'll in, I'll in; follow your friend's counsel; I'll in. MRS. PAGE. What, Sir John Falstaff! Are these your letters, knight? FALSTAFF. I love thee and none but thee; help me away: let me creep in here. I'll never-- [He gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen.] MRS. PAGE. Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight! MRS. FORD. What, John! Robert! John! [Exit ROBIN.] [Re-enter SERVANTS.] Go, take up these clothes here, quickly; where's the cowl-staff? Look how you drumble! Carry them to the laundress in Datchet-Mead; quickly, come. [Enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS.] FORD. Pray you come near. If I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me, then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now, whither bear you this? SERVANT. To the laundress, forsooth. MRS. FORD. Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with buck-washing. FORD. Buck! I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck, buck! ay, buck; I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear. [Exeunt SERVANTS with the basket.] Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-night; I'll tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my chambers; search, seek, find out. I'll warrant we'll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first. [Locking the door.] So, now uncape. PAGE. Good Master Ford, be contented: you wrong yourself too much. FORD. True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen, you shall see sport anon; follow me, gentlemen. [Exit.] EVANS. This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies. CAIUS. By gar, 'tis no the fashion of France; it is not jealous in France. PAGE. Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search. [Exeunt EVANS, PAGE, and CAIUS.] MRS. PAGE. Is there not a double excellency in this? MRS. FORD. I know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. MRS. PAGE. What a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket! MRS. FORD. I am half afraid he will have need of washing; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. MRS. PAGE. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress. MRS. FORD. I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff's being here, for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now. MRS. PAGE. I will lay a plot to try that, and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff: his dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine. MRS. FORD. Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water, and give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment? MRS. PAGE. We will do it; let him be sent for to-morrow eight o'clock, to have amends. [Re-enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS.] FORD. I cannot find him: may be the knave bragged of that he could not compass. MRS. PAGE. [Aside to MRS. FORD.] Heard you that? MRS. FORD. [Aside to MRS. PAGE.] Ay, ay, peace.-- You use me well, Master Ford, do you? FORD. Ay, I do so. MRS. FORD. Heaven make you better than your thoughts! FORD. Amen! MRS. PAGE. You do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford. FORD. Ay, ay; I must bear it. EVANS. If there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment! CAIUS. Be gar, nor I too; there is no bodies. PAGE. Fie, fie, Master Ford, are you not ashamed? What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha' your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle. FORD. 'Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for it. EVANS. You suffer for a pad conscience. Your wife is as honest a 'omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred too. CAIUS. By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman. FORD. Well, I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in the Park: I pray you pardon me; I will hereafter make known to you why I have done this. Come, wife, come, Mistress Page; I pray you pardon me; pray heartily, pardon me. PAGE. Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we'll mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house to breakfast; after, we'll a-birding together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so? FORD. Any thing. EVANS. If there is one, I shall make two in the company. CAIUS. If there be one or two, I shall make-a the turd. FORD. Pray you go, Master Page. EVANS. I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow on the lousy knave, mine host. CAIUS. Dat is good; by gar, with all my heart. EVANS. A lousy knave! to have his gibes and his mockeries! [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 3 SCENE 4--------- SCENE 4. A room in PAGE'S house. [Enter FENTON, ANNE PAGE, and MISTRESS QUICKLY. MISTRESS QUICKLY stands apart.] FENTON. I see I cannot get thy father's love; Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. ANNE. Alas! how then? FENTON. Why, thou must be thyself. He doth object, I am too great of birth; And that my state being gall'd with my expense, I seek to heal it only by his wealth. Besides these, other bars he lays before me, My riots past, my wild societies; And tells me 'tis a thing impossible I should love thee but as a property. ANNE. May be he tells you true. FENTON. No, heaven so speed me in my time to come! Albeit I will confess thy father's wealth Was the first motive that I wooed thee, Anne: Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags; And 'tis the very riches of thyself That now I aim at. ANNE. Gentle Master Fenton, Yet seek my father's love; still seek it, sir. If opportunity and humblest suit Cannot attain it, why then,--hark you hither. [They converse apart.] [Enter SHALLOW, SLENDER, and MISTRESS QUICKLY.] SHALLOW. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly: my kinsman shall speak for himself. SLENDER. I'll make a shaft or a bolt on 't. 'Slid, 'tis but venturing. SHALLOW. Be not dismayed. SLENDER. No, she shall not dismay me. I care not for that, but that I am afeard. QUICKLY. Hark ye; Master Slender would speak a word with you. ANNE. I come to him. [Aside.] This is my father's choice. O, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year! QUICKLY. And how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a word with you. SHALLOW. She's coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father! SLENDER. I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle. SHALLOW. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. SLENDER. Ay, that I do; as well as I love any woman in Gloucestershire. SHALLOW. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman. SLENDER. Ay, that I will come cut and long-tail, under the degree of a squire. SHALLOW. He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure. ANNE. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for himself. SHALLOW. Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for that good comfort. She calls you, coz; I'll leave you. ANNE. Now, Master Slender. SLENDER. Now, good Mistress Anne.-- ANNE. What is your will? SLENDER. My will! 'od's heartlings, that's a pretty jest indeed! I ne'er made my will yet, I thank heaven; I am not such a sickly creature, I give heaven praise. ANNE. I mean, Master Slender, what would you with me? SLENDER. Truly, for mine own part I would little or nothing with you. Your father and my uncle hath made motions; if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man be his dole! They can tell you how things go better than I can. You may ask your father; here he comes. [Enter PAGE and MISTRESS PAGE.] PAGE. Now, Master Slender: love him, daughter Anne. Why, how now! what does Master Fenton here? You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house: I told you, sir, my daughter is dispos'd of. FENTON. Nay, Master Page, be not impatient. MRS. PAGE. Good Master Fenton, come not to my child. PAGE. She is no match for you. FENTON. Sir, will you hear me? PAGE. No, good Master Fenton. Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in. Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton. [Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.] QUICKLY. Speak to Mistress Page. FENTON. Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter In such a righteous fashion as I do, Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and manners, I must advance the colours of my love And not retire: let me have your good will. ANNE. Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool. MRS. PAGE. I mean it not; I seek you a better husband. QUICKLY. That's my master, Master doctor. ANNE. Alas! I had rather be set quick i' the earth. And bowl'd to death with turnips. MRS. PAGE. Come, trouble not yourself. Good Master Fenton, I will not be your friend, nor enemy; My daughter will I question how she loves you, And as I find her, so am I affected. Till then, farewell, sir: she must needs go in; Her father will be angry. FENTON. Farewell, gentle mistress. Farewell, Nan. [Exeunt MRS. PAGE and ANNE.} QUICKLY. This is my doing now: 'Nay,' said I, 'will you cast away your child on a fool, and a physician? Look on Master Fenton.' This is my doing. FENTON. I thank thee; and I pray thee, once to-night Give my sweet Nan this ring. There's for thy pains. QUICKLY. Now Heaven send thee good fortune! [Exit FENTON.] A kind heart he hath; a woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne; or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master Fenton had her; I will do what I can for them all three, for so I have promised, and I'll be as good as my word; but speciously for Master Fenton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two mistresses: what a beast am I to slack it! [Exit.]

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 4 scene 3-4, utilizing the provided context.

act 3 scene 5|act 4 scene 1-2|act 4 scene 3-4

Scene 3-4 . In scene 3, Bardolph tells the Host that the Germans who have been staying at the Garter Inn need to have three of his horses, to meet the Duke at court. The Host agrees, but says he will make them pay for the horses. . In scene 4, Ford, who has been shown the letters Falstaff wrote and how the women responded to them, asks forgiveness of his wife. . Then Page, Ford, their wives, and Evans plan yet another trick on Falstaff. The women will ask him to meet them in the wood at night, disguised as Herne the Hunter, the spirit of a man who used to be a keeper in the forest. Herne is said to appear with great horns and cause mischief in the wood. When Falstaff comes and meets the women, Anne Page and a few more children will pretend to be fairies and rush at him. The women will run away, and the children will encircle him and pinch him and ask him why he dares to tread on their sacred paths. . Mrs. Ford suggests that the fairies will continue to pinch him and burn him with tapers until he admits the truth. Then everyone else will appear and mock Falstaff all the way back to Windsor. . Page plots to allow Slender to marry his daughter immediately after the joke in Windsor forest, while Mrs. Page lays plans to marry Anne off to Caius. She thinks Slender is an idiot, whereas Caius has money, as well as friends at the royal court. .

----------ACT 3 SCENE 5--------- SCENE 5. A room in the Garter Inn. [Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH.] FALSTAFF. Bardolph, I say,-- BARDOLPH. Here, sir. FALSTAFF. Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in 't. [Exit BARDOLPH.] Have I lived to be carried in a basket, and to be thrown in the Thames like a barrow of butcher's offal? Well, if I be served such another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and buttered, and give them to a dog for a new year's gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drowned a blind bitch's puppies, fifteen i' the litter; and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bottom were as deep as hell I should down. I had been drowned but that the shore was shelvy and shallow; a death that I abhor, for the water swells a man; and what a thing should I have been when had been swelled! I should have been a mountain of mummy. [Re-enter BARDOLPH, with the sack.] BARDOLPH. Here's Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you. FALSTAFF. Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water; for my belly's as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in. BARDOLPH. Come in, woman. [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.] QUICKLY. By your leave. I cry you mercy. Give your worship good morrow. FALSTAFF. Take away these chalices. Go, brew me a pottle of sack finely. BARDOLPH. With eggs, sir? FALSTAFF. Simple of itself; I'll no pullet-sperm in my brewage. [Exit BARDOLPH.] How now! QUICKLY. Marry, sir, I come to your worship from Mistress Ford. FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I was thrown into the ford; I have my belly full of ford. QUICKLY. Alas the day! good heart, that was not her fault: she does so take on with her men; they mistook their erection. FALSTAFF. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman's promise. QUICKLY. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning a-birding; she desires you once more to come to her between eight and nine; I must carry her word quickly. She'll make you amends, I warrant you. FALSTAFF. Well, I will visit her. Tell her so; and bid her think what a man is; let her consider his frailty, and then judge of my merit. QUICKLY. I will tell her. FALSTAFF. Do so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou? QUICKLY. Eight and nine, sir. FALSTAFF. Well, be gone; I will not miss her. QUICKLY. Peace be with you, sir. [Exit.] FALSTAFF. I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word to stay within. I like his money well. O! here he comes. [Enter FORD disguised.] FORD. Bless you, sir! FALSTAFF. Now, Master Brook, you come to know what hath passed between me and Ford's wife? FORD. That, indeed, Sir John, is my business. FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will not lie to you: I was at her house the hour she appointed me. FORD. And how sped you, sir? FALSTAFF. Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook. FORD. How so, sir? did she change her determination? FALSTAFF. No. Master Brook; but the peaking cornuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual 'larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife's love. FORD. What! while you were there? FALSTAFF. While I was there. FORD. And did he search for you, and could not find you? FALSTAFF. You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page; gives intelligence of Ford's approach; and, in her invention and Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket. FORD. A buck-basket! FALSTAFF. By the Lord, a buck-basket! rammed me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins, that, Master Brook, there was the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril. FORD. And how long lay you there? FALSTAFF. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane; they took me on their shoulders; met the jealous knave their master in the door; who asked them once or twice what they had in their basket. I quaked for fear lest the lunatic knave would have searched it; but Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well, on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook: I suffered the pangs of three several deaths: first, an intolerable fright to be detected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be compassed like a good bilbo in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease: think of that; a man of my kidney, think of that, that am as subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution and thaw: it was a miracle to 'scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of that, hissing hot, think of that, Master Brook! FORD. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffered all this. My suit, then, is desperate; you'll undertake her no more. FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-birding; I have received from her another embassy of meeting; 'twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook. FORD. 'Tis past eight already, sir. FALSTAFF. Is it? I will then address me to my appointment. Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall know how I speed, and the conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her: adieu. You shall have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford. [Exit.] FORD. Hum! ha! Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep? Master Ford, awake; awake, Master Ford. There's a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford. This 'tis to be married; this 'tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am; I will now take the lecher; he is at my house. He cannot scape me; 'tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a half-penny purse, nor into a pepper box; but, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not, shall not make me tame; if I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me; I'll be horn-mad. [Exit.] ----------ACT 4 SCENE 1-2--------- ACT IV. SCENE I. The street. [Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS QUICKLY, and WILLIAM.] MRS. PAGE. Is he at Master Ford's already, think'st thou? QUICKLY. Sure he is by this; or will be presently; but truly he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly. MRS. PAGE. I'll be with her by and by; I'll but bring my young man here to school. Look where his master comes; 'tis a playing day, I see. [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS.] How now, Sir Hugh, no school to-day? EVANS. No; Master Slender is let the boys leave to play. QUICKLY. Blessing of his heart! MRS. PAGE. Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book; I pray you ask him some questions in his accidence. EVANS. Come hither, William; hold up your head; come. MRS. PAGE. Come on, sirrah; hold up your head; answer your master; be not afraid. EVANS. William, how many numbers is in nouns? WILLIAM. Two. QUICKLY. Truly, I thought there had been one number more, because they say 'Od's nouns.' EVANS. Peace your tattlings! What is 'fair,' William? WILLIAM. Pulcher. QUICKLY. Polecats! There are fairer things than polecats, sure. EVANS. You are a very simplicity 'oman; I pray you, peace. What is 'lapis,' William? WILLIAM. A stone. EVANS. And what is 'a stone,' William? WILLIAM. A pebble. EVANS. No, it is 'lapis'; I pray you remember in your prain. WILLIAM. Lapis. EVANS. That is a good William. What is he, William, that does lend articles? WILLIAM. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined: Singulariter, nominativo; hic, haec, hoc. EVANS. Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark: genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusative case? WILLIAM. Accusativo, hinc. EVANS. I pray you, have your remembrance, child. Accusativo, hung, hang, hog. QUICKLY. 'Hang-hog' is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. EVANS. Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is the focative case, William? WILLIAM. O vocativo, O. EVANS. Remember, William: focative is caret. QUICKLY. And that's a good root. EVANS. 'Oman, forbear. MRS. PAGE. Peace. EVANS. What is your genitive case plural, William? WILLIAM. Genitive case? EVANS. Ay. WILLIAM. Genitive: horum, harum, horum. QUICKLY. Vengeance of Jenny's case; fie on her! Never name her, child, if she be a whore. EVANS. For shame, 'oman. QUICKLY. You do ill to teach the child such words. He teaches him to hick and to hack, which they'll do fast enough of themselves; and to call 'horum;' fie upon you! EVANS. 'Oman, art thou lunatics? Hast thou no understandings for thy cases, and the numbers of the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as I would desires. MRS. PAGE. Prithee, hold thy peace. EVANS. Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns. WILLIAM. Forsooth, I have forgot. EVANS. It is qui, quae, quod; if you forget your 'quis', your 'quaes', and your 'quods', you must be preeches. Go your ways and play; go. MRS. PAGE. He is a better scholar than I thought he was. EVANS. He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page. MRS. PAGE. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [Exit SIR HUGH.] Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. [Exeunt.] SCENE 2. A room in FORD'S house. [Enter FALSTAFF and MISTRESS FORD.] FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair's breadth; not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, complement, and ceremony of it. But are you sure of your husband now? MRS. FORD. He's a-birding, sweet Sir John. MRS. PAGE. [Within.] What ho! gossip Ford, what ho! MRS. FORD. Step into the chamber, Sir John. [Exit FALSTAFF.] [Enter MISTRESS PAGE.] MRS. PAGE. How now, sweetheart! who's at home besides yourself? MRS. FORD. Why, none but mine own people. MRS. PAGE. Indeed! MRS. FORD. No, certainly.--[Aside to her.] Speak louder. MRS. PAGE. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here. MRS. FORD. Why? MRS. PAGE. Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again. He so takes on yonder with my husband; so rails against all married mankind; so curses all Eve's daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying 'Peer out, peer out!' that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility, and patience, to this his distemper he is in now. I am glad the fat knight is not here. MRS. FORD. Why, does he talk of him? MRS. PAGE. Of none but him; and swears he was carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket; protests to my husband he is now here; and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his suspicion. But I am glad the knight is not here; now he shall see his own foolery. MRS. FORD. How near is he, Mistress Page? MRS. PAGE. Hard by, at street end; he will be here anon. MRS. FORD. I am undone! the knight is here. MRS. PAGE. Why, then, you are utterly shamed, and he's but a dead man. What a woman are you! Away with him, away with him! better shame than murder. MRS. FORD. Which way should he go? How should I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again? [Re-enter FALSTAFF.} FALSTAFF. No, I'll come no more i' the basket. May I not go out ere he come? MRS. PAGE. Alas! three of Master Ford's brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue out; otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here? FALSTAFF. What shall I do? I'll creep up into the chimney. MRS. FORD. There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces. MRS. PAGE. Creep into the kiln-hole. FALSTAFF. Where is it? MRS. FORD. He will seek there, on my word. Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note: there is no hiding you in the house. FALSTAFF. I'll go out then. MRS. PAGE. If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir John. Unless you go out disguised,-- MRS. FORD. How might we disguise him? MRS. PAGE. Alas the day! I know not! There is no woman's gown big enough for him; otherwise he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchief, and so escape. FALSTAFF. Good hearts, devise something: any extremity rather than a mischief. MRS. FORD. My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brainford, has a gown above. MRS. PAGE. On my word, it will serve him; she's as big as he is; and there's her thrummed hat, and her muffler too. Run up, Sir John. MRS. FORD. Go, go, sweet Sir John. Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head. MRS. PAGE. Quick, quick! we'll come dress you straight; put on the gown the while. [Exit FALSTAFF.] MRS. FORD. I would my husband would meet him in this shape; he cannot abide the old woman of Brainford; he swears she's a witch, forbade her my house, and hath threatened to beat her. MRS. PAGE. Heaven guide him to thy husband's cudgel; and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards! MRS. FORD. But is my husband coming? MRS. PAGE. Ay, in good sadness is he; and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. MRS. FORD. We'll try that; for I'll appoint my men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it as they did last time. MRS. PAGE. Nay, but he'll be here presently; let's go dress him like the witch of Brainford. MRS. FORD. I'll first direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up; I'll bring linen for him straight. [Exit.] MRS. PAGE. Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot misuse him enough. We'll leave a proof, by that which we will do, Wives may be merry and yet honest too. We do not act that often jest and laugh; 'Tis old but true: 'Still swine eats all the draff.' [Exit.] [Re-enter MISTRESS FORD, with two SERVANTS.] MRS. FORD. Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders; your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it down, obey him. Quickly, dispatch. [Exit.] FIRST SERVANT. Come, come, take it up. SECOND SERVANT. Pray heaven, it be not full of knight again. FIRST SERVANT. I hope not; I had lief as bear so much lead. [Enter FORD, PAGE, SHALLOW, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS.] FORD. Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you any way then to unfool me again? Set down the basket, villain! Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket! O you panderly rascals! there's a knot, a ging, a pack, a conspiracy against me. Now shall the devil be shamed. What, wife, I say! Come, come forth! behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching! PAGE. Why, this passes, Master Ford! you are not to go loose any longer; you must be pinioned. EVANS. Why, this is lunatics! this is mad as a mad dog. SHALLOW. Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, indeed. FORD. So say I too, sir.-- [Re-enter MISTRESS FORD.] Come hither, Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that hath the jealous fool to her husband! I suspect without cause, Mistress, do I? MRS. FORD. Heaven be my witness, you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty. FORD. Well said, brazen-face! hold it out. Come forth, sirrah. [Pulling clothes out of the basket.] PAGE. This passes! MRS. FORD. Are you not ashamed? Let the clothes alone. FORD. I shall find you anon. EVANS. 'Tis unreasonable. Will you take up your wife's clothes? Come away. FORD. Empty the basket, I say! MRS. FORD. Why, man, why? FORD. Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket: why may not he be there again? In my house I am sure he is; my intelligence is true; my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen. MRS. FORD. If you find a man there, he shall die a flea's death. PAGE. Here's no man. SHALLOW. By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford; this wrongs you. EVANS. Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the imaginations of your own heart; this is jealousies. FORD. Well, he's not here I seek for. PAGE. No, nor nowhere else but in your brain. [Servants carry away the basket.] FORD. Help to search my house this one time. If I find not what I seek, show no colour for my extremity; let me for ever be your table-sport; let them say of me 'As jealous as Ford, that searched a hollow walnut for his wife's leman.' Satisfy me once more; once more search with me. MRS. FORD. What, hoa, Mistress Page! Come you and the old woman down; my husband will come into the chamber. FORD. Old woman? what old woman's that? MRS. FORD. Why, it is my maid's aunt of Brainford. FORD. A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? We are simple men; we do not know what's brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element. We know nothing. Come down, you witch, you hag you; come down, I say! MRS. FORD. Nay, good sweet husband! Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman. [Re-enter FALSTAFF in woman's clothes, led by MISTRESS PAGE.] MRS. PAGE. Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand. FORD. I'll prat her.--[Beats him.] Out of my door, you witch, you rag, you baggage, you polecat, you ronyon! Out, out! I'll conjure you, I'll fortune-tell you. [Exit FALSTAFF.] MRS. PAGE. Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the poor woman. MRS. FORD. Nay, he will do it. 'Tis a goodly credit for you. FORD. Hang her, witch! EVANS. By yea and no, I think the 'oman is a witch indeed; I like not when a 'oman has a great peard; I spy a great peard under her muffler. FORD. Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you follow; see but the issue of my jealousy; if I cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again. PAGE. Let's obey his humour a little further. Come, gentlemen. [Exeunt FORD, PAGE, SHALLOW, CAIUS, and EVANS.] MRS. PAGE. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. MRS. FORD. Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully methought. MRS. PAGE. I'll have the cudgel hallowed and hung o'er the altar; it hath done meritorious service. MRS. FORD. What think you? May we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge? MRS. PAGE. The spirit of wantonness is sure scared out of him; if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again. MRS. FORD. Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him? MRS. PAGE. Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband's brains. If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers. MRS. FORD. I'll warrant they'll have him publicly shamed; and methinks there would be no period to the jest, should he not be publicly shamed. MRS. PAGE. Come, to the forge with it then; shape it. I would not have things cool. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 4 SCENE 3-4--------- SCENE 3. A room in the Garter Inn. [Enter HOST and BARDOLPH.] BARDOLPH. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses; the Duke himself will be to-morrow at court, and they are going to meet him. HOST. What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen; they speak English? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir; I'll call them to you. HOST. They shall have my horses, but I'll make them pay; I'll sauce them; they have had my house a week at command; I have turned away my other guests. They must come off; I'll sauce them. Come. [Exeunt.] SCENE 4. A room in FORD'S house. [Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and SIR HUGH EVANS.] EVANS. 'Tis one of the best discretions of a 'oman as ever I did look upon. PAGE. And did he send you both these letters at an instant? MRS. PAGE. Within a quarter of an hour. FORD. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth, do what thou wilt; I rather will suspect the sun with cold Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour stand, In him that was of late an heretic, As firm as faith. PAGE. 'Tis well, 'tis well; no more. Be not as extreme in submission As in offence; But let our plot go forward: let our wives Yet once again, to make us public sport, Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow, Where we may take him and disgrace him for it. FORD. There is no better way than that they spoke of. PAGE. How? To send him word they'll meet him in the park at midnight? Fie, fie! he'll never come! EVANS. You say he has been thrown in the rivers; and has been grievously peaten as an old 'oman; methinks there should be terrors in him, that he should not come; methinks his flesh is punished; he shall have no desires. PAGE. So think I too. MRS. FORD. Devise but how you'll use him when he comes, And let us two devise to bring him thither. MRS. PAGE. There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest, Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns; And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle, And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain In a most hideous and dreadful manner: You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know The superstitious idle-headed eld Received, and did deliver to our age, This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth. PAGE. Why, yet there want not many that do fear In deep of night to walk by this Herne's oak. But what of this? MRS. FORD. Marry, this is our device; That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us, Disguis'd, like Herne, with huge horns on his head. PAGE. Well, let it not be doubted but he'll come, And in this shape. When you have brought him thither, What shall be done with him? What is your plot? MRS. PAGE. That likewise have we thought upon, and thus: Nan Page my daughter, and my little son, And three or four more of their growth, we'll dress Like urchins, ouphs, and fairies, green and white, With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, And rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden, As Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met, Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once With some diffused song; upon their sight We two in great amazedness will fly: Then let them all encircle him about, And fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight; And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, In their so sacred paths he dares to tread In shape profane. MRS. FORD. And till he tell the truth, Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound, And burn him with their tapers. MRS. PAGE. The truth being known, We'll all present ourselves; dis-horn the spirit, And mock him home to Windsor. FORD. The children must Be practis'd well to this or they'll ne'er do 't. EVANS. I will teach the children their behaviours; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with my taber. FORD. That will be excellent. I'll go buy them vizards. MRS. PAGE. My Nan shall be the Queen of all the Fairies, Finely attired in a robe of white. PAGE. That silk will I go buy. [Aside.] And in that time Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away, And marry her at Eton. Go, send to Falstaff straight. FORD. Nay, I'll to him again, in name of Brook; He'll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he'll come. MRS. PAGE. Fear not you that. Go, get us properties And tricking for our fairies. EVANS. Let us about it. It is admirable pleasures, and fery honest knaveries. [Exeunt PAGE, FORD, and EVANS.] MRS. PAGE. Go, Mistress Ford. Send Quickly to Sir John to know his mind. [Exit MRS. FORD.] I'll to the Doctor; he hath my good will, And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot; And he my husband best of all affects: The Doctor is well money'd, and his friends Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her, Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her. [Exit.]

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 4 scene 5-6 using the context provided.

Scene 5-6 . At the Garter Inn, Simple is looking for the fat woman of Brainford. She is also known as a wise woman, and he has a question to ask her from Slender. Simple asks to see Falstaff, because he has caught sight of him still in his disguise and thinks that the woman is in Falstaff's room. After Falstaff tells the Host that she has gone, Simple tells Falstaff that Slender wanted to ask the wise woman whether he would marry Anne Page. Falstaff gives him a "wise guy" answer that doesn't tell him anything, and says he heard it from the old woman herself. Satisfied with this, Simple leaves. . Bardolph enters with news that the Germans have stolen the Host's horses, but the Host is loathe to believe the worst of his guests. That is, until Evans enters with the information that the Germans have tricked all the innkeepers of the nearby towns of their horses and their money. Caius confirms that there is no duke at the court who goes by the name that the Germans have supplied. Distressed, the Host calls for a hue and cry to catch the thieves. He exits with Bardolph. . Mistress Quickly enters and says she has come from Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford. Falstaff is in no mood to listen to her, and says he has suffered enough. She says that the women have suffered too, especially Mrs. Ford, who has been badly beaten by her husband. Quickly presents Falstaff with a letter , and he invites her into his room. . In scene 6, Fenton promises to pay the Host even more money than he has lost if he will cooperate with him. Fenton explains that Anne has been told by her father to slip away from the forest in her disguise as the fairy queen, and go to Eton where she will be immediately be married to Slender. Fenton says that Anne has consented to this plan . But Mrs. Page, says Fenton, has other plans. She has arranged for Anne to slip away and be married to Caius, to which plan it appears that Anne has also agreed. Page expects his daughter to be dressed in white in the forest, whereas Mrs. Page expects her to be dressed in green. The color of her clothing is important because that is how the would-be grooms will be able to recognize her. Fenton wants the Host to secure the services of a vicar and to wait at the church, where he intends to bring Anne and marry her. .

----------ACT 4 SCENE 5-6--------- SCENE 5. A room in the Garter Inn. [Enter HOST and SIMPLE.] HOST. What wouldst thou have, boor? What, thick-skin? Speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap. SIMPLE. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender. HOST. There's his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing-bed and truckle-bed; 'tis painted about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go knock and call; he'll speak like an Anthropophaginian unto thee; knock, I say. SIMPLE. There's an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber; I'll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come down; I come to speak with her, indeed. HOST. Ha! a fat woman? The knight may be robbed. I'll call. Bully knight! Bully Sir John! Speak from thy lungs military. Art thou there? It is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls. FALSTAFF. [Above] How now, mine host? HOST. Here's a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully, let her descend; my chambers are honourible. Fie! privacy? fie! [Enter FALSTAFF.] FALSTAFF. There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with, me; but she's gone. SIMPLE. Pray you, sir, was't not the wise woman of Brainford? FALSTAFF. Ay, marry was it, mussel-shell: what would you with her? SIMPLE. My master, sir, my Master Slender, sent to her, seeing her go thorough the streets, to know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the chain or no. FALSTAFF. I spake with the old woman about it. SIMPLE. And what says she, I pray, sir? FALSTAFF. Marry, she says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him of it. SIMPLE. I would I could have spoken with the woman herself; I had other things to have spoken with her too, from him. FALSTAFF. What are they? Let us know. HOST. Ay, come; quick. SIMPLE. I may not conceal them, sir. FALSTAFF. Conceal them, or thou diest. SIMPLE. Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne Page: to know if it were my master's fortune to have her or no. FALSTAFF. 'Tis, 'tis his fortune. SIMPLE. What sir? FALSTAFF. To have her, or no. Go; say the woman told me so. SIMPLE. May I be bold to say so, sir? FALSTAFF. Ay, Sir Tike; like who more bold? SIMPLE. I thank your worship; I shall make my master glad with these tidings. [Exit.] HOST. Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was there a wise woman with thee? FALSTAFF. Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught me more wit than ever I learned before in my life; and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for my learning. [Enter BARDOLPH.] BARDOLPH. Out, alas, sir! cozenage, mere cozenage! HOST. Where be my horses? Speak well of them, varletto. BARDOLPH. Run away, with the cozeners; for so soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off, from behind one of them, in a slough of mire; and set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses. HOST. They are gone but to meet the Duke, villain; do not say they be fled; Germans are honest men. [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS.] EVANS. Where is mine host? HOST. What is the matter, sir? EVANS. Have a care of your entertainments: there is a friend of mine come to town tells me there is three cozen-germans that has cozened all the hosts of Readins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell you for good will, look you; you are wise, and full of gibes and vlouting-stogs, and 'tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well. [Exit.] [Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.] CAIUS. Vere is mine host de Jarteer? HOST. Here, Master Doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma. CAIUS. I cannot tell vat is dat; but it is tell-a me dat you make grand preparation for a Duke de Jamany. By my trot, dere is no duke that the court is know to come; I tell you for good will: Adieu. [Exit.] HOST. Hue and cry, villain, go! Assist me, knight; I am undone. Fly, run, hue and cry, villain; I am undone! [Exeunt HOST and BARDOLPH.] FALSTAFF. I would all the world might be cozened, for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it should come to the ear of the court how I have been transformed, and how my transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat, drop by drop, and liquor fishermen's boots with me; I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never prospered since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would repent. [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.] Now! whence come you? QUICKLY. From the two parties, forsooth. FALSTAFF. The devil take one party and his dam the other! And so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more for their sakes, more than the villainous inconstancy of man's disposition is able to bear. QUICKLY. And have not they suffered? Yes, I warrant; speciously one of them; Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her. FALSTAFF. What tellest thou me of black and blue? I was beaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow; and was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brainford. But that my admirable dexterity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, delivered me, the knave constable had set me i' the stocks, i' the common stocks, for a witch. QUICKLY. Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber; you shall hear how things go, and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed. FALSTAFF. Come up into my chamber. [Exeunt.] SCENE 6. Another room in the Garter Inn. [Enter FENTON and HOST.] HOST. Master Fenton, talk not to me; my mind is heavy; I will give over all. FENTON. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose, And, as I am a gentleman, I'll give thee A hundred pound in gold more than your loss. HOST. I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will, at the least, keep your counsel. FENTON. From time to time I have acquainted you With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page, Who, mutually, hath answered my affection, So far forth as herself might be her chooser, Even to my wish. I have a letter from her Of such contents as you will wonder at; The mirth whereof so larded with my matter That neither, singly, can be manifested Without the show of both; wherein fat Falstaff Hath a great scare: the image of the jest I'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host: To-night at Herne's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one, Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen; The purpose why is here: in which disguise, While other jests are something rank on foot, Her father hath commanded her to slip Away with Slender, and with him at Eton Immediately to marry; she hath consented: Now, sir, Her mother, even strong against that match And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed That he shall likewise shuffle her away, While other sports are tasking of their minds; And at the deanery, where a priest attends, Straight marry her: to this her mother's plot She seemingly obedient likewise hath Made promise to the doctor. Now thus it rests: Her father means she shall be all in white; And in that habit, when Slender sees his time To take her by the hand and bid her go, She shall go with him: her mother hath intended The better to denote her to the doctor,-- For they must all be mask'd and vizarded-- That quaint in green she shall be loose enrob'd, With ribands pendent, flaring 'bout her head; And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, To pinch her by the hand: and, on that token, The maid hath given consent to go with him. HOST. Which means she to deceive, father or mother? FENTON. Both, my good host, to go along with me: And here it rests, that you'll procure the vicar To stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one, And in the lawful name of marrying, To give our hearts united ceremony. HOST. Well, husband your device; I'll to the vicar. Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. FENTON. So shall I evermore be bound to thee; Besides, I'll make a present recompense. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 5 SCENE 1-5--------- ACT V. SCENE 1. A room in the Garter Inn. [Enter FALSTAFF and MISTRESS QUICKLY.] FALSTAFF. Prithee, no more prattling; go: I'll hold. This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away! go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away! QUICKLY. I'll provide you a chain, and I'll do what I can to get you a pair of horns. FALSTAFF. Away, I say; time wears; hold up your head, and mince. [Exit MRS. QUICKLY.] [Enter FORD.] How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter will be known tonight, or never. Be you in the Park about midnight, at Herne's oak, and you shall see wonders. FORD. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed? FALSTAFF. I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor old man; but I came from her, Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you: he beat me grievously in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver's beam, because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste; go along with me; I'll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played truant, and whipped top, I knew not what 'twas to be beaten till lately. Follow me: I'll tell you strange things of this knave Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow. [Exeunt.] SCENE 2. Windsor Park. [Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.] PAGE. Come, come; we'll couch i' the castle-ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender, my daughter. SLENDER. Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her, and we have a nay-word how to know one another. I come to her in white and cry 'mum'; she cries 'budget,' and by that we know one another. SHALLOW. That's good too; but what needs either your 'mum' or her 'budget'? The white will decipher her well enough. It hath struck ten o'clock. PAGE. The night is dark; light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let's away; follow me. [Exeunt.] SCENE 3. The street in Windsor. [Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and DOCTOR CAIUS.] MRS. PAGE. Master Doctor, my daughter is in green; when you see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the Park; we two must go together. CAIUS. I know vat I have to do; adieu. MRS. PAGE. Fare you well, sir. [Exit CAIUS.] My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor's marrying my daughter; but 'tis no matter; better a little chiding than a great deal of heart break. MRS. FORD. Where is Nan now, and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil, Hugh? MRS. PAGE. They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne's oak, with obscured lights; which, at the very instant of Falstaff's and our meeting, they will at once display to the night. MRS. FORD. That cannot choose but amaze him. MRS. PAGE. If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked. MRS. FORD. We'll betray him finely. MRS. PAGE. Against such lewdsters and their lechery, Those that betray them do no treachery. MRS. FORD. The hour draws on: to the oak, to the oak! [Exeunt.] SCENE 4. Windsor Park [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS, disguised, with others as Fairies.] EVANS. Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts. Be pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit; and when I give the watch-ords, do as I pid you. Come, come; trib, trib. [Exeunt.] SCENE 5. Another part of the Park. [Enter FALSTAFF disguised as HERNE with a buck's head on.] FALSTAFF. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on. Now the hot-blooded gods assist me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love! that in some respects, makes a beast a man; in some other a man a beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan, for the love of Leda. O omnipotent love! how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in the form of a beast; O Jove, a beastly fault! and then another fault in the semblance of a fowl: think on't, Jove, a foul fault! When gods have hot backs what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i' the forest. Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? my doe? [Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE.] MRS. FORD. Sir John! Art thou there, my deer? my male deer? FALSTAFF. My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of 'Greensleeves'; hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here. [Embracing her.] MRS. FORD. Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart. FALSTAFF. Divide me like a brib'd buck, each a haunch; I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome! [Noise within.] MRS. PAGE. Alas! what noise? MRS. FORD. Heaven forgive our sins! FALSTAFF. What should this be? MRS. FORD. Away, away! MRS. PAGE. Away, away! [They run off.] FALSTAFF. I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire; he would never else cross me thus. [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS like a Satyr, PISTOL as a Hobgoblin, ANNE PAGE as the the Fairy Queen, attended by her Brothers and Others, as fairies, with waxen tapers on their heads.] ANNE. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality. Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes. PISTOL. Elves, list your names: silence, you airy toys! Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap: Where fires thou find'st unrak'd, and hearths unswept, There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry: Our radiant Queen hates sluts and sluttery. FALSTAFF. They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die: I'll wink and couch: no man their works must eye. [Lies down upon his face.] EVANS. Where's Bede? Go you, and where you find a maid That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said, Rein up the organs of her fantasy, Sleep she as sound as careless infancy; But those as sleep and think not on their sins, Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins. ANNE. About, about! Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out: Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room, That it may stand till the perpetual doom, In state as wholesome as in state 'tis fit, Worthy the owner and the owner it. The several chairs of order look you scour With juice of balm and every precious flower: Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, With loyal blazon, evermore be blest! And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing, Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring: The expressure that it bears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see; And 'Honi soit qui mal y pense' write In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue and white; Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee. Fairies use flowers for their charactery. Away! disperse! But, till 'tis one o'clock, Our dance of custom round about the oak Of Herne the hunter let us not forget. EVANS. Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set; And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be, To guide our measure round about the tree. But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth. FALSTAFF. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese! PISTOL. Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth. ANNE. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end: If he be chaste, the flame will back descend And turn him to no pain; but if he start, It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. PISTOL. A trial! come. EVANS. Come, will this wood take fire? [They burn him with their tapers.] FALSTAFF. Oh, oh, oh! ANNE. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! About him, fairies; sing a scornful rhyme; And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. SONG. Fie on sinful fantasy! Fie on lust and luxury! Lust is but a bloody fire, Kindled with unchaste desire, Fed in heart, whose flames aspire, As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. Pinch him, fairies, mutually; Pinch him for his villany; Pinch him and burn him and turn him about, Till candles and star-light and moonshine be out. [During this song the Fairies pinch FALSTAFF. DOCTOR CAIUS comes one way, and steals away a fairy in green; SLENDER another way, and takes off a fairy in white; and FENTON comes, and steals away ANNE PAGE. A noise of hunting is heard within. All the fairies run away. FALSTAFF pulls off his buck's head, and rises.] [Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD. They lay hold on FALSTAFF.] PAGE. Nay, do not fly; I think we have watch'd you now: Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn? MRS. PAGE. I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher. Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives? See you these, husband? do not these fair yokes Become the forest better than the town? FORD. Now, sir, who's a cuckold now? Master Brook, Falstaff's a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here are his horns, Master Brook; and, Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of Ford's but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be paid to Master Brook; his horses are arrested for it, Master Brook. MRS. FORD. Sir John, we have had ill luck; we could never meet. I will never take you for my love again; but I will always count you my deer. FALSTAFF. I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass. FORD. Ay, and an ox too; both the proofs are extant. FALSTAFF. And these are not fairies? I was three or four times in the thought they were not fairies; and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See now how wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent when 'tis upon ill employment! EVANS. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you. FORD. Well said, fairy Hugh. EVANS. And leave you your jealousies too, I pray you. FORD. I will never mistrust my wife again, till thou art able to woo her in good English. FALSTAFF. Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o'er-reaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? Shall I have a cox-comb of frieze? 'Tis time I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese. EVANS. Seese is not good to give putter: your belly is all putter. FALSTAFF. 'Seese' and 'putter'! Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking through the realm. MRS. PAGE. Why, Sir John, do you think, though we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight? FORD. What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax? MRS. PAGE. A puffed man? PAGE. Old, cold, withered, and of intolerable entrails? FORD. And one that is as slanderous as Satan? PAGE. And as poor as Job? FORD. And as wicked as his wife? EVANS. And given to fornications, and to taverns, and sack and wine, and metheglins, and to drinkings and swearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles? FALSTAFF. Well, I am your theme; you have the start of me; I am dejected; I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel. Ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me; use me as you will. FORD. Marry, sir, we'll bring you to Windsor, to one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to whom you should have been a pander: over and above that you have suffered, I think to repay that money will be a biting affliction. MRS. FORD. Nay, husband, let that go to make amends; Forget that sum, so we'll all be friends. FORD. Well, here's my hand: all is forgiven at last. PAGE. Yet be cheerful, knight; thou shalt eat a posset tonight at my house; where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee. Tell her, Master Slender hath married her daughter. MRS. PAGE. [Aside] Doctors doubt that; if Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius' wife. [Enter SLENDER.] SLENDER. Whoa, ho! ho! father Page! PAGE. Son, how now! how now, son! have you dispatched? SLENDER. Dispatched! I'll make the best in Gloucestershire know on't; would I were hanged, la, else! PAGE. Of what, son? SLENDER. I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she's a great lubberly boy: if it had not been i' the church, I would have swinged him, or he should have swinged me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir! and 'tis a postmaster's boy. PAGE. Upon my life, then, you took the wrong. SLENDER. What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for all he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had him. PAGE. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you how you should know my daughter by her garments? SLENDER. I went to her in white and cried 'mum' and she cried 'budget' as Anne and I had appointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a postmaster's boy. EVANS. Jeshu! Master Slender, cannot you see put marry poys? PAGE. O I am vexed at heart: what shall I do? MRS. PAGE. Good George, be not angry: I knew of your purpose; turned my daughter into green; and, indeed, she is now with the doctor at the deanery, and there married. [Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.] CAIUS. Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened; I ha' married un garcon, a boy; un paysan, by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page; by gar, I am cozened. MRS. PAGE. Why, did you take her in green? CAIUS. Ay, by gar, and 'tis a boy: by gar, I'll raise all Windsor. [Exit.] FORD. This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne? PAGE. My heart misgives me; here comes Master Fenton. [Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE.] How now, Master Fenton! ANNE. Pardon, good father! good my mother, pardon! PAGE. Now, Mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender? MRS. PAGE. Why went you not with Master Doctor, maid? FENTON. You do amaze her: hear the truth of it. You would have married her most shamefully, Where there was no proportion held in love. The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. The offence is holy that she hath committed, And this deceit loses the name of craft, Of disobedience, or unduteous title, Since therein she doth evitate and shun A thousand irreligious cursed hours, Which forced marriage would have brought upon her. FORD. Stand not amaz'd: here is no remedy: In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state: Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. FALSTAFF. I am glad, though you have ta'en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. PAGE. Well, what remedy?--Fenton, heaven give thee joy! What cannot be eschew'd must be embrac'd. FALSTAFF. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chas'd. MRS. PAGE. Well, I will muse no further. Master Fenton, Heaven give you many, many merry days! Good husband, let us every one go home, And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire; Sir John and all. FORD. Let it be so. Sir John, To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word; For he, to-night, shall lie with Mistress Ford. [Exeunt.]

Middlemarch.book 1.chapte

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of book 1, chapter 4, utilizing the provided context.

book 1, chapter 4|book 1, chapter 7

Sir James has acted on Dorothea's plan, and made new, more pleasant cottages for his poor tenants; Dorothea is still determined not to think highly of him, though Celia is rather fond of Sir James. Dorothea admits to her sister that she does not like Sir James, although he plainly likes her; Celia cannot believe that Dorothea could so easily dismiss a man who loves her. When Dorothea gets back, her uncle tells her that he went to visit Casaubon, and Casaubon inquired about marrying Dorothea. Mr. Brooke is against it, because of Casaubon's tendency to mope about and live in books; but, when Dorothea says that she would accept Casaubon over Sir Chettam, Mr. Brooke speaks diplomatically, while laying out before her the realities of marriage. Though Dorothea listens, she does not seem to absorb all the important things he says. Mr. Brooke has brought back a letter of proposal to Dorothea, and she is determined to accept.

----------BOOK 1, CHAPTER 4--------- 1st Gent. Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves. 2d Gent. Ay, truly: but I think it is the world That brings the iron. "Sir James seems determined to do everything you wish," said Celia, as they were driving home from an inspection of the new building-site. "He is a good creature, and more sensible than any one would imagine," said Dorothea, inconsiderately. "You mean that he appears silly." "No, no," said Dorothea, recollecting herself, and laying her hand on her sister's a moment, "but he does not talk equally well on all subjects." "I should think none but disagreeable people do," said Celia, in her usual purring way. "They must be very dreadful to live with. Only think! at breakfast, and always." Dorothea laughed. "O Kitty, you are a wonderful creature!" She pinched Celia's chin, being in the mood now to think her very winning and lovely--fit hereafter to be an eternal cherub, and if it were not doctrinally wrong to say so, hardly more in need of salvation than a squirrel. "Of course people need not be always talking well. Only one tells the quality of their minds when they try to talk well." "You mean that Sir James tries and fails." "I was speaking generally. Why do you catechise me about Sir James? It is not the object of his life to please me." "Now, Dodo, can you really believe that?" "Certainly. He thinks of me as a future sister--that is all." Dorothea had never hinted this before, waiting, from a certain shyness on such subjects which was mutual between the sisters, until it should be introduced by some decisive event. Celia blushed, but said at once-- "Pray do not make that mistake any longer, Dodo. When Tantripp was brushing my hair the other day, she said that Sir James's man knew from Mrs. Cadwallader's maid that Sir James was to marry the eldest Miss Brooke." "How can you let Tantripp talk such gossip to you, Celia?" said Dorothea, indignantly, not the less angry because details asleep in her memory were now awakened to confirm the unwelcome revelation. "You must have asked her questions. It is degrading." "I see no harm at all in Tantripp's talking to me. It is better to hear what people say. You see what mistakes you make by taking up notions. I am quite sure that Sir James means to make you an offer; and he believes that you will accept him, especially since you have been so pleased with him about the plans. And uncle too--I know he expects it. Every one can see that Sir James is very much in love with you." The revulsion was so strong and painful in Dorothea's mind that the tears welled up and flowed abundantly. All her dear plans were embittered, and she thought with disgust of Sir James's conceiving that she recognized him as her lover. There was vexation too on account of Celia. "How could he expect it?" she burst forth in her most impetuous manner. "I have never agreed with him about anything but the cottages: I was barely polite to him before." "But you have been so pleased with him since then; he has begun to feel quite sure that you are fond of him." "Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such odious expressions?" said Dorothea, passionately. "Dear me, Dorothea, I suppose it would be right for you to be fond of a man whom you accepted for a husband." "It is offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond of him. Besides, it is not the right word for the feeling I must have towards the man I would accept as a husband." "Well, I am sorry for Sir James. I thought it right to tell you, because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, and treading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees; it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain. That's your way, Dodo." Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage; and she was not sparing the sister of whom she was occasionally in awe. Who can tell what just criticisms Murr the Cat may be passing on us beings of wider speculation? "It is very painful," said Dorothea, feeling scourged. "I can have no more to do with the cottages. I must be uncivil to him. I must tell him I will have nothing to do with them. It is very painful." Her eyes filled again with tears. "Wait a little. Think about it. You know he is going away for a day or two to see his sister. There will be nobody besides Lovegood." Celia could not help relenting. "Poor Dodo," she went on, in an amiable staccato. "It is very hard: it is your favorite _fad_ to draw plans." "_Fad_ to draw plans! Do you think I only care about my fellow-creatures' houses in that childish way? I may well make mistakes. How can one ever do anything nobly Christian, living among people with such petty thoughts?" No more was said; Dorothea was too much jarred to recover her temper and behave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself. She was disposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and the purblind conscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longer the eternal cherub, but a thorn in her spirit, a pink-and-white nullifidian, worse than any discouraging presence in the "Pilgrim's Progress." The _fad_ of drawing plans! What was life worth--what great faith was possible when the whole effect of one's actions could be withered up into such parched rubbish as that? When she got out of the carriage, her cheeks were pale and her eyelids red. She was an image of sorrow, and her uncle who met her in the hall would have been alarmed, if Celia had not been close to her looking so pretty and composed, that he at once concluded Dorothea's tears to have their origin in her excessive religiousness. He had returned, during their absence, from a journey to the county town, about a petition for the pardon of some criminal. "Well, my dears," he said, kindly, as they went up to kiss him, "I hope nothing disagreeable has happened while I have been away." "No, uncle," said Celia, "we have been to Freshitt to look at the cottages. We thought you would have been at home to lunch." "I came by Lowick to lunch--you didn't know I came by Lowick. And I have brought a couple of pamphlets for you, Dorothea--in the library, you know; they lie on the table in the library." It seemed as if an electric stream went through Dorothea, thrilling her from despair into expectation. They were pamphlets about the early Church. The oppression of Celia, Tantripp, and Sir James was shaken off, and she walked straight to the library. Celia went up-stairs. Mr. Brooke was detained by a message, but when he re-entered the library, he found Dorothea seated and already deep in one of the pamphlets which had some marginal manuscript of Mr. Casaubon's,--taking it in as eagerly as she might have taken in the scent of a fresh bouquet after a dry, hot, dreary walk. She was getting away from Tipton and Freshitt, and her own sad liability to tread in the wrong places on her way to the New Jerusalem. Mr. Brooke sat down in his arm-chair, stretched his legs towards the wood-fire, which had fallen into a wondrous mass of glowing dice between the dogs, and rubbed his hands gently, looking very mildly towards Dorothea, but with a neutral leisurely air, as if he had nothing particular to say. Dorothea closed her pamphlet, as soon as she was aware of her uncle's presence, and rose as if to go. Usually she would have been interested about her uncle's merciful errand on behalf of the criminal, but her late agitation had made her absent-minded. "I came back by Lowick, you know," said Mr. Brooke, not as if with any intention to arrest her departure, but apparently from his usual tendency to say what he had said before. This fundamental principle of human speech was markedly exhibited in Mr. Brooke. "I lunched there and saw Casaubon's library, and that kind of thing. There's a sharp air, driving. Won't you sit down, my dear? You look cold." Dorothea felt quite inclined to accept the invitation. Some times, when her uncle's easy way of taking things did not happen to be exasperating, it was rather soothing. She threw off her mantle and bonnet, and sat down opposite to him, enjoying the glow, but lifting up her beautiful hands for a screen. They were not thin hands, or small hands; but powerful, feminine, maternal hands. She seemed to be holding them up in propitiation for her passionate desire to know and to think, which in the unfriendly mediums of Tipton and Freshitt had issued in crying and red eyelids. She bethought herself now of the condemned criminal. "What news have you brought about the sheep-stealer, uncle?" "What, poor Bunch?--well, it seems we can't get him off--he is to be hanged." Dorothea's brow took an expression of reprobation and pity. "Hanged, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with a quiet nod. "Poor Romilly! he would have helped us. I knew Romilly. Casaubon didn't know Romilly. He is a little buried in books, you know, Casaubon is." "When a man has great studies and is writing a great work, he must of course give up seeing much of the world. How can he go about making acquaintances?" "That's true. But a man mopes, you know. I have always been a bachelor too, but I have that sort of disposition that I never moped; it was my way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I never moped: but I can see that Casaubon does, you know. He wants a companion--a companion, you know." "It would be a great honor to any one to be his companion," said Dorothea, energetically. "You like him, eh?" said Mr. Brooke, without showing any surprise, or other emotion. "Well, now, I've known Casaubon ten years, ever since he came to Lowick. But I never got anything out of him--any ideas, you know. However, he is a tiptop man and may be a bishop--that kind of thing, you know, if Peel stays in. And he has a very high opinion of you, my dear." Dorothea could not speak. "The fact is, he has a very high opinion indeed of you. And he speaks uncommonly well--does Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not being of age. In short, I have promised to speak to you, though I told him I thought there was not much chance. I was bound to tell him that. I said, my niece is very young, and that kind of thing. But I didn't think it necessary to go into everything. However, the long and the short of it is, that he has asked my permission to make you an offer of marriage--of marriage, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with his explanatory nod. "I thought it better to tell you, my dear." No one could have detected any anxiety in Mr. Brooke's manner, but he did really wish to know something of his niece's mind, that, if there were any need for advice, he might give it in time. What feeling he, as a magistrate who had taken in so many ideas, could make room for, was unmixedly kind. Since Dorothea did not speak immediately, he repeated, "I thought it better to tell you, my dear." "Thank you, uncle," said Dorothea, in a clear unwavering tone. "I am very grateful to Mr. Casaubon. If he makes me an offer, I shall accept him. I admire and honor him more than any man I ever saw." Mr. Brooke paused a little, and then said in a lingering low tone, "Ah? . . . Well! He is a good match in some respects. But now, Chettam is a good match. And our land lies together. I shall never interfere against your wishes, my dear. People should have their own way in marriage, and that sort of thing--up to a certain point, you know. I have always said that, up to a certain point. I wish you to marry well; and I have good reason to believe that Chettam wishes to marry you. I mention it, you know." "It is impossible that I should ever marry Sir James Chettam," said Dorothea. "If he thinks of marrying me, he has made a great mistake." "That is it, you see. One never knows. I should have thought Chettam was just the sort of man a woman would like, now." "Pray do not mention him in that light again, uncle," said Dorothea, feeling some of her late irritation revive. Mr. Brooke wondered, and felt that women were an inexhaustible subject of study, since even he at his age was not in a perfect state of scientific prediction about them. Here was a fellow like Chettam with no chance at all. "Well, but Casaubon, now. There is no hurry--I mean for you. It's true, every year will tell upon him. He is over five-and-forty, you know. I should say a good seven-and-twenty years older than you. To be sure,--if you like learning and standing, and that sort of thing, we can't have everything. And his income is good--he has a handsome property independent of the Church--his income is good. Still he is not young, and I must not conceal from you, my dear, that I think his health is not over-strong. I know nothing else against him." "I should not wish to have a husband very near my own age," said Dorothea, with grave decision. "I should wish to have a husband who was above me in judgment and in all knowledge." Mr. Brooke repeated his subdued, "Ah?--I thought you had more of your own opinion than most girls. I thought you liked your own opinion--liked it, you know." "I cannot imagine myself living without some opinions, but I should wish to have good reasons for them, and a wise man could help me to see which opinions had the best foundation, and would help me to live according to them." "Very true. You couldn't put the thing better--couldn't put it better, beforehand, you know. But there are oddities in things," continued Mr. Brooke, whose conscience was really roused to do the best he could for his niece on this occasion. "Life isn't cast in a mould--not cut out by rule and line, and that sort of thing. I never married myself, and it will be the better for you and yours. The fact is, I never loved any one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It _is_ a noose, you know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a husband likes to be master." "I know that I must expect trials, uncle. Marriage is a state of higher duties. I never thought of it as mere personal ease," said poor Dorothea. "Well, you are not fond of show, a great establishment, balls, dinners, that kind of thing. I can see that Casaubon's ways might suit you better than Chettam's. And you shall do as you like, my dear. I would not hinder Casaubon; I said so at once; for there is no knowing how anything may turn out. You have not the same tastes as every young lady; and a clergyman and scholar--who may be a bishop--that kind of thing--may suit you better than Chettam. Chettam is a good fellow, a good sound-hearted fellow, you know; but he doesn't go much into ideas. I did, when I was his age. But Casaubon's eyes, now. I think he has hurt them a little with too much reading." "I should be all the happier, uncle, the more room there was for me to help him," said Dorothea, ardently. "You have quite made up your mind, I see. Well, my dear, the fact is, I have a letter for you in my pocket." Mr. Brooke handed the letter to Dorothea, but as she rose to go away, he added, "There is not too much hurry, my dear. Think about it, you know." When Dorothea had left him, he reflected that he had certainly spoken strongly: he had put the risks of marriage before her in a striking manner. It was his duty to do so. But as to pretending to be wise for young people,--no uncle, however much he had travelled in his youth, absorbed the new ideas, and dined with celebrities now deceased, could pretend to judge what sort of marriage would turn out well for a young girl who preferred Casaubon to Chettam. In short, woman was a problem which, since Mr. Brooke's mind felt blank before it, could be hardly less complicated than the revolutions of an irregular solid. ----------BOOK 1, CHAPTER 7--------- "Piacer e popone Vuol la sua stagione." --Italian Proverb. Mr. Casaubon, as might be expected, spent a great deal of his time at the Grange in these weeks, and the hindrance which courtship occasioned to the progress of his great work--the Key to all Mythologies--naturally made him look forward the more eagerly to the happy termination of courtship. But he had deliberately incurred the hindrance, having made up his mind that it was now time for him to adorn his life with the graces of female companionship, to irradiate the gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the intervals of studious labor with the play of female fancy, and to secure in this, his culminating age, the solace of female tendance for his declining years. Hence he determined to abandon himself to the stream of feeling, and perhaps was surprised to find what an exceedingly shallow rill it was. As in droughty regions baptism by immersion could only be performed symbolically, Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge which his stream would afford him; and he concluded that the poets had much exaggerated the force of masculine passion. Nevertheless, he observed with pleasure that Miss Brooke showed an ardent submissive affection which promised to fulfil his most agreeable previsions of marriage. It had once or twice crossed his mind that possibly there was some deficiency in Dorothea to account for the moderation of his abandonment; but he was unable to discern the deficiency, or to figure to himself a woman who would have pleased him better; so that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the exaggerations of human tradition. "Could I not be preparing myself now to be more useful?" said Dorothea to him, one morning, early in the time of courtship; "could I not learn to read Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton's daughters did to their father, without understanding what they read?" "I fear that would be wearisome to you," said Mr. Casaubon, smiling; "and, indeed, if I remember rightly, the young women you have mentioned regarded that exercise in unknown tongues as a ground for rebellion against the poet." "Yes; but in the first place they were very naughty girls, else they would have been proud to minister to such a father; and in the second place they might have studied privately and taught themselves to understand what they read, and then it would have been interesting. I hope you don't expect me to be naughty and stupid?" "I expect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in every possible relation of life. Certainly it might be a great advantage if you were able to copy the Greek character, and to that end it were well to begin with a little reading." Dorothea seized this as a precious permission. She would not have asked Mr. Casaubon at once to teach her the languages, dreading of all things to be tiresome instead of helpful; but it was not entirely out of devotion to her future husband that she wished to know Latin and Greek. Those provinces of masculine knowledge seemed to her a standing-ground from which all truth could be seen more truly. As it was, she constantly doubted her own conclusions, because she felt her own ignorance: how could she be confident that one-roomed cottages were not for the glory of God, when men who knew the classics appeared to conciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for the glory? Perhaps even Hebrew might be necessary--at least the alphabet and a few roots--in order to arrive at the core of things, and judge soundly on the social duties of the Christian. And she had not reached that point of renunciation at which she would have been satisfied with having a wise husband: she wished, poor child, to be wise herself. Miss Brooke was certainly very naive with all her alleged cleverness. Celia, whose mind had never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other people's pretensions much more readily. To have in general but little feeling, seems to be the only security against feeling too much on any particular occasion. However, Mr. Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour together, like a schoolmaster of little boys, or rather like a lover, to whom a mistress's elementary ignorance and difficulties have a touching fitness. Few scholars would have disliked teaching the alphabet under such circumstances. But Dorothea herself was a little shocked and discouraged at her own stupidity, and the answers she got to some timid questions about the value of the Greek accents gave her a painful suspicion that here indeed there might be secrets not capable of explanation to a woman's reason. Mr. Brooke had no doubt on that point, and expressed himself with his usual strength upon it one day that he came into the library while the reading was going forward. "Well, but now, Casaubon, such deep studies, classics, mathematics, that kind of thing, are too taxing for a woman--too taxing, you know." "Dorothea is learning to read the characters simply," said Mr. Casaubon, evading the question. "She had the very considerate thought of saving my eyes." "Ah, well, without understanding, you know--that may not be so bad. But there is a lightness about the feminine mind--a touch and go--music, the fine arts, that kind of thing--they should study those up to a certain point, women should; but in a light way, you know. A woman should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old English tune. That is what I like; though I have heard most things--been at the opera in Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that sort. But I'm a conservative in music--it's not like ideas, you know. I stick to the good old tunes." "Mr. Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not," said Dorothea, whose slight regard for domestic music and feminine fine art must be forgiven her, considering the small tinkling and smearing in which they chiefly consisted at that dark period. She smiled and looked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes. If he had always been asking her to play the "Last Rose of Summer," she would have required much resignation. "He says there is only an old harpsichord at Lowick, and it is covered with books." "Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear. Celia, now, plays very prettily, and is always ready to play. However, since Casaubon does not like it, you are all right. But it's a pity you should not have little recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung--that kind of thing, you know--will not do." "I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears teased with measured noises," said Mr. Casaubon. "A tune much iterated has the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort of minuet to keep time--an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after boyhood. As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn celebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to the ancient conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not immediately concerned." "No; but music of that sort I should enjoy," said Dorothea. "When we were coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the great organ at Freiberg, and it made me sob." "That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear," said Mr. Brooke. "Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to take things more quietly, eh, Dorothea?" He ended with a smile, not wishing to hurt his niece, but really thinking that it was perhaps better for her to be early married to so sober a fellow as Casaubon, since she would not hear of Chettam. "It is wonderful, though," he said to himself as he shuffled out of the room--"it is wonderful that she should have liked him. However, the match is good. I should have been travelling out of my brief to have hindered it, let Mrs. Cadwallader say what she will. He is pretty certain to be a bishop, is Casaubon. That was a very seasonable pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:--a deanery at least. They owe him a deanery." And here I must vindicate a claim to philosophical reflectiveness, by remarking that Mr. Brooke on this occasion little thought of the Radical speech which, at a later period, he was led to make on the incomes of the bishops. What elegant historian would neglect a striking opportunity for pointing out that his heroes did not foresee the history of the world, or even their own actions?--For example, that Henry of Navarre, when a Protestant baby, little thought of being a Catholic monarch; or that Alfred the Great, when he measured his laborious nights with burning candles, had no idea of future gentlemen measuring their idle days with watches. Here is a mine of truth, which, however vigorously it may be worked, is likely to outlast our coal. But of Mr. Brooke I make a further remark perhaps less warranted by precedent--namely, that if he had foreknown his speech, it might not have made any great difference. To think with pleasure of his niece's husband having a large ecclesiastical income was one thing--to make a Liberal speech was another thing; and it is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of book 1, chapter 8, utilizing the provided context.

book 1, chapter 8|book 1, chapter 4

Sir James, in spite of Dorothea's engagement, begins to like visiting the Grange, her home, once again; he is stung by her rejection, and cannot understand her attraction to Casaubon at all. He goes to speak to Mr. Cadwallader, a great friend, to clear his mind about this issue. Sir James cannot help his great pride, but at least he is very civil to Dorothea, and does not let his distaste for her marriage interfere with his plans to make the cottages she proposed.

----------BOOK 1, CHAPTER 8--------- "Oh, rescue her! I am her brother now, And you her father. Every gentle maid Should have a guardian in each gentleman." It was wonderful to Sir James Chettam how well he continued to like going to the Grange after he had once encountered the difficulty of seeing Dorothea for the first time in the light of a woman who was engaged to another man. Of course the forked lightning seemed to pass through him when he first approached her, and he remained conscious throughout the interview of hiding uneasiness; but, good as he was, it must be owned that his uneasiness was less than it would have been if he had thought his rival a brilliant and desirable match. He had no sense of being eclipsed by Mr. Casaubon; he was only shocked that Dorothea was under a melancholy illusion, and his mortification lost some of its bitterness by being mingled with compassion. Nevertheless, while Sir James said to himself that he had completely resigned her, since with the perversity of a Desdemona she had not affected a proposed match that was clearly suitable and according to nature; he could not yet be quite passive under the idea of her engagement to Mr. Casaubon. On the day when he first saw them together in the light of his present knowledge, it seemed to him that he had not taken the affair seriously enough. Brooke was really culpable; he ought to have hindered it. Who could speak to him? Something might be done perhaps even now, at least to defer the marriage. On his way home he turned into the Rectory and asked for Mr. Cadwallader. Happily, the Rector was at home, and his visitor was shown into the study, where all the fishing tackle hung. But he himself was in a little room adjoining, at work with his turning apparatus, and he called to the baronet to join him there. The two were better friends than any other landholder and clergyman in the county--a significant fact which was in agreement with the amiable expression of their faces. Mr. Cadwallader was a large man, with full lips and a sweet smile; very plain and rough in his exterior, but with that solid imperturbable ease and good-humor which is infectious, and like great grassy hills in the sunshine, quiets even an irritated egoism, and makes it rather ashamed of itself. "Well, how are you?" he said, showing a hand not quite fit to be grasped. "Sorry I missed you before. Is there anything particular? You look vexed." Sir James's brow had a little crease in it, a little depression of the eyebrow, which he seemed purposely to exaggerate as he answered. "It is only this conduct of Brooke's. I really think somebody should speak to him." "What? meaning to stand?" said Mr. Cadwallader, going on with the arrangement of the reels which he had just been turning. "I hardly think he means it. But where's the harm, if he likes it? Any one who objects to Whiggery should be glad when the Whigs don't put up the strongest fellow. They won't overturn the Constitution with our friend Brooke's head for a battering ram." "Oh, I don't mean that," said Sir James, who, after putting down his hat and throwing himself into a chair, had begun to nurse his leg and examine the sole of his boot with much bitterness. "I mean this marriage. I mean his letting that blooming young girl marry Casaubon." "What is the matter with Casaubon? I see no harm in him--if the girl likes him." "She is too young to know what she likes. Her guardian ought to interfere. He ought not to allow the thing to be done in this headlong manner. I wonder a man like you, Cadwallader--a man with daughters, can look at the affair with indifference: and with such a heart as yours! Do think seriously about it." "I am not joking; I am as serious as possible," said the Rector, with a provoking little inward laugh. "You are as bad as Elinor. She has been wanting me to go and lecture Brooke; and I have reminded her that her friends had a very poor opinion of the match she made when she married me." "But look at Casaubon," said Sir James, indignantly. "He must be fifty, and I don't believe he could ever have been much more than the shadow of a man. Look at his legs!" "Confound you handsome young fellows! you think of having it all your own way in the world. You don't under stand women. They don't admire you half so much as you admire yourselves. Elinor used to tell her sisters that she married me for my ugliness--it was so various and amusing that it had quite conquered her prudence." "You! it was easy enough for a woman to love you. But this is no question of beauty. I don't _like_ Casaubon." This was Sir James's strongest way of implying that he thought ill of a man's character. "Why? what do you know against him?" said the Rector laying down his reels, and putting his thumbs into his armholes with an air of attention. Sir James paused. He did not usually find it easy to give his reasons: it seemed to him strange that people should not know them without being told, since he only felt what was reasonable. At last he said-- "Now, Cadwallader, has he got any heart?" "Well, yes. I don't mean of the melting sort, but a sound kernel, _that_ you may be sure of. He is very good to his poor relations: pensions several of the women, and is educating a young fellow at a good deal of expense. Casaubon acts up to his sense of justice. His mother's sister made a bad match--a Pole, I think--lost herself--at any rate was disowned by her family. If it had not been for that, Casaubon would not have had so much money by half. I believe he went himself to find out his cousins, and see what he could do for them. Every man would not ring so well as that, if you tried his metal. _You_ would, Chettam; but not every man." "I don't know," said Sir James, coloring. "I am not so sure of myself." He paused a moment, and then added, "That was a right thing for Casaubon to do. But a man may wish to do what is right, and yet be a sort of parchment code. A woman may not be happy with him. And I think when a girl is so young as Miss Brooke is, her friends ought to interfere a little to hinder her from doing anything foolish. You laugh, because you fancy I have some feeling on my own account. But upon my honor, it is not that. I should feel just the same if I were Miss Brooke's brother or uncle." "Well, but what should you do?" "I should say that the marriage must not be decided on until she was of age. And depend upon it, in that case, it would never come off. I wish you saw it as I do--I wish you would talk to Brooke about it." Sir James rose as he was finishing his sentence, for he saw Mrs. Cadwallader entering from the study. She held by the hand her youngest girl, about five years old, who immediately ran to papa, and was made comfortable on his knee. "I hear what you are talking about," said the wife. "But you will make no impression on Humphrey. As long as the fish rise to his bait, everybody is what he ought to be. Bless you, Casaubon has got a trout-stream, and does not care about fishing in it himself: could there be a better fellow?" "Well, there is something in that," said the Rector, with his quiet, inward laugh. "It is a very good quality in a man to have a trout-stream." "But seriously," said Sir James, whose vexation had not yet spent itself, "don't you think the Rector might do some good by speaking?" "Oh, I told you beforehand what he would say," answered Mrs. Cadwallader, lifting up her eyebrows. "I have done what I could: I wash my hands of the marriage." "In the first place," said the Rector, looking rather grave, "it would be nonsensical to expect that I could convince Brooke, and make him act accordingly. Brooke is a very good fellow, but pulpy; he will run into any mould, but he won't keep shape." "He might keep shape long enough to defer the marriage," said Sir James. "But, my dear Chettam, why should I use my influence to Casaubon's disadvantage, unless I were much surer than I am that I should be acting for the advantage of Miss Brooke? I know no harm of Casaubon. I don't care about his Xisuthrus and Fee-fo-fum and the rest; but then he doesn't care about my fishing-tackle. As to the line he took on the Catholic Question, that was unexpected; but he has always been civil to me, and I don't see why I should spoil his sport. For anything I can tell, Miss Brooke may be happier with him than she would be with any other man." "Humphrey! I have no patience with you. You know you would rather dine under the hedge than with Casaubon alone. You have nothing to say to each other." "What has that to do with Miss Brooke's marrying him? She does not do it for my amusement." "He has got no good red blood in his body," said Sir James. "No. Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass and it was all semicolons and parentheses," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Why does he not bring out his book, instead of marrying," said Sir James, with a disgust which he held warranted by the sound feeling of an English layman. "Oh, he dreams footnotes, and they run away with all his brains. They say, when he was a little boy, he made an abstract of 'Hop o' my Thumb,' and he has been making abstracts ever since. Ugh! And that is the man Humphrey goes on saying that a woman may be happy with." "Well, he is what Miss Brooke likes," said the Rector. "I don't profess to understand every young lady's taste." "But if she were your own daughter?" said Sir James. "That would be a different affair. She is _not_ my daughter, and I don't feel called upon to interfere. Casaubon is as good as most of us. He is a scholarly clergyman, and creditable to the cloth. Some Radical fellow speechifying at Middlemarch said Casaubon was the learned straw-chopping incumbent, and Freke was the brick-and-mortar incumbent, and I was the angling incumbent. And upon my word, I don't see that one is worse or better than the other." The Rector ended with his silent laugh. He always saw the joke of any satire against himself. His conscience was large and easy, like the rest of him: it did only what it could do without any trouble. Clearly, there would be no interference with Miss Brooke's marriage through Mr. Cadwallader; and Sir James felt with some sadness that she was to have perfect liberty of misjudgment. It was a sign of his good disposition that he did not slacken at all in his intention of carrying out Dorothea's design of the cottages. Doubtless this persistence was the best course for his own dignity: but pride only helps us to be generous; it never makes us so, any more than vanity makes us witty. She was now enough aware of Sir James's position with regard to her, to appreciate the rectitude of his perseverance in a landlord's duty, to which he had at first been urged by a lover's complaisance, and her pleasure in it was great enough to count for something even in her present happiness. Perhaps she gave to Sir James Chettam's cottages all the interest she could spare from Mr. Casaubon, or rather from the symphony of hopeful dreams, admiring trust, and passionate self devotion which that learned gentleman had set playing in her soul. Hence it happened that in the good baronet's succeeding visits, while he was beginning to pay small attentions to Celia, he found himself talking with more and more pleasure to Dorothea. She was perfectly unconstrained and without irritation towards him now, and he was gradually discovering the delight there is in frank kindness and companionship between a man and a woman who have no passion to hide or confess. ----------BOOK 1, CHAPTER 4--------- 1st Gent. Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves. 2d Gent. Ay, truly: but I think it is the world That brings the iron. "Sir James seems determined to do everything you wish," said Celia, as they were driving home from an inspection of the new building-site. "He is a good creature, and more sensible than any one would imagine," said Dorothea, inconsiderately. "You mean that he appears silly." "No, no," said Dorothea, recollecting herself, and laying her hand on her sister's a moment, "but he does not talk equally well on all subjects." "I should think none but disagreeable people do," said Celia, in her usual purring way. "They must be very dreadful to live with. Only think! at breakfast, and always." Dorothea laughed. "O Kitty, you are a wonderful creature!" She pinched Celia's chin, being in the mood now to think her very winning and lovely--fit hereafter to be an eternal cherub, and if it were not doctrinally wrong to say so, hardly more in need of salvation than a squirrel. "Of course people need not be always talking well. Only one tells the quality of their minds when they try to talk well." "You mean that Sir James tries and fails." "I was speaking generally. Why do you catechise me about Sir James? It is not the object of his life to please me." "Now, Dodo, can you really believe that?" "Certainly. He thinks of me as a future sister--that is all." Dorothea had never hinted this before, waiting, from a certain shyness on such subjects which was mutual between the sisters, until it should be introduced by some decisive event. Celia blushed, but said at once-- "Pray do not make that mistake any longer, Dodo. When Tantripp was brushing my hair the other day, she said that Sir James's man knew from Mrs. Cadwallader's maid that Sir James was to marry the eldest Miss Brooke." "How can you let Tantripp talk such gossip to you, Celia?" said Dorothea, indignantly, not the less angry because details asleep in her memory were now awakened to confirm the unwelcome revelation. "You must have asked her questions. It is degrading." "I see no harm at all in Tantripp's talking to me. It is better to hear what people say. You see what mistakes you make by taking up notions. I am quite sure that Sir James means to make you an offer; and he believes that you will accept him, especially since you have been so pleased with him about the plans. And uncle too--I know he expects it. Every one can see that Sir James is very much in love with you." The revulsion was so strong and painful in Dorothea's mind that the tears welled up and flowed abundantly. All her dear plans were embittered, and she thought with disgust of Sir James's conceiving that she recognized him as her lover. There was vexation too on account of Celia. "How could he expect it?" she burst forth in her most impetuous manner. "I have never agreed with him about anything but the cottages: I was barely polite to him before." "But you have been so pleased with him since then; he has begun to feel quite sure that you are fond of him." "Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such odious expressions?" said Dorothea, passionately. "Dear me, Dorothea, I suppose it would be right for you to be fond of a man whom you accepted for a husband." "It is offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond of him. Besides, it is not the right word for the feeling I must have towards the man I would accept as a husband." "Well, I am sorry for Sir James. I thought it right to tell you, because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, and treading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees; it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain. That's your way, Dodo." Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage; and she was not sparing the sister of whom she was occasionally in awe. Who can tell what just criticisms Murr the Cat may be passing on us beings of wider speculation? "It is very painful," said Dorothea, feeling scourged. "I can have no more to do with the cottages. I must be uncivil to him. I must tell him I will have nothing to do with them. It is very painful." Her eyes filled again with tears. "Wait a little. Think about it. You know he is going away for a day or two to see his sister. There will be nobody besides Lovegood." Celia could not help relenting. "Poor Dodo," she went on, in an amiable staccato. "It is very hard: it is your favorite _fad_ to draw plans." "_Fad_ to draw plans! Do you think I only care about my fellow-creatures' houses in that childish way? I may well make mistakes. How can one ever do anything nobly Christian, living among people with such petty thoughts?" No more was said; Dorothea was too much jarred to recover her temper and behave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself. She was disposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and the purblind conscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longer the eternal cherub, but a thorn in her spirit, a pink-and-white nullifidian, worse than any discouraging presence in the "Pilgrim's Progress." The _fad_ of drawing plans! What was life worth--what great faith was possible when the whole effect of one's actions could be withered up into such parched rubbish as that? When she got out of the carriage, her cheeks were pale and her eyelids red. She was an image of sorrow, and her uncle who met her in the hall would have been alarmed, if Celia had not been close to her looking so pretty and composed, that he at once concluded Dorothea's tears to have their origin in her excessive religiousness. He had returned, during their absence, from a journey to the county town, about a petition for the pardon of some criminal. "Well, my dears," he said, kindly, as they went up to kiss him, "I hope nothing disagreeable has happened while I have been away." "No, uncle," said Celia, "we have been to Freshitt to look at the cottages. We thought you would have been at home to lunch." "I came by Lowick to lunch--you didn't know I came by Lowick. And I have brought a couple of pamphlets for you, Dorothea--in the library, you know; they lie on the table in the library." It seemed as if an electric stream went through Dorothea, thrilling her from despair into expectation. They were pamphlets about the early Church. The oppression of Celia, Tantripp, and Sir James was shaken off, and she walked straight to the library. Celia went up-stairs. Mr. Brooke was detained by a message, but when he re-entered the library, he found Dorothea seated and already deep in one of the pamphlets which had some marginal manuscript of Mr. Casaubon's,--taking it in as eagerly as she might have taken in the scent of a fresh bouquet after a dry, hot, dreary walk. She was getting away from Tipton and Freshitt, and her own sad liability to tread in the wrong places on her way to the New Jerusalem. Mr. Brooke sat down in his arm-chair, stretched his legs towards the wood-fire, which had fallen into a wondrous mass of glowing dice between the dogs, and rubbed his hands gently, looking very mildly towards Dorothea, but with a neutral leisurely air, as if he had nothing particular to say. Dorothea closed her pamphlet, as soon as she was aware of her uncle's presence, and rose as if to go. Usually she would have been interested about her uncle's merciful errand on behalf of the criminal, but her late agitation had made her absent-minded. "I came back by Lowick, you know," said Mr. Brooke, not as if with any intention to arrest her departure, but apparently from his usual tendency to say what he had said before. This fundamental principle of human speech was markedly exhibited in Mr. Brooke. "I lunched there and saw Casaubon's library, and that kind of thing. There's a sharp air, driving. Won't you sit down, my dear? You look cold." Dorothea felt quite inclined to accept the invitation. Some times, when her uncle's easy way of taking things did not happen to be exasperating, it was rather soothing. She threw off her mantle and bonnet, and sat down opposite to him, enjoying the glow, but lifting up her beautiful hands for a screen. They were not thin hands, or small hands; but powerful, feminine, maternal hands. She seemed to be holding them up in propitiation for her passionate desire to know and to think, which in the unfriendly mediums of Tipton and Freshitt had issued in crying and red eyelids. She bethought herself now of the condemned criminal. "What news have you brought about the sheep-stealer, uncle?" "What, poor Bunch?--well, it seems we can't get him off--he is to be hanged." Dorothea's brow took an expression of reprobation and pity. "Hanged, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with a quiet nod. "Poor Romilly! he would have helped us. I knew Romilly. Casaubon didn't know Romilly. He is a little buried in books, you know, Casaubon is." "When a man has great studies and is writing a great work, he must of course give up seeing much of the world. How can he go about making acquaintances?" "That's true. But a man mopes, you know. I have always been a bachelor too, but I have that sort of disposition that I never moped; it was my way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I never moped: but I can see that Casaubon does, you know. He wants a companion--a companion, you know." "It would be a great honor to any one to be his companion," said Dorothea, energetically. "You like him, eh?" said Mr. Brooke, without showing any surprise, or other emotion. "Well, now, I've known Casaubon ten years, ever since he came to Lowick. But I never got anything out of him--any ideas, you know. However, he is a tiptop man and may be a bishop--that kind of thing, you know, if Peel stays in. And he has a very high opinion of you, my dear." Dorothea could not speak. "The fact is, he has a very high opinion indeed of you. And he speaks uncommonly well--does Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not being of age. In short, I have promised to speak to you, though I told him I thought there was not much chance. I was bound to tell him that. I said, my niece is very young, and that kind of thing. But I didn't think it necessary to go into everything. However, the long and the short of it is, that he has asked my permission to make you an offer of marriage--of marriage, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with his explanatory nod. "I thought it better to tell you, my dear." No one could have detected any anxiety in Mr. Brooke's manner, but he did really wish to know something of his niece's mind, that, if there were any need for advice, he might give it in time. What feeling he, as a magistrate who had taken in so many ideas, could make room for, was unmixedly kind. Since Dorothea did not speak immediately, he repeated, "I thought it better to tell you, my dear." "Thank you, uncle," said Dorothea, in a clear unwavering tone. "I am very grateful to Mr. Casaubon. If he makes me an offer, I shall accept him. I admire and honor him more than any man I ever saw." Mr. Brooke paused a little, and then said in a lingering low tone, "Ah? . . . Well! He is a good match in some respects. But now, Chettam is a good match. And our land lies together. I shall never interfere against your wishes, my dear. People should have their own way in marriage, and that sort of thing--up to a certain point, you know. I have always said that, up to a certain point. I wish you to marry well; and I have good reason to believe that Chettam wishes to marry you. I mention it, you know." "It is impossible that I should ever marry Sir James Chettam," said Dorothea. "If he thinks of marrying me, he has made a great mistake." "That is it, you see. One never knows. I should have thought Chettam was just the sort of man a woman would like, now." "Pray do not mention him in that light again, uncle," said Dorothea, feeling some of her late irritation revive. Mr. Brooke wondered, and felt that women were an inexhaustible subject of study, since even he at his age was not in a perfect state of scientific prediction about them. Here was a fellow like Chettam with no chance at all. "Well, but Casaubon, now. There is no hurry--I mean for you. It's true, every year will tell upon him. He is over five-and-forty, you know. I should say a good seven-and-twenty years older than you. To be sure,--if you like learning and standing, and that sort of thing, we can't have everything. And his income is good--he has a handsome property independent of the Church--his income is good. Still he is not young, and I must not conceal from you, my dear, that I think his health is not over-strong. I know nothing else against him." "I should not wish to have a husband very near my own age," said Dorothea, with grave decision. "I should wish to have a husband who was above me in judgment and in all knowledge." Mr. Brooke repeated his subdued, "Ah?--I thought you had more of your own opinion than most girls. I thought you liked your own opinion--liked it, you know." "I cannot imagine myself living without some opinions, but I should wish to have good reasons for them, and a wise man could help me to see which opinions had the best foundation, and would help me to live according to them." "Very true. You couldn't put the thing better--couldn't put it better, beforehand, you know. But there are oddities in things," continued Mr. Brooke, whose conscience was really roused to do the best he could for his niece on this occasion. "Life isn't cast in a mould--not cut out by rule and line, and that sort of thing. I never married myself, and it will be the better for you and yours. The fact is, I never loved any one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It _is_ a noose, you know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a husband likes to be master." "I know that I must expect trials, uncle. Marriage is a state of higher duties. I never thought of it as mere personal ease," said poor Dorothea. "Well, you are not fond of show, a great establishment, balls, dinners, that kind of thing. I can see that Casaubon's ways might suit you better than Chettam's. And you shall do as you like, my dear. I would not hinder Casaubon; I said so at once; for there is no knowing how anything may turn out. You have not the same tastes as every young lady; and a clergyman and scholar--who may be a bishop--that kind of thing--may suit you better than Chettam. Chettam is a good fellow, a good sound-hearted fellow, you know; but he doesn't go much into ideas. I did, when I was his age. But Casaubon's eyes, now. I think he has hurt them a little with too much reading." "I should be all the happier, uncle, the more room there was for me to help him," said Dorothea, ardently. "You have quite made up your mind, I see. Well, my dear, the fact is, I have a letter for you in my pocket." Mr. Brooke handed the letter to Dorothea, but as she rose to go away, he added, "There is not too much hurry, my dear. Think about it, you know." When Dorothea had left him, he reflected that he had certainly spoken strongly: he had put the risks of marriage before her in a striking manner. It was his duty to do so. But as to pretending to be wise for young people,--no uncle, however much he had travelled in his youth, absorbed the new ideas, and dined with celebrities now deceased, could pretend to judge what sort of marriage would turn out well for a young girl who preferred Casaubon to Chettam. In short, woman was a problem which, since Mr. Brooke's mind felt blank before it, could be hardly less complicated than the revolutions of an irregular solid.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of book 1, chapter 7, utilizing the provided context.

book 1, chapter 7|book 1, chapter 8

Mr. Casaubon spends a lot of time at Tipton Grange during the period leading up to their marriage. He doesn't enjoy it, though - it's time taken away from his scholarly work. Dorothea, meanwhile, is eager to prepare herself for her duties as Mrs. Casaubon. She asks him whether she should start learning Greek or Latin, in order that she might better be able to help him with his work. Learning Latin and Greek sure is fun , but Dorothea might not have the best reasons. Mr. Brooke isn't sure that learning Latin or Greek will be good for her - female minds being weak and all that. He thinks women should stick to music and light reading. Mr. Casaubon doesn't like music much, anyway - he's happy for Dorothea to learn to copy Greek characters so that she'll be able to copy manuscripts for him, and save his eyes.

----------BOOK 1, CHAPTER 7--------- "Piacer e popone Vuol la sua stagione." --Italian Proverb. Mr. Casaubon, as might be expected, spent a great deal of his time at the Grange in these weeks, and the hindrance which courtship occasioned to the progress of his great work--the Key to all Mythologies--naturally made him look forward the more eagerly to the happy termination of courtship. But he had deliberately incurred the hindrance, having made up his mind that it was now time for him to adorn his life with the graces of female companionship, to irradiate the gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the intervals of studious labor with the play of female fancy, and to secure in this, his culminating age, the solace of female tendance for his declining years. Hence he determined to abandon himself to the stream of feeling, and perhaps was surprised to find what an exceedingly shallow rill it was. As in droughty regions baptism by immersion could only be performed symbolically, Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge which his stream would afford him; and he concluded that the poets had much exaggerated the force of masculine passion. Nevertheless, he observed with pleasure that Miss Brooke showed an ardent submissive affection which promised to fulfil his most agreeable previsions of marriage. It had once or twice crossed his mind that possibly there was some deficiency in Dorothea to account for the moderation of his abandonment; but he was unable to discern the deficiency, or to figure to himself a woman who would have pleased him better; so that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the exaggerations of human tradition. "Could I not be preparing myself now to be more useful?" said Dorothea to him, one morning, early in the time of courtship; "could I not learn to read Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton's daughters did to their father, without understanding what they read?" "I fear that would be wearisome to you," said Mr. Casaubon, smiling; "and, indeed, if I remember rightly, the young women you have mentioned regarded that exercise in unknown tongues as a ground for rebellion against the poet." "Yes; but in the first place they were very naughty girls, else they would have been proud to minister to such a father; and in the second place they might have studied privately and taught themselves to understand what they read, and then it would have been interesting. I hope you don't expect me to be naughty and stupid?" "I expect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in every possible relation of life. Certainly it might be a great advantage if you were able to copy the Greek character, and to that end it were well to begin with a little reading." Dorothea seized this as a precious permission. She would not have asked Mr. Casaubon at once to teach her the languages, dreading of all things to be tiresome instead of helpful; but it was not entirely out of devotion to her future husband that she wished to know Latin and Greek. Those provinces of masculine knowledge seemed to her a standing-ground from which all truth could be seen more truly. As it was, she constantly doubted her own conclusions, because she felt her own ignorance: how could she be confident that one-roomed cottages were not for the glory of God, when men who knew the classics appeared to conciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for the glory? Perhaps even Hebrew might be necessary--at least the alphabet and a few roots--in order to arrive at the core of things, and judge soundly on the social duties of the Christian. And she had not reached that point of renunciation at which she would have been satisfied with having a wise husband: she wished, poor child, to be wise herself. Miss Brooke was certainly very naive with all her alleged cleverness. Celia, whose mind had never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other people's pretensions much more readily. To have in general but little feeling, seems to be the only security against feeling too much on any particular occasion. However, Mr. Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour together, like a schoolmaster of little boys, or rather like a lover, to whom a mistress's elementary ignorance and difficulties have a touching fitness. Few scholars would have disliked teaching the alphabet under such circumstances. But Dorothea herself was a little shocked and discouraged at her own stupidity, and the answers she got to some timid questions about the value of the Greek accents gave her a painful suspicion that here indeed there might be secrets not capable of explanation to a woman's reason. Mr. Brooke had no doubt on that point, and expressed himself with his usual strength upon it one day that he came into the library while the reading was going forward. "Well, but now, Casaubon, such deep studies, classics, mathematics, that kind of thing, are too taxing for a woman--too taxing, you know." "Dorothea is learning to read the characters simply," said Mr. Casaubon, evading the question. "She had the very considerate thought of saving my eyes." "Ah, well, without understanding, you know--that may not be so bad. But there is a lightness about the feminine mind--a touch and go--music, the fine arts, that kind of thing--they should study those up to a certain point, women should; but in a light way, you know. A woman should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old English tune. That is what I like; though I have heard most things--been at the opera in Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that sort. But I'm a conservative in music--it's not like ideas, you know. I stick to the good old tunes." "Mr. Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not," said Dorothea, whose slight regard for domestic music and feminine fine art must be forgiven her, considering the small tinkling and smearing in which they chiefly consisted at that dark period. She smiled and looked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes. If he had always been asking her to play the "Last Rose of Summer," she would have required much resignation. "He says there is only an old harpsichord at Lowick, and it is covered with books." "Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear. Celia, now, plays very prettily, and is always ready to play. However, since Casaubon does not like it, you are all right. But it's a pity you should not have little recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung--that kind of thing, you know--will not do." "I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears teased with measured noises," said Mr. Casaubon. "A tune much iterated has the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort of minuet to keep time--an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after boyhood. As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn celebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to the ancient conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not immediately concerned." "No; but music of that sort I should enjoy," said Dorothea. "When we were coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the great organ at Freiberg, and it made me sob." "That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear," said Mr. Brooke. "Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to take things more quietly, eh, Dorothea?" He ended with a smile, not wishing to hurt his niece, but really thinking that it was perhaps better for her to be early married to so sober a fellow as Casaubon, since she would not hear of Chettam. "It is wonderful, though," he said to himself as he shuffled out of the room--"it is wonderful that she should have liked him. However, the match is good. I should have been travelling out of my brief to have hindered it, let Mrs. Cadwallader say what she will. He is pretty certain to be a bishop, is Casaubon. That was a very seasonable pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:--a deanery at least. They owe him a deanery." And here I must vindicate a claim to philosophical reflectiveness, by remarking that Mr. Brooke on this occasion little thought of the Radical speech which, at a later period, he was led to make on the incomes of the bishops. What elegant historian would neglect a striking opportunity for pointing out that his heroes did not foresee the history of the world, or even their own actions?--For example, that Henry of Navarre, when a Protestant baby, little thought of being a Catholic monarch; or that Alfred the Great, when he measured his laborious nights with burning candles, had no idea of future gentlemen measuring their idle days with watches. Here is a mine of truth, which, however vigorously it may be worked, is likely to outlast our coal. But of Mr. Brooke I make a further remark perhaps less warranted by precedent--namely, that if he had foreknown his speech, it might not have made any great difference. To think with pleasure of his niece's husband having a large ecclesiastical income was one thing--to make a Liberal speech was another thing; and it is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view. ----------BOOK 1, CHAPTER 8--------- "Oh, rescue her! I am her brother now, And you her father. Every gentle maid Should have a guardian in each gentleman." It was wonderful to Sir James Chettam how well he continued to like going to the Grange after he had once encountered the difficulty of seeing Dorothea for the first time in the light of a woman who was engaged to another man. Of course the forked lightning seemed to pass through him when he first approached her, and he remained conscious throughout the interview of hiding uneasiness; but, good as he was, it must be owned that his uneasiness was less than it would have been if he had thought his rival a brilliant and desirable match. He had no sense of being eclipsed by Mr. Casaubon; he was only shocked that Dorothea was under a melancholy illusion, and his mortification lost some of its bitterness by being mingled with compassion. Nevertheless, while Sir James said to himself that he had completely resigned her, since with the perversity of a Desdemona she had not affected a proposed match that was clearly suitable and according to nature; he could not yet be quite passive under the idea of her engagement to Mr. Casaubon. On the day when he first saw them together in the light of his present knowledge, it seemed to him that he had not taken the affair seriously enough. Brooke was really culpable; he ought to have hindered it. Who could speak to him? Something might be done perhaps even now, at least to defer the marriage. On his way home he turned into the Rectory and asked for Mr. Cadwallader. Happily, the Rector was at home, and his visitor was shown into the study, where all the fishing tackle hung. But he himself was in a little room adjoining, at work with his turning apparatus, and he called to the baronet to join him there. The two were better friends than any other landholder and clergyman in the county--a significant fact which was in agreement with the amiable expression of their faces. Mr. Cadwallader was a large man, with full lips and a sweet smile; very plain and rough in his exterior, but with that solid imperturbable ease and good-humor which is infectious, and like great grassy hills in the sunshine, quiets even an irritated egoism, and makes it rather ashamed of itself. "Well, how are you?" he said, showing a hand not quite fit to be grasped. "Sorry I missed you before. Is there anything particular? You look vexed." Sir James's brow had a little crease in it, a little depression of the eyebrow, which he seemed purposely to exaggerate as he answered. "It is only this conduct of Brooke's. I really think somebody should speak to him." "What? meaning to stand?" said Mr. Cadwallader, going on with the arrangement of the reels which he had just been turning. "I hardly think he means it. But where's the harm, if he likes it? Any one who objects to Whiggery should be glad when the Whigs don't put up the strongest fellow. They won't overturn the Constitution with our friend Brooke's head for a battering ram." "Oh, I don't mean that," said Sir James, who, after putting down his hat and throwing himself into a chair, had begun to nurse his leg and examine the sole of his boot with much bitterness. "I mean this marriage. I mean his letting that blooming young girl marry Casaubon." "What is the matter with Casaubon? I see no harm in him--if the girl likes him." "She is too young to know what she likes. Her guardian ought to interfere. He ought not to allow the thing to be done in this headlong manner. I wonder a man like you, Cadwallader--a man with daughters, can look at the affair with indifference: and with such a heart as yours! Do think seriously about it." "I am not joking; I am as serious as possible," said the Rector, with a provoking little inward laugh. "You are as bad as Elinor. She has been wanting me to go and lecture Brooke; and I have reminded her that her friends had a very poor opinion of the match she made when she married me." "But look at Casaubon," said Sir James, indignantly. "He must be fifty, and I don't believe he could ever have been much more than the shadow of a man. Look at his legs!" "Confound you handsome young fellows! you think of having it all your own way in the world. You don't under stand women. They don't admire you half so much as you admire yourselves. Elinor used to tell her sisters that she married me for my ugliness--it was so various and amusing that it had quite conquered her prudence." "You! it was easy enough for a woman to love you. But this is no question of beauty. I don't _like_ Casaubon." This was Sir James's strongest way of implying that he thought ill of a man's character. "Why? what do you know against him?" said the Rector laying down his reels, and putting his thumbs into his armholes with an air of attention. Sir James paused. He did not usually find it easy to give his reasons: it seemed to him strange that people should not know them without being told, since he only felt what was reasonable. At last he said-- "Now, Cadwallader, has he got any heart?" "Well, yes. I don't mean of the melting sort, but a sound kernel, _that_ you may be sure of. He is very good to his poor relations: pensions several of the women, and is educating a young fellow at a good deal of expense. Casaubon acts up to his sense of justice. His mother's sister made a bad match--a Pole, I think--lost herself--at any rate was disowned by her family. If it had not been for that, Casaubon would not have had so much money by half. I believe he went himself to find out his cousins, and see what he could do for them. Every man would not ring so well as that, if you tried his metal. _You_ would, Chettam; but not every man." "I don't know," said Sir James, coloring. "I am not so sure of myself." He paused a moment, and then added, "That was a right thing for Casaubon to do. But a man may wish to do what is right, and yet be a sort of parchment code. A woman may not be happy with him. And I think when a girl is so young as Miss Brooke is, her friends ought to interfere a little to hinder her from doing anything foolish. You laugh, because you fancy I have some feeling on my own account. But upon my honor, it is not that. I should feel just the same if I were Miss Brooke's brother or uncle." "Well, but what should you do?" "I should say that the marriage must not be decided on until she was of age. And depend upon it, in that case, it would never come off. I wish you saw it as I do--I wish you would talk to Brooke about it." Sir James rose as he was finishing his sentence, for he saw Mrs. Cadwallader entering from the study. She held by the hand her youngest girl, about five years old, who immediately ran to papa, and was made comfortable on his knee. "I hear what you are talking about," said the wife. "But you will make no impression on Humphrey. As long as the fish rise to his bait, everybody is what he ought to be. Bless you, Casaubon has got a trout-stream, and does not care about fishing in it himself: could there be a better fellow?" "Well, there is something in that," said the Rector, with his quiet, inward laugh. "It is a very good quality in a man to have a trout-stream." "But seriously," said Sir James, whose vexation had not yet spent itself, "don't you think the Rector might do some good by speaking?" "Oh, I told you beforehand what he would say," answered Mrs. Cadwallader, lifting up her eyebrows. "I have done what I could: I wash my hands of the marriage." "In the first place," said the Rector, looking rather grave, "it would be nonsensical to expect that I could convince Brooke, and make him act accordingly. Brooke is a very good fellow, but pulpy; he will run into any mould, but he won't keep shape." "He might keep shape long enough to defer the marriage," said Sir James. "But, my dear Chettam, why should I use my influence to Casaubon's disadvantage, unless I were much surer than I am that I should be acting for the advantage of Miss Brooke? I know no harm of Casaubon. I don't care about his Xisuthrus and Fee-fo-fum and the rest; but then he doesn't care about my fishing-tackle. As to the line he took on the Catholic Question, that was unexpected; but he has always been civil to me, and I don't see why I should spoil his sport. For anything I can tell, Miss Brooke may be happier with him than she would be with any other man." "Humphrey! I have no patience with you. You know you would rather dine under the hedge than with Casaubon alone. You have nothing to say to each other." "What has that to do with Miss Brooke's marrying him? She does not do it for my amusement." "He has got no good red blood in his body," said Sir James. "No. Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass and it was all semicolons and parentheses," said Mrs. Cadwallader. "Why does he not bring out his book, instead of marrying," said Sir James, with a disgust which he held warranted by the sound feeling of an English layman. "Oh, he dreams footnotes, and they run away with all his brains. They say, when he was a little boy, he made an abstract of 'Hop o' my Thumb,' and he has been making abstracts ever since. Ugh! And that is the man Humphrey goes on saying that a woman may be happy with." "Well, he is what Miss Brooke likes," said the Rector. "I don't profess to understand every young lady's taste." "But if she were your own daughter?" said Sir James. "That would be a different affair. She is _not_ my daughter, and I don't feel called upon to interfere. Casaubon is as good as most of us. He is a scholarly clergyman, and creditable to the cloth. Some Radical fellow speechifying at Middlemarch said Casaubon was the learned straw-chopping incumbent, and Freke was the brick-and-mortar incumbent, and I was the angling incumbent. And upon my word, I don't see that one is worse or better than the other." The Rector ended with his silent laugh. He always saw the joke of any satire against himself. His conscience was large and easy, like the rest of him: it did only what it could do without any trouble. Clearly, there would be no interference with Miss Brooke's marriage through Mr. Cadwallader; and Sir James felt with some sadness that she was to have perfect liberty of misjudgment. It was a sign of his good disposition that he did not slacken at all in his intention of carrying out Dorothea's design of the cottages. Doubtless this persistence was the best course for his own dignity: but pride only helps us to be generous; it never makes us so, any more than vanity makes us witty. She was now enough aware of Sir James's position with regard to her, to appreciate the rectitude of his perseverance in a landlord's duty, to which he had at first been urged by a lover's complaisance, and her pleasure in it was great enough to count for something even in her present happiness. Perhaps she gave to Sir James Chettam's cottages all the interest she could spare from Mr. Casaubon, or rather from the symphony of hopeful dreams, admiring trust, and passionate self devotion which that learned gentleman had set playing in her soul. Hence it happened that in the good baronet's succeeding visits, while he was beginning to pay small attentions to Celia, he found himself talking with more and more pleasure to Dorothea. She was perfectly unconstrained and without irritation towards him now, and he was gradually discovering the delight there is in frank kindness and companionship between a man and a woman who have no passion to hide or confess.

cliffnotes

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

chapter 4|chapter 7

Mr. Casaubon, having spent most of his life alone, now looks forward to his marriage and "the graces of female companionship and support. But while Dorothea is whole hearted in her affection, he cannot find the same intensity in himself. He concludes, "the poets had much exaggerated the force of masculine passion." Dorothea now eagerly asks to be taught Greek, so that she may help him by reading aloud from the scriptures, as "Miltons daughters did to their father." Casaubon is skeptical, as he knows of the revolt by the blind poets daughters. Yet, overcome by her zest, he agrees to teach her Greek for an hour each day. Dorothea seizes the opportunity for two reasons; she longs to help him; she seeks "these provinces of masculine knowledge seemed... a standing ground from which all truth could be seen more truly." Brooke disapproves, convinced that "deep studies...are too taxing for a woman." He would prefer his niece to "play some good old English tune" on the piano. Dorothea, not interested in the "small tinkling" which such feminine talents were confined to is happy when Casaubon supports her. Brooke consoles himself with the thought that Dorotheas extreme enthusiasm will be contained by Casaubons sobriety.

----------CHAPTER 4--------- 1st Gent. Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves. 2d Gent. Ay, truly: but I think it is the world That brings the iron. "Sir James seems determined to do everything you wish," said Celia, as they were driving home from an inspection of the new building-site. "He is a good creature, and more sensible than any one would imagine," said Dorothea, inconsiderately. "You mean that he appears silly." "No, no," said Dorothea, recollecting herself, and laying her hand on her sister's a moment, "but he does not talk equally well on all subjects." "I should think none but disagreeable people do," said Celia, in her usual purring way. "They must be very dreadful to live with. Only think! at breakfast, and always." Dorothea laughed. "O Kitty, you are a wonderful creature!" She pinched Celia's chin, being in the mood now to think her very winning and lovely--fit hereafter to be an eternal cherub, and if it were not doctrinally wrong to say so, hardly more in need of salvation than a squirrel. "Of course people need not be always talking well. Only one tells the quality of their minds when they try to talk well." "You mean that Sir James tries and fails." "I was speaking generally. Why do you catechise me about Sir James? It is not the object of his life to please me." "Now, Dodo, can you really believe that?" "Certainly. He thinks of me as a future sister--that is all." Dorothea had never hinted this before, waiting, from a certain shyness on such subjects which was mutual between the sisters, until it should be introduced by some decisive event. Celia blushed, but said at once-- "Pray do not make that mistake any longer, Dodo. When Tantripp was brushing my hair the other day, she said that Sir James's man knew from Mrs. Cadwallader's maid that Sir James was to marry the eldest Miss Brooke." "How can you let Tantripp talk such gossip to you, Celia?" said Dorothea, indignantly, not the less angry because details asleep in her memory were now awakened to confirm the unwelcome revelation. "You must have asked her questions. It is degrading." "I see no harm at all in Tantripp's talking to me. It is better to hear what people say. You see what mistakes you make by taking up notions. I am quite sure that Sir James means to make you an offer; and he believes that you will accept him, especially since you have been so pleased with him about the plans. And uncle too--I know he expects it. Every one can see that Sir James is very much in love with you." The revulsion was so strong and painful in Dorothea's mind that the tears welled up and flowed abundantly. All her dear plans were embittered, and she thought with disgust of Sir James's conceiving that she recognized him as her lover. There was vexation too on account of Celia. "How could he expect it?" she burst forth in her most impetuous manner. "I have never agreed with him about anything but the cottages: I was barely polite to him before." "But you have been so pleased with him since then; he has begun to feel quite sure that you are fond of him." "Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such odious expressions?" said Dorothea, passionately. "Dear me, Dorothea, I suppose it would be right for you to be fond of a man whom you accepted for a husband." "It is offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond of him. Besides, it is not the right word for the feeling I must have towards the man I would accept as a husband." "Well, I am sorry for Sir James. I thought it right to tell you, because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, and treading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees; it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain. That's your way, Dodo." Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage; and she was not sparing the sister of whom she was occasionally in awe. Who can tell what just criticisms Murr the Cat may be passing on us beings of wider speculation? "It is very painful," said Dorothea, feeling scourged. "I can have no more to do with the cottages. I must be uncivil to him. I must tell him I will have nothing to do with them. It is very painful." Her eyes filled again with tears. "Wait a little. Think about it. You know he is going away for a day or two to see his sister. There will be nobody besides Lovegood." Celia could not help relenting. "Poor Dodo," she went on, in an amiable staccato. "It is very hard: it is your favorite _fad_ to draw plans." "_Fad_ to draw plans! Do you think I only care about my fellow-creatures' houses in that childish way? I may well make mistakes. How can one ever do anything nobly Christian, living among people with such petty thoughts?" No more was said; Dorothea was too much jarred to recover her temper and behave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself. She was disposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and the purblind conscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longer the eternal cherub, but a thorn in her spirit, a pink-and-white nullifidian, worse than any discouraging presence in the "Pilgrim's Progress." The _fad_ of drawing plans! What was life worth--what great faith was possible when the whole effect of one's actions could be withered up into such parched rubbish as that? When she got out of the carriage, her cheeks were pale and her eyelids red. She was an image of sorrow, and her uncle who met her in the hall would have been alarmed, if Celia had not been close to her looking so pretty and composed, that he at once concluded Dorothea's tears to have their origin in her excessive religiousness. He had returned, during their absence, from a journey to the county town, about a petition for the pardon of some criminal. "Well, my dears," he said, kindly, as they went up to kiss him, "I hope nothing disagreeable has happened while I have been away." "No, uncle," said Celia, "we have been to Freshitt to look at the cottages. We thought you would have been at home to lunch." "I came by Lowick to lunch--you didn't know I came by Lowick. And I have brought a couple of pamphlets for you, Dorothea--in the library, you know; they lie on the table in the library." It seemed as if an electric stream went through Dorothea, thrilling her from despair into expectation. They were pamphlets about the early Church. The oppression of Celia, Tantripp, and Sir James was shaken off, and she walked straight to the library. Celia went up-stairs. Mr. Brooke was detained by a message, but when he re-entered the library, he found Dorothea seated and already deep in one of the pamphlets which had some marginal manuscript of Mr. Casaubon's,--taking it in as eagerly as she might have taken in the scent of a fresh bouquet after a dry, hot, dreary walk. She was getting away from Tipton and Freshitt, and her own sad liability to tread in the wrong places on her way to the New Jerusalem. Mr. Brooke sat down in his arm-chair, stretched his legs towards the wood-fire, which had fallen into a wondrous mass of glowing dice between the dogs, and rubbed his hands gently, looking very mildly towards Dorothea, but with a neutral leisurely air, as if he had nothing particular to say. Dorothea closed her pamphlet, as soon as she was aware of her uncle's presence, and rose as if to go. Usually she would have been interested about her uncle's merciful errand on behalf of the criminal, but her late agitation had made her absent-minded. "I came back by Lowick, you know," said Mr. Brooke, not as if with any intention to arrest her departure, but apparently from his usual tendency to say what he had said before. This fundamental principle of human speech was markedly exhibited in Mr. Brooke. "I lunched there and saw Casaubon's library, and that kind of thing. There's a sharp air, driving. Won't you sit down, my dear? You look cold." Dorothea felt quite inclined to accept the invitation. Some times, when her uncle's easy way of taking things did not happen to be exasperating, it was rather soothing. She threw off her mantle and bonnet, and sat down opposite to him, enjoying the glow, but lifting up her beautiful hands for a screen. They were not thin hands, or small hands; but powerful, feminine, maternal hands. She seemed to be holding them up in propitiation for her passionate desire to know and to think, which in the unfriendly mediums of Tipton and Freshitt had issued in crying and red eyelids. She bethought herself now of the condemned criminal. "What news have you brought about the sheep-stealer, uncle?" "What, poor Bunch?--well, it seems we can't get him off--he is to be hanged." Dorothea's brow took an expression of reprobation and pity. "Hanged, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with a quiet nod. "Poor Romilly! he would have helped us. I knew Romilly. Casaubon didn't know Romilly. He is a little buried in books, you know, Casaubon is." "When a man has great studies and is writing a great work, he must of course give up seeing much of the world. How can he go about making acquaintances?" "That's true. But a man mopes, you know. I have always been a bachelor too, but I have that sort of disposition that I never moped; it was my way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I never moped: but I can see that Casaubon does, you know. He wants a companion--a companion, you know." "It would be a great honor to any one to be his companion," said Dorothea, energetically. "You like him, eh?" said Mr. Brooke, without showing any surprise, or other emotion. "Well, now, I've known Casaubon ten years, ever since he came to Lowick. But I never got anything out of him--any ideas, you know. However, he is a tiptop man and may be a bishop--that kind of thing, you know, if Peel stays in. And he has a very high opinion of you, my dear." Dorothea could not speak. "The fact is, he has a very high opinion indeed of you. And he speaks uncommonly well--does Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not being of age. In short, I have promised to speak to you, though I told him I thought there was not much chance. I was bound to tell him that. I said, my niece is very young, and that kind of thing. But I didn't think it necessary to go into everything. However, the long and the short of it is, that he has asked my permission to make you an offer of marriage--of marriage, you know," said Mr. Brooke, with his explanatory nod. "I thought it better to tell you, my dear." No one could have detected any anxiety in Mr. Brooke's manner, but he did really wish to know something of his niece's mind, that, if there were any need for advice, he might give it in time. What feeling he, as a magistrate who had taken in so many ideas, could make room for, was unmixedly kind. Since Dorothea did not speak immediately, he repeated, "I thought it better to tell you, my dear." "Thank you, uncle," said Dorothea, in a clear unwavering tone. "I am very grateful to Mr. Casaubon. If he makes me an offer, I shall accept him. I admire and honor him more than any man I ever saw." Mr. Brooke paused a little, and then said in a lingering low tone, "Ah? . . . Well! He is a good match in some respects. But now, Chettam is a good match. And our land lies together. I shall never interfere against your wishes, my dear. People should have their own way in marriage, and that sort of thing--up to a certain point, you know. I have always said that, up to a certain point. I wish you to marry well; and I have good reason to believe that Chettam wishes to marry you. I mention it, you know." "It is impossible that I should ever marry Sir James Chettam," said Dorothea. "If he thinks of marrying me, he has made a great mistake." "That is it, you see. One never knows. I should have thought Chettam was just the sort of man a woman would like, now." "Pray do not mention him in that light again, uncle," said Dorothea, feeling some of her late irritation revive. Mr. Brooke wondered, and felt that women were an inexhaustible subject of study, since even he at his age was not in a perfect state of scientific prediction about them. Here was a fellow like Chettam with no chance at all. "Well, but Casaubon, now. There is no hurry--I mean for you. It's true, every year will tell upon him. He is over five-and-forty, you know. I should say a good seven-and-twenty years older than you. To be sure,--if you like learning and standing, and that sort of thing, we can't have everything. And his income is good--he has a handsome property independent of the Church--his income is good. Still he is not young, and I must not conceal from you, my dear, that I think his health is not over-strong. I know nothing else against him." "I should not wish to have a husband very near my own age," said Dorothea, with grave decision. "I should wish to have a husband who was above me in judgment and in all knowledge." Mr. Brooke repeated his subdued, "Ah?--I thought you had more of your own opinion than most girls. I thought you liked your own opinion--liked it, you know." "I cannot imagine myself living without some opinions, but I should wish to have good reasons for them, and a wise man could help me to see which opinions had the best foundation, and would help me to live according to them." "Very true. You couldn't put the thing better--couldn't put it better, beforehand, you know. But there are oddities in things," continued Mr. Brooke, whose conscience was really roused to do the best he could for his niece on this occasion. "Life isn't cast in a mould--not cut out by rule and line, and that sort of thing. I never married myself, and it will be the better for you and yours. The fact is, I never loved any one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It _is_ a noose, you know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a husband likes to be master." "I know that I must expect trials, uncle. Marriage is a state of higher duties. I never thought of it as mere personal ease," said poor Dorothea. "Well, you are not fond of show, a great establishment, balls, dinners, that kind of thing. I can see that Casaubon's ways might suit you better than Chettam's. And you shall do as you like, my dear. I would not hinder Casaubon; I said so at once; for there is no knowing how anything may turn out. You have not the same tastes as every young lady; and a clergyman and scholar--who may be a bishop--that kind of thing--may suit you better than Chettam. Chettam is a good fellow, a good sound-hearted fellow, you know; but he doesn't go much into ideas. I did, when I was his age. But Casaubon's eyes, now. I think he has hurt them a little with too much reading." "I should be all the happier, uncle, the more room there was for me to help him," said Dorothea, ardently. "You have quite made up your mind, I see. Well, my dear, the fact is, I have a letter for you in my pocket." Mr. Brooke handed the letter to Dorothea, but as she rose to go away, he added, "There is not too much hurry, my dear. Think about it, you know." When Dorothea had left him, he reflected that he had certainly spoken strongly: he had put the risks of marriage before her in a striking manner. It was his duty to do so. But as to pretending to be wise for young people,--no uncle, however much he had travelled in his youth, absorbed the new ideas, and dined with celebrities now deceased, could pretend to judge what sort of marriage would turn out well for a young girl who preferred Casaubon to Chettam. In short, woman was a problem which, since Mr. Brooke's mind felt blank before it, could be hardly less complicated than the revolutions of an irregular solid. ----------CHAPTER 7--------- "Piacer e popone Vuol la sua stagione." --Italian Proverb. Mr. Casaubon, as might be expected, spent a great deal of his time at the Grange in these weeks, and the hindrance which courtship occasioned to the progress of his great work--the Key to all Mythologies--naturally made him look forward the more eagerly to the happy termination of courtship. But he had deliberately incurred the hindrance, having made up his mind that it was now time for him to adorn his life with the graces of female companionship, to irradiate the gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the intervals of studious labor with the play of female fancy, and to secure in this, his culminating age, the solace of female tendance for his declining years. Hence he determined to abandon himself to the stream of feeling, and perhaps was surprised to find what an exceedingly shallow rill it was. As in droughty regions baptism by immersion could only be performed symbolically, Mr. Casaubon found that sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge which his stream would afford him; and he concluded that the poets had much exaggerated the force of masculine passion. Nevertheless, he observed with pleasure that Miss Brooke showed an ardent submissive affection which promised to fulfil his most agreeable previsions of marriage. It had once or twice crossed his mind that possibly there was some deficiency in Dorothea to account for the moderation of his abandonment; but he was unable to discern the deficiency, or to figure to himself a woman who would have pleased him better; so that there was clearly no reason to fall back upon but the exaggerations of human tradition. "Could I not be preparing myself now to be more useful?" said Dorothea to him, one morning, early in the time of courtship; "could I not learn to read Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton's daughters did to their father, without understanding what they read?" "I fear that would be wearisome to you," said Mr. Casaubon, smiling; "and, indeed, if I remember rightly, the young women you have mentioned regarded that exercise in unknown tongues as a ground for rebellion against the poet." "Yes; but in the first place they were very naughty girls, else they would have been proud to minister to such a father; and in the second place they might have studied privately and taught themselves to understand what they read, and then it would have been interesting. I hope you don't expect me to be naughty and stupid?" "I expect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in every possible relation of life. Certainly it might be a great advantage if you were able to copy the Greek character, and to that end it were well to begin with a little reading." Dorothea seized this as a precious permission. She would not have asked Mr. Casaubon at once to teach her the languages, dreading of all things to be tiresome instead of helpful; but it was not entirely out of devotion to her future husband that she wished to know Latin and Greek. Those provinces of masculine knowledge seemed to her a standing-ground from which all truth could be seen more truly. As it was, she constantly doubted her own conclusions, because she felt her own ignorance: how could she be confident that one-roomed cottages were not for the glory of God, when men who knew the classics appeared to conciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for the glory? Perhaps even Hebrew might be necessary--at least the alphabet and a few roots--in order to arrive at the core of things, and judge soundly on the social duties of the Christian. And she had not reached that point of renunciation at which she would have been satisfied with having a wise husband: she wished, poor child, to be wise herself. Miss Brooke was certainly very naive with all her alleged cleverness. Celia, whose mind had never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other people's pretensions much more readily. To have in general but little feeling, seems to be the only security against feeling too much on any particular occasion. However, Mr. Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour together, like a schoolmaster of little boys, or rather like a lover, to whom a mistress's elementary ignorance and difficulties have a touching fitness. Few scholars would have disliked teaching the alphabet under such circumstances. But Dorothea herself was a little shocked and discouraged at her own stupidity, and the answers she got to some timid questions about the value of the Greek accents gave her a painful suspicion that here indeed there might be secrets not capable of explanation to a woman's reason. Mr. Brooke had no doubt on that point, and expressed himself with his usual strength upon it one day that he came into the library while the reading was going forward. "Well, but now, Casaubon, such deep studies, classics, mathematics, that kind of thing, are too taxing for a woman--too taxing, you know." "Dorothea is learning to read the characters simply," said Mr. Casaubon, evading the question. "She had the very considerate thought of saving my eyes." "Ah, well, without understanding, you know--that may not be so bad. But there is a lightness about the feminine mind--a touch and go--music, the fine arts, that kind of thing--they should study those up to a certain point, women should; but in a light way, you know. A woman should be able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old English tune. That is what I like; though I have heard most things--been at the opera in Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that sort. But I'm a conservative in music--it's not like ideas, you know. I stick to the good old tunes." "Mr. Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not," said Dorothea, whose slight regard for domestic music and feminine fine art must be forgiven her, considering the small tinkling and smearing in which they chiefly consisted at that dark period. She smiled and looked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes. If he had always been asking her to play the "Last Rose of Summer," she would have required much resignation. "He says there is only an old harpsichord at Lowick, and it is covered with books." "Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear. Celia, now, plays very prettily, and is always ready to play. However, since Casaubon does not like it, you are all right. But it's a pity you should not have little recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung--that kind of thing, you know--will not do." "I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears teased with measured noises," said Mr. Casaubon. "A tune much iterated has the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort of minuet to keep time--an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after boyhood. As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn celebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to the ancient conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not immediately concerned." "No; but music of that sort I should enjoy," said Dorothea. "When we were coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the great organ at Freiberg, and it made me sob." "That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear," said Mr. Brooke. "Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to take things more quietly, eh, Dorothea?" He ended with a smile, not wishing to hurt his niece, but really thinking that it was perhaps better for her to be early married to so sober a fellow as Casaubon, since she would not hear of Chettam. "It is wonderful, though," he said to himself as he shuffled out of the room--"it is wonderful that she should have liked him. However, the match is good. I should have been travelling out of my brief to have hindered it, let Mrs. Cadwallader say what she will. He is pretty certain to be a bishop, is Casaubon. That was a very seasonable pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:--a deanery at least. They owe him a deanery." And here I must vindicate a claim to philosophical reflectiveness, by remarking that Mr. Brooke on this occasion little thought of the Radical speech which, at a later period, he was led to make on the incomes of the bishops. What elegant historian would neglect a striking opportunity for pointing out that his heroes did not foresee the history of the world, or even their own actions?--For example, that Henry of Navarre, when a Protestant baby, little thought of being a Catholic monarch; or that Alfred the Great, when he measured his laborious nights with burning candles, had no idea of future gentlemen measuring their idle days with watches. Here is a mine of truth, which, however vigorously it may be worked, is likely to outlast our coal. But of Mr. Brooke I make a further remark perhaps less warranted by precedent--namely, that if he had foreknown his speech, it might not have made any great difference. To think with pleasure of his niece's husband having a large ecclesiastical income was one thing--to make a Liberal speech was another thing; and it is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.

Middlemarch.book 2.chapte

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 19 with the given context.

After laying the basis for the other two stories, G. Eliot takes no back to the trials of Dorothea. Will Ladislaw happens to be in Rome. He begins to study painting from a talented German artist, Adolf Naumann. They both spend time at the Vatican, studying ancient works and painting. One morning Naumann excitedly calls Will to observe what he calls "an antithesis. " A beautiful antique sculpture of Ariadne is being observed by a beautiful young woman, modestly dressed like a Quaker. Naumann finds the juxtaposition of the sensuous sculpture and the beauty of the living woman interesting. Will tells him she is his cousins wife, and Naumann expresses a desire to paint her. Will is indignant at her being treated as a model. He finds himself looking at her without his earlier suspicion of her motives in marriage with his elderly cousin.

----------BOOK 2, CHAPTER 19--------- "L' altra vedete ch'ha fatto alla guancia Della sua palma, sospirando, letto." --Purgatorio, vii. When George the Fourth was still reigning over the privacies of Windsor, when the Duke of Wellington was Prime Minister, and Mr. Vincy was mayor of the old corporation in Middlemarch, Mrs. Casaubon, born Dorothea Brooke, had taken her wedding journey to Rome. In those days the world in general was more ignorant of good and evil by forty years than it is at present. Travellers did not often carry full information on Christian art either in their heads or their pockets; and even the most brilliant English critic of the day mistook the flower-flushed tomb of the ascended Virgin for an ornamental vase due to the painter's fancy. Romanticism, which has helped to fill some dull blanks with love and knowledge, had not yet penetrated the times with its leaven and entered into everybody's food; it was fermenting still as a distinguishable vigorous enthusiasm in certain long-haired German artists at Rome, and the youth of other nations who worked or idled near them were sometimes caught in the spreading movement. One fine morning a young man whose hair was not immoderately long, but abundant and curly, and who was otherwise English in his equipment, had just turned his back on the Belvedere Torso in the Vatican and was looking out on the magnificent view of the mountains from the adjoining round vestibule. He was sufficiently absorbed not to notice the approach of a dark-eyed, animated German who came up to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, said with a strong accent, "Come here, quick! else she will have changed her pose." Quickness was ready at the call, and the two figures passed lightly along by the Meleager, towards the hall where the reclining Ariadne, then called the Cleopatra, lies in the marble voluptuousness of her beauty, the drapery folding around her with a petal-like ease and tenderness. They were just in time to see another figure standing against a pedestal near the reclining marble: a breathing blooming girl, whose form, not shamed by the Ariadne, was clad in Quakerish gray drapery; her long cloak, fastened at the neck, was thrown backward from her arms, and one beautiful ungloved hand pillowed her cheek, pushing somewhat backward the white beaver bonnet which made a sort of halo to her face around the simply braided dark-brown hair. She was not looking at the sculpture, probably not thinking of it: her large eyes were fixed dreamily on a streak of sunlight which fell across the floor. But she became conscious of the two strangers who suddenly paused as if to contemplate the Cleopatra, and, without looking at them, immediately turned away to join a maid-servant and courier who were loitering along the hall at a little distance off. "What do you think of that for a fine bit of antithesis?" said the German, searching in his friend's face for responding admiration, but going on volubly without waiting for any other answer. "There lies antique beauty, not corpse-like even in death, but arrested in the complete contentment of its sensuous perfection: and here stands beauty in its breathing life, with the consciousness of Christian centuries in its bosom. But she should be dressed as a nun; I think she looks almost what you call a Quaker; I would dress her as a nun in my picture. However, she is married; I saw her wedding-ring on that wonderful left hand, otherwise I should have thought the sallow Geistlicher was her father. I saw him parting from her a good while ago, and just now I found her in that magnificent pose. Only think! he is perhaps rich, and would like to have her portrait taken. Ah! it is no use looking after her--there she goes! Let us follow her home!" "No, no," said his companion, with a little frown. "You are singular, Ladislaw. You look struck together. Do you know her?" "I know that she is married to my cousin," said Will Ladislaw, sauntering down the hall with a preoccupied air, while his German friend kept at his side and watched him eagerly. "What! the Geistlicher? He looks more like an uncle--a more useful sort of relation." "He is not my uncle. I tell you he is my second cousin," said Ladislaw, with some irritation. "Schon, schon. Don't be snappish. You are not angry with me for thinking Mrs. Second-Cousin the most perfect young Madonna I ever saw?" "Angry? nonsense. I have only seen her once before, for a couple of minutes, when my cousin introduced her to me, just before I left England. They were not married then. I didn't know they were coming to Rome." "But you will go to see them now--you will find out what they have for an address--since you know the name. Shall we go to the post? And you could speak about the portrait." "Confound you, Naumann! I don't know what I shall do. I am not so brazen as you." "Bah! that is because you are dilettantish and amateurish. If you were an artist, you would think of Mistress Second-Cousin as antique form animated by Christian sentiment--a sort of Christian Antigone--sensuous force controlled by spiritual passion." "Yes, and that your painting her was the chief outcome of her existence--the divinity passing into higher completeness and all but exhausted in the act of covering your bit of canvas. I am amateurish if you like: I do _not_ think that all the universe is straining towards the obscure significance of your pictures." "But it is, my dear!--so far as it is straining through me, Adolf Naumann: that stands firm," said the good-natured painter, putting a hand on Ladislaw's shoulder, and not in the least disturbed by the unaccountable touch of ill-humor in his tone. "See now! My existence presupposes the existence of the whole universe--does it _not?_ and my function is to paint--and as a painter I have a conception which is altogether genialisch, of your great-aunt or second grandmother as a subject for a picture; therefore, the universe is straining towards that picture through that particular hook or claw which it puts forth in the shape of me--not true?" "But how if another claw in the shape of me is straining to thwart it?--the case is a little less simple then." "Not at all: the result of the struggle is the same thing--picture or no picture--logically." Will could not resist this imperturbable temper, and the cloud in his face broke into sunshiny laughter. "Come now, my friend--you will help?" said Naumann, in a hopeful tone. "No; nonsense, Naumann! English ladies are not at everybody's service as models. And you want to express too much with your painting. You would only have made a better or worse portrait with a background which every connoisseur would give a different reason for or against. And what is a portrait of a woman? Your painting and Plastik are poor stuff after all. They perturb and dull conceptions instead of raising them. Language is a finer medium." "Yes, for those who can't paint," said Naumann. "There you have perfect right. I did not recommend you to paint, my friend." The amiable artist carried his sting, but Ladislaw did not choose to appear stung. He went on as if he had not heard. "Language gives a fuller image, which is all the better for beings vague. After all, the true seeing is within; and painting stares at you with an insistent imperfection. I feel that especially about representations of women. As if a woman were a mere colored superficies! You must wait for movement and tone. There is a difference in their very breathing: they change from moment to moment.--This woman whom you have just seen, for example: how would you paint her voice, pray? But her voice is much diviner than anything you have seen of her." "I see, I see. You are jealous. No man must presume to think that he can paint your ideal. This is serious, my friend! Your great-aunt! 'Der Neffe als Onkel' in a tragic sense--ungeheuer!" "You and I shall quarrel, Naumann, if you call that lady my aunt again." "How is she to be called then?" "Mrs. Casaubon." "Good. Suppose I get acquainted with her in spite of you, and find that she very much wishes to be painted?" "Yes, suppose!" said Will Ladislaw, in a contemptuous undertone, intended to dismiss the subject. He was conscious of being irritated by ridiculously small causes, which were half of his own creation. Why was he making any fuss about Mrs. Casaubon? And yet he felt as if something had happened to him with regard to her. There are characters which are continually creating collisions and nodes for themselves in dramas which nobody is prepared to act with them. Their susceptibilities will clash against objects that remain innocently quiet. ----------BOOK 2, CHAPTER 19--------- "L' altra vedete ch'ha fatto alla guancia Della sua palma, sospirando, letto." --Purgatorio, vii. When George the Fourth was still reigning over the privacies of Windsor, when the Duke of Wellington was Prime Minister, and Mr. Vincy was mayor of the old corporation in Middlemarch, Mrs. Casaubon, born Dorothea Brooke, had taken her wedding journey to Rome. In those days the world in general was more ignorant of good and evil by forty years than it is at present. Travellers did not often carry full information on Christian art either in their heads or their pockets; and even the most brilliant English critic of the day mistook the flower-flushed tomb of the ascended Virgin for an ornamental vase due to the painter's fancy. Romanticism, which has helped to fill some dull blanks with love and knowledge, had not yet penetrated the times with its leaven and entered into everybody's food; it was fermenting still as a distinguishable vigorous enthusiasm in certain long-haired German artists at Rome, and the youth of other nations who worked or idled near them were sometimes caught in the spreading movement. One fine morning a young man whose hair was not immoderately long, but abundant and curly, and who was otherwise English in his equipment, had just turned his back on the Belvedere Torso in the Vatican and was looking out on the magnificent view of the mountains from the adjoining round vestibule. He was sufficiently absorbed not to notice the approach of a dark-eyed, animated German who came up to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, said with a strong accent, "Come here, quick! else she will have changed her pose." Quickness was ready at the call, and the two figures passed lightly along by the Meleager, towards the hall where the reclining Ariadne, then called the Cleopatra, lies in the marble voluptuousness of her beauty, the drapery folding around her with a petal-like ease and tenderness. They were just in time to see another figure standing against a pedestal near the reclining marble: a breathing blooming girl, whose form, not shamed by the Ariadne, was clad in Quakerish gray drapery; her long cloak, fastened at the neck, was thrown backward from her arms, and one beautiful ungloved hand pillowed her cheek, pushing somewhat backward the white beaver bonnet which made a sort of halo to her face around the simply braided dark-brown hair. She was not looking at the sculpture, probably not thinking of it: her large eyes were fixed dreamily on a streak of sunlight which fell across the floor. But she became conscious of the two strangers who suddenly paused as if to contemplate the Cleopatra, and, without looking at them, immediately turned away to join a maid-servant and courier who were loitering along the hall at a little distance off. "What do you think of that for a fine bit of antithesis?" said the German, searching in his friend's face for responding admiration, but going on volubly without waiting for any other answer. "There lies antique beauty, not corpse-like even in death, but arrested in the complete contentment of its sensuous perfection: and here stands beauty in its breathing life, with the consciousness of Christian centuries in its bosom. But she should be dressed as a nun; I think she looks almost what you call a Quaker; I would dress her as a nun in my picture. However, she is married; I saw her wedding-ring on that wonderful left hand, otherwise I should have thought the sallow Geistlicher was her father. I saw him parting from her a good while ago, and just now I found her in that magnificent pose. Only think! he is perhaps rich, and would like to have her portrait taken. Ah! it is no use looking after her--there she goes! Let us follow her home!" "No, no," said his companion, with a little frown. "You are singular, Ladislaw. You look struck together. Do you know her?" "I know that she is married to my cousin," said Will Ladislaw, sauntering down the hall with a preoccupied air, while his German friend kept at his side and watched him eagerly. "What! the Geistlicher? He looks more like an uncle--a more useful sort of relation." "He is not my uncle. I tell you he is my second cousin," said Ladislaw, with some irritation. "Schon, schon. Don't be snappish. You are not angry with me for thinking Mrs. Second-Cousin the most perfect young Madonna I ever saw?" "Angry? nonsense. I have only seen her once before, for a couple of minutes, when my cousin introduced her to me, just before I left England. They were not married then. I didn't know they were coming to Rome." "But you will go to see them now--you will find out what they have for an address--since you know the name. Shall we go to the post? And you could speak about the portrait." "Confound you, Naumann! I don't know what I shall do. I am not so brazen as you." "Bah! that is because you are dilettantish and amateurish. If you were an artist, you would think of Mistress Second-Cousin as antique form animated by Christian sentiment--a sort of Christian Antigone--sensuous force controlled by spiritual passion." "Yes, and that your painting her was the chief outcome of her existence--the divinity passing into higher completeness and all but exhausted in the act of covering your bit of canvas. I am amateurish if you like: I do _not_ think that all the universe is straining towards the obscure significance of your pictures." "But it is, my dear!--so far as it is straining through me, Adolf Naumann: that stands firm," said the good-natured painter, putting a hand on Ladislaw's shoulder, and not in the least disturbed by the unaccountable touch of ill-humor in his tone. "See now! My existence presupposes the existence of the whole universe--does it _not?_ and my function is to paint--and as a painter I have a conception which is altogether genialisch, of your great-aunt or second grandmother as a subject for a picture; therefore, the universe is straining towards that picture through that particular hook or claw which it puts forth in the shape of me--not true?" "But how if another claw in the shape of me is straining to thwart it?--the case is a little less simple then." "Not at all: the result of the struggle is the same thing--picture or no picture--logically." Will could not resist this imperturbable temper, and the cloud in his face broke into sunshiny laughter. "Come now, my friend--you will help?" said Naumann, in a hopeful tone. "No; nonsense, Naumann! English ladies are not at everybody's service as models. And you want to express too much with your painting. You would only have made a better or worse portrait with a background which every connoisseur would give a different reason for or against. And what is a portrait of a woman? Your painting and Plastik are poor stuff after all. They perturb and dull conceptions instead of raising them. Language is a finer medium." "Yes, for those who can't paint," said Naumann. "There you have perfect right. I did not recommend you to paint, my friend." The amiable artist carried his sting, but Ladislaw did not choose to appear stung. He went on as if he had not heard. "Language gives a fuller image, which is all the better for beings vague. After all, the true seeing is within; and painting stares at you with an insistent imperfection. I feel that especially about representations of women. As if a woman were a mere colored superficies! You must wait for movement and tone. There is a difference in their very breathing: they change from moment to moment.--This woman whom you have just seen, for example: how would you paint her voice, pray? But her voice is much diviner than anything you have seen of her." "I see, I see. You are jealous. No man must presume to think that he can paint your ideal. This is serious, my friend! Your great-aunt! 'Der Neffe als Onkel' in a tragic sense--ungeheuer!" "You and I shall quarrel, Naumann, if you call that lady my aunt again." "How is she to be called then?" "Mrs. Casaubon." "Good. Suppose I get acquainted with her in spite of you, and find that she very much wishes to be painted?" "Yes, suppose!" said Will Ladislaw, in a contemptuous undertone, intended to dismiss the subject. He was conscious of being irritated by ridiculously small causes, which were half of his own creation. Why was he making any fuss about Mrs. Casaubon? And yet he felt as if something had happened to him with regard to her. There are characters which are continually creating collisions and nodes for themselves in dramas which nobody is prepared to act with them. Their susceptibilities will clash against objects that remain innocently quiet. ----------CHAPTER 19--------- "L' altra vedete ch'ha fatto alla guancia Della sua palma, sospirando, letto." --Purgatorio, vii. When George the Fourth was still reigning over the privacies of Windsor, when the Duke of Wellington was Prime Minister, and Mr. Vincy was mayor of the old corporation in Middlemarch, Mrs. Casaubon, born Dorothea Brooke, had taken her wedding journey to Rome. In those days the world in general was more ignorant of good and evil by forty years than it is at present. Travellers did not often carry full information on Christian art either in their heads or their pockets; and even the most brilliant English critic of the day mistook the flower-flushed tomb of the ascended Virgin for an ornamental vase due to the painter's fancy. Romanticism, which has helped to fill some dull blanks with love and knowledge, had not yet penetrated the times with its leaven and entered into everybody's food; it was fermenting still as a distinguishable vigorous enthusiasm in certain long-haired German artists at Rome, and the youth of other nations who worked or idled near them were sometimes caught in the spreading movement. One fine morning a young man whose hair was not immoderately long, but abundant and curly, and who was otherwise English in his equipment, had just turned his back on the Belvedere Torso in the Vatican and was looking out on the magnificent view of the mountains from the adjoining round vestibule. He was sufficiently absorbed not to notice the approach of a dark-eyed, animated German who came up to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, said with a strong accent, "Come here, quick! else she will have changed her pose." Quickness was ready at the call, and the two figures passed lightly along by the Meleager, towards the hall where the reclining Ariadne, then called the Cleopatra, lies in the marble voluptuousness of her beauty, the drapery folding around her with a petal-like ease and tenderness. They were just in time to see another figure standing against a pedestal near the reclining marble: a breathing blooming girl, whose form, not shamed by the Ariadne, was clad in Quakerish gray drapery; her long cloak, fastened at the neck, was thrown backward from her arms, and one beautiful ungloved hand pillowed her cheek, pushing somewhat backward the white beaver bonnet which made a sort of halo to her face around the simply braided dark-brown hair. She was not looking at the sculpture, probably not thinking of it: her large eyes were fixed dreamily on a streak of sunlight which fell across the floor. But she became conscious of the two strangers who suddenly paused as if to contemplate the Cleopatra, and, without looking at them, immediately turned away to join a maid-servant and courier who were loitering along the hall at a little distance off. "What do you think of that for a fine bit of antithesis?" said the German, searching in his friend's face for responding admiration, but going on volubly without waiting for any other answer. "There lies antique beauty, not corpse-like even in death, but arrested in the complete contentment of its sensuous perfection: and here stands beauty in its breathing life, with the consciousness of Christian centuries in its bosom. But she should be dressed as a nun; I think she looks almost what you call a Quaker; I would dress her as a nun in my picture. However, she is married; I saw her wedding-ring on that wonderful left hand, otherwise I should have thought the sallow Geistlicher was her father. I saw him parting from her a good while ago, and just now I found her in that magnificent pose. Only think! he is perhaps rich, and would like to have her portrait taken. Ah! it is no use looking after her--there she goes! Let us follow her home!" "No, no," said his companion, with a little frown. "You are singular, Ladislaw. You look struck together. Do you know her?" "I know that she is married to my cousin," said Will Ladislaw, sauntering down the hall with a preoccupied air, while his German friend kept at his side and watched him eagerly. "What! the Geistlicher? He looks more like an uncle--a more useful sort of relation." "He is not my uncle. I tell you he is my second cousin," said Ladislaw, with some irritation. "Schon, schon. Don't be snappish. You are not angry with me for thinking Mrs. Second-Cousin the most perfect young Madonna I ever saw?" "Angry? nonsense. I have only seen her once before, for a couple of minutes, when my cousin introduced her to me, just before I left England. They were not married then. I didn't know they were coming to Rome." "But you will go to see them now--you will find out what they have for an address--since you know the name. Shall we go to the post? And you could speak about the portrait." "Confound you, Naumann! I don't know what I shall do. I am not so brazen as you." "Bah! that is because you are dilettantish and amateurish. If you were an artist, you would think of Mistress Second-Cousin as antique form animated by Christian sentiment--a sort of Christian Antigone--sensuous force controlled by spiritual passion." "Yes, and that your painting her was the chief outcome of her existence--the divinity passing into higher completeness and all but exhausted in the act of covering your bit of canvas. I am amateurish if you like: I do _not_ think that all the universe is straining towards the obscure significance of your pictures." "But it is, my dear!--so far as it is straining through me, Adolf Naumann: that stands firm," said the good-natured painter, putting a hand on Ladislaw's shoulder, and not in the least disturbed by the unaccountable touch of ill-humor in his tone. "See now! My existence presupposes the existence of the whole universe--does it _not?_ and my function is to paint--and as a painter I have a conception which is altogether genialisch, of your great-aunt or second grandmother as a subject for a picture; therefore, the universe is straining towards that picture through that particular hook or claw which it puts forth in the shape of me--not true?" "But how if another claw in the shape of me is straining to thwart it?--the case is a little less simple then." "Not at all: the result of the struggle is the same thing--picture or no picture--logically." Will could not resist this imperturbable temper, and the cloud in his face broke into sunshiny laughter. "Come now, my friend--you will help?" said Naumann, in a hopeful tone. "No; nonsense, Naumann! English ladies are not at everybody's service as models. And you want to express too much with your painting. You would only have made a better or worse portrait with a background which every connoisseur would give a different reason for or against. And what is a portrait of a woman? Your painting and Plastik are poor stuff after all. They perturb and dull conceptions instead of raising them. Language is a finer medium." "Yes, for those who can't paint," said Naumann. "There you have perfect right. I did not recommend you to paint, my friend." The amiable artist carried his sting, but Ladislaw did not choose to appear stung. He went on as if he had not heard. "Language gives a fuller image, which is all the better for beings vague. After all, the true seeing is within; and painting stares at you with an insistent imperfection. I feel that especially about representations of women. As if a woman were a mere colored superficies! You must wait for movement and tone. There is a difference in their very breathing: they change from moment to moment.--This woman whom you have just seen, for example: how would you paint her voice, pray? But her voice is much diviner than anything you have seen of her." "I see, I see. You are jealous. No man must presume to think that he can paint your ideal. This is serious, my friend! Your great-aunt! 'Der Neffe als Onkel' in a tragic sense--ungeheuer!" "You and I shall quarrel, Naumann, if you call that lady my aunt again." "How is she to be called then?" "Mrs. Casaubon." "Good. Suppose I get acquainted with her in spite of you, and find that she very much wishes to be painted?" "Yes, suppose!" said Will Ladislaw, in a contemptuous undertone, intended to dismiss the subject. He was conscious of being irritated by ridiculously small causes, which were half of his own creation. Why was he making any fuss about Mrs. Casaubon? And yet he felt as if something had happened to him with regard to her. There are characters which are continually creating collisions and nodes for themselves in dramas which nobody is prepared to act with them. Their susceptibilities will clash against objects that remain innocently quiet.

Middlemarch.book 3.chapte

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for book 3, chapter 25 based on the provided context.

book 3, chapter 25|book 3, chapter 26

Fred goes to Stone Court to tell Mary the news; he is not as repentant as he should be, and wants comforting words from Mary about his irresponsibility. He still doesn't see the entire magnitude of what he did; he tries to rationalize things with his good intentions, and by claiming that he is not so bad, compared to what other people do. Mary is upset, and says that she cannot trust him, and that he should be more sorry for what he did. Caleb comes later, to ask for whatever she has saved up; Mary gives it gladly. Caleb Garth is worried that his daughter has some feelings for

----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 25--------- "Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care But for another gives its ease And builds a heaven in hell's despair. . . . . . . . Love seeketh only self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven's despite." --W. BLAKE: Songs of Experience Fred Vincy wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary could not expect him, and when his uncle was not down-stairs in that case she might be sitting alone in the wainscoted parlor. He left his horse in the yard to avoid making a noise on the gravel in front, and entered the parlor without other notice than the noise of the door-handle. Mary was in her usual corner, laughing over Mrs. Piozzi's recollections of Johnson, and looked up with the fun still in her face. It gradually faded as she saw Fred approach her without speaking, and stand before her with his elbow on the mantel-piece, looking ill. She too was silent, only raising her eyes to him inquiringly. "Mary," he began, "I am a good-for-nothing blackguard." "I should think one of those epithets would do at a time," said Mary, trying to smile, but feeling alarmed. "I know you will never think well of me any more. You will think me a liar. You will think me dishonest. You will think I didn't care for you, or your father and mother. You always do make the worst of me, I know." "I cannot deny that I shall think all that of you, Fred, if you give me good reasons. But please to tell me at once what you have done. I would rather know the painful truth than imagine it." "I owed money--a hundred and sixty pounds. I asked your father to put his name to a bill. I thought it would not signify to him. I made sure of paying the money myself, and I have tried as hard as I could. And now, I have been so unlucky--a horse has turned out badly--I can only pay fifty pounds. And I can't ask my father for the money: he would not give me a farthing. And my uncle gave me a hundred a little while ago. So what can I do? And now your father has no ready money to spare, and your mother will have to pay away her ninety-two pounds that she has saved, and she says your savings must go too. You see what a--" "Oh, poor mother, poor father!" said Mary, her eyes filling with tears, and a little sob rising which she tried to repress. She looked straight before her and took no notice of Fred, all the consequences at home becoming present to her. He too remained silent for some moments, feeling more miserable than ever. "I wouldn't have hurt you for the world, Mary," he said at last. "You can never forgive me." "What does it matter whether I forgive you?" said Mary, passionately. "Would that make it any better for my mother to lose the money she has been earning by lessons for four years, that she might send Alfred to Mr. Hanmer's? Should you think all that pleasant enough if I forgave you?" "Say what you like, Mary. I deserve it all." "I don't want to say anything," said Mary, more quietly, "and my anger is of no use." She dried her eyes, threw aside her book, rose and fetched her sewing. Fred followed her with his eyes, hoping that they would meet hers, and in that way find access for his imploring penitence. But no! Mary could easily avoid looking upward. "I do care about your mother's money going," he said, when she was seated again and sewing quickly. "I wanted to ask you, Mary--don't you think that Mr. Featherstone--if you were to tell him--tell him, I mean, about apprenticing Alfred--would advance the money?" "My family is not fond of begging, Fred. We would rather work for our money. Besides, you say that Mr. Featherstone has lately given you a hundred pounds. He rarely makes presents; he has never made presents to us. I am sure my father will not ask him for anything; and even if I chose to beg of him, it would be of no use." "I am so miserable, Mary--if you knew how miserable I am, you would be sorry for me." "There are other things to be more sorry for than that. But selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the world. I see enough of that every day." "It is hardly fair to call me selfish. If you knew what things other young men do, you would think me a good way off the worst." "I know that people who spend a great deal of money on themselves without knowing how they shall pay, must be selfish. They are always thinking of what they can get for themselves, and not of what other people may lose." "Any man may be unfortunate, Mary, and find himself unable to pay when he meant it. There is not a better man in the world than your father, and yet he got into trouble." "How dare you make any comparison between my father and you, Fred?" said Mary, in a deep tone of indignation. "He never got into trouble by thinking of his own idle pleasures, but because he was always thinking of the work he was doing for other people. And he has fared hard, and worked hard to make good everybody's loss." "And you think that I shall never try to make good anything, Mary. It is not generous to believe the worst of a man. When you have got any power over him, I think you might try and use it to make him better; but that is what you never do. However, I'm going," Fred ended, languidly. "I shall never speak to you about anything again. I'm very sorry for all the trouble I've caused--that's all." Mary had dropped her work out of her hand and looked up. There is often something maternal even in a girlish love, and Mary's hard experience had wrought her nature to an impressibility very different from that hard slight thing which we call girlishness. At Fred's last words she felt an instantaneous pang, something like what a mother feels at the imagined sobs or cries of her naughty truant child, which may lose itself and get harm. And when, looking up, her eyes met his dull despairing glance, her pity for him surmounted her anger and all her other anxieties. "Oh, Fred, how ill you look! Sit down a moment. Don't go yet. Let me tell uncle that you are here. He has been wondering that he has not seen you for a whole week." Mary spoke hurriedly, saying the words that came first without knowing very well what they were, but saying them in a half-soothing half-beseeching tone, and rising as if to go away to Mr. Featherstone. Of course Fred felt as if the clouds had parted and a gleam had come: he moved and stood in her way. "Say one word, Mary, and I will do anything. Say you will not think the worst of me--will not give me up altogether." "As if it were any pleasure to me to think ill of you," said Mary, in a mournful tone. "As if it were not very painful to me to see you an idle frivolous creature. How can you bear to be so contemptible, when others are working and striving, and there are so many things to be done--how can you bear to be fit for nothing in the world that is useful? And with so much good in your disposition, Fred,--you might be worth a great deal." "I will try to be anything you like, Mary, if you will say that you love me." "I should be ashamed to say that I loved a man who must always be hanging on others, and reckoning on what they would do for him. What will you be when you are forty? Like Mr. Bowyer, I suppose--just as idle, living in Mrs. Beck's front parlor--fat and shabby, hoping somebody will invite you to dinner--spending your morning in learning a comic song--oh no! learning a tune on the flute." Mary's lips had begun to curl with a smile as soon as she had asked that question about Fred's future (young souls are mobile), and before she ended, her face had its full illumination of fun. To him it was like the cessation of an ache that Mary could laugh at him, and with a passive sort of smile he tried to reach her hand; but she slipped away quickly towards the door and said, "I shall tell uncle. You _must_ see him for a moment or two." Fred secretly felt that his future was guaranteed against the fulfilment of Mary's sarcastic prophecies, apart from that "anything" which he was ready to do if she would define it. He never dared in Mary's presence to approach the subject of his expectations from Mr. Featherstone, and she always ignored them, as if everything depended on himself. But if ever he actually came into the property, she must recognize the change in his position. All this passed through his mind somewhat languidly, before he went up to see his uncle. He stayed but a little while, excusing himself on the ground that he had a cold; and Mary did not reappear before he left the house. But as he rode home, he began to be more conscious of being ill, than of being melancholy. When Caleb Garth arrived at Stone Court soon after dusk, Mary was not surprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a visit, and was not at all fond of having to talk with Mr. Featherstone. The old man, on the other hand, felt himself ill at ease with a brother-in-law whom he could not annoy, who did not mind about being considered poor, had nothing to ask of him, and understood all kinds of farming and mining business better than he did. But Mary had felt sure that her parents would want to see her, and if her father had not come, she would have obtained leave to go home for an hour or two the next day. After discussing prices during tea with Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-by, and said, "I want to speak to you, Mary." She took a candle into another large parlor, where there was no fire, and setting down the feeble light on the dark mahogany table, turned round to her father, and putting her arms round his neck kissed him with childish kisses which he delighted in,--the expression of his large brows softening as the expression of a great beautiful dog softens when it is caressed. Mary was his favorite child, and whatever Susan might say, and right as she was on all other subjects, Caleb thought it natural that Fred or any one else should think Mary more lovable than other girls. "I've got something to tell you, my dear," said Caleb in his hesitating way. "No very good news; but then it might be worse." "About money, father? I think I know what it is." "Ay? how can that be? You see, I've been a bit of a fool again, and put my name to a bill, and now it comes to paying; and your mother has got to part with her savings, that's the worst of it, and even they won't quite make things even. We wanted a hundred and ten pounds: your mother has ninety-two, and I have none to spare in the bank; and she thinks that you have some savings." "Oh yes; I have more than four-and-twenty pounds. I thought you would come, father, so I put it in my bag. See! beautiful white notes and gold." Mary took out the folded money from her reticule and put it into her father's hand. "Well, but how--we only want eighteen--here, put the rest back, child,--but how did you know about it?" said Caleb, who, in his unconquerable indifference to money, was beginning to be chiefly concerned about the relation the affair might have to Mary's affections. "Fred told me this morning." "Ah! Did he come on purpose?" "Yes, I think so. He was a good deal distressed." "I'm afraid Fred is not to be trusted, Mary," said the father, with hesitating tenderness. "He means better than he acts, perhaps. But I should think it a pity for any body's happiness to be wrapped up in him, and so would your mother." "And so should I, father," said Mary, not looking up, but putting the back of her father's hand against her cheek. "I don't want to pry, my dear. But I was afraid there might be something between you and Fred, and I wanted to caution you. You see, Mary"--here Caleb's voice became more tender; he had been pushing his hat about on the table and looking at it, but finally he turned his eyes on his daughter--"a woman, let her be as good as she may, has got to put up with the life her husband makes for her. Your mother has had to put up with a good deal because of me." Mary turned the back of her father's hand to her lips and smiled at him. "Well, well, nobody's perfect, but"--here Mr. Garth shook his head to help out the inadequacy of words--"what I am thinking of is--what it must be for a wife when she's never sure of her husband, when he hasn't got a principle in him to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others than of getting his own toes pinched. That's the long and the short of it, Mary. Young folks may get fond of each other before they know what life is, and they may think it all holiday if they can only get together; but it soon turns into working day, my dear. However, you have more sense than most, and you haven't been kept in cotton-wool: there may be no occasion for me to say this, but a father trembles for his daughter, and you are all by yourself here." "Don't fear for me, father," said Mary, gravely meeting her father's eyes; "Fred has always been very good to me; he is kind-hearted and affectionate, and not false, I think, with all his self-indulgence. But I will never engage myself to one who has no manly independence, and who goes on loitering away his time on the chance that others will provide for him. You and my mother have taught me too much pride for that." "That's right--that's right. Then I am easy," said Mr. Garth, taking up his hat. "But it's hard to run away with your earnings, eh child." "Father!" said Mary, in her deepest tone of remonstrance. "Take pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home," was her last word before he closed the outer door on himself. "I suppose your father wanted your earnings," said old Mr. Featherstone, with his usual power of unpleasant surmise, when Mary returned to him. "He makes but a tight fit, I reckon. You're of age now; you ought to be saving for yourself." "I consider my father and mother the best part of myself, sir," said Mary, coldly. Mr. Featherstone grunted: he could not deny that an ordinary sort of girl like her might be expected to be useful, so he thought of another rejoinder, disagreeable enough to be always apropos. "If Fred Vincy comes to-morrow, now, don't you keep him chattering: let him come up to me." ----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 26--------- "He beats me and I rail at him: O worthy satisfaction! would it were otherwise--that I could beat him while he railed at me.--" --Troilus and Cressida. But Fred did not go to Stone Court the next day, for reasons that were quite peremptory. From those visits to unsanitary Houndsley streets in search of Diamond, he had brought back not only a bad bargain in horse-flesh, but the further misfortune of some ailment which for a day or two had deemed mere depression and headache, but which got so much worse when he returned from his visit to Stone Court that, going into the dining-room, he threw himself on the sofa, and in answer to his mother's anxious question, said, "I feel very ill: I think you must send for Wrench." Wrench came, but did not apprehend anything serious, spoke of a "slight derangement," and did not speak of coming again on the morrow. He had a due value for the Vincys' house, but the wariest men are apt to be dulled by routine, and on worried mornings will sometimes go through their business with the zest of the daily bell-ringer. Mr. Wrench was a small, neat, bilious man, with a well-dressed wig: he had a laborious practice, an irascible temper, a lymphatic wife and seven children; and he was already rather late before setting out on a four-miles drive to meet Dr. Minchin on the other side of Tipton, the decease of Hicks, a rural practitioner, having increased Middlemarch practice in that direction. Great statesmen err, and why not small medical men? Mr. Wrench did not neglect sending the usual white parcels, which this time had black and drastic contents. Their effect was not alleviating to poor Fred, who, however, unwilling as he said to believe that he was "in for an illness," rose at his usual easy hour the next morning and went down-stairs meaning to breakfast, but succeeded in nothing but in sitting and shivering by the fire. Mr. Wrench was again sent for, but was gone on his rounds, and Mrs. Vincy seeing her darling's changed looks and general misery, began to cry and said she would send for Dr. Sprague. "Oh, nonsense, mother! It's nothing," said Fred, putting out his hot dry hand to her, "I shall soon be all right. I must have taken cold in that nasty damp ride." "Mamma!" said Rosamond, who was seated near the window (the dining-room windows looked on that highly respectable street called Lowick Gate), "there is Mr. Lydgate, stopping to speak to some one. If I were you I would call him in. He has cured Ellen Bulstrode. They say he cures every one." Mrs. Vincy sprang to the window and opened it in an instant, thinking only of Fred and not of medical etiquette. Lydgate was only two yards off on the other side of some iron palisading, and turned round at the sudden sound of the sash, before she called to him. In two minutes he was in the room, and Rosamond went out, after waiting just long enough to show a pretty anxiety conflicting with her sense of what was becoming. Lydgate had to hear a narrative in which Mrs. Vincy's mind insisted with remarkable instinct on every point of minor importance, especially on what Mr. Wrench had said and had not said about coming again. That there might be an awkward affair with Wrench, Lydgate saw at once; but the case was serious enough to make him dismiss that consideration: he was convinced that Fred was in the pink-skinned stage of typhoid fever, and that he had taken just the wrong medicines. He must go to bed immediately, must have a regular nurse, and various appliances and precautions must be used, about which Lydgate was particular. Poor Mrs. Vincy's terror at these indications of danger found vent in such words as came most easily. She thought it "very ill usage on the part of Mr. Wrench, who had attended their house so many years in preference to Mr. Peacock, though Mr. Peacock was equally a friend. Why Mr. Wrench should neglect her children more than others, she could not for the life of her understand. He had not neglected Mrs. Larcher's when they had the measles, nor indeed would Mrs. Vincy have wished that he should. And if anything should happen--" Here poor Mrs. Vincy's spirit quite broke down, and her Niobe throat and good-humored face were sadly convulsed. This was in the hall out of Fred's hearing, but Rosamond had opened the drawing-room door, and now came forward anxiously. Lydgate apologized for Mr. Wrench, said that the symptoms yesterday might have been disguising, and that this form of fever was very equivocal in its beginnings: he would go immediately to the druggist's and have a prescription made up in order to lose no time, but he would write to Mr. Wrench and tell him what had been done. "But you must come again--you must go on attending Fred. I can't have my boy left to anybody who may come or not. I bear nobody ill-will, thank God, and Mr. Wrench saved me in the pleurisy, but he'd better have let me die--if--if--" "I will meet Mr. Wrench here, then, shall I?" said Lydgate, really believing that Wrench was not well prepared to deal wisely with a case of this kind. "Pray make that arrangement, Mr. Lydgate," said Rosamond, coming to her mother's aid, and supporting her arm to lead her away. When Mr. Vincy came home he was very angry with Wrench, and did not care if he never came into his house again. Lydgate should go on now, whether Wrench liked it or not. It was no joke to have fever in the house. Everybody must be sent to now, not to come to dinner on Thursday. And Pritchard needn't get up any wine: brandy was the best thing against infection. "I shall drink brandy," added Mr. Vincy, emphatically--as much as to say, this was not an occasion for firing with blank-cartridges. "He's an uncommonly unfortunate lad, is Fred. He'd need have--some luck by-and-by to make up for all this--else I don't know who'd have an eldest son." "Don't say so, Vincy," said the mother, with a quivering lip, "if you don't want him to be taken from me." "It will worret you to death, Lucy; _that_ I can see," said Mr. Vincy, more mildly. "However, Wrench shall know what I think of the matter." (What Mr. Vincy thought confusedly was, that the fever might somehow have been hindered if Wrench had shown the proper solicitude about his--the Mayor's--family.) "I'm the last man to give in to the cry about new doctors, or new parsons either--whether they're Bulstrode's men or not. But Wrench shall know what I think, take it as he will." Wrench did not take it at all well. Lydgate was as polite as he could be in his offhand way, but politeness in a man who has placed you at a disadvantage is only an additional exasperation, especially if he happens to have been an object of dislike beforehand. Country practitioners used to be an irritable species, susceptible on the point of honor; and Mr. Wrench was one of the most irritable among them. He did not refuse to meet Lydgate in the evening, but his temper was somewhat tried on the occasion. He had to hear Mrs. Vincy say-- "Oh, Mr. Wrench, what have I ever done that you should use me so?-- To go away, and never to come again! And my boy might have been stretched a corpse!" Mr. Vincy, who had been keeping up a sharp fire on the enemy Infection, and was a good deal heated in consequence, started up when he heard Wrench come in, and went into the hall to let him know what he thought. "I'll tell you what, Wrench, this is beyond a joke," said the Mayor, who of late had had to rebuke offenders with an official air, and how broadened himself by putting his thumbs in his armholes.-- "To let fever get unawares into a house like this. There are some things that ought to be actionable, and are not so-- that's my opinion." But irrational reproaches were easier to bear than the sense of being instructed, or rather the sense that a younger man, like Lydgate, inwardly considered him in need of instruction, for "in point of fact," Mr. Wrench afterwards said, Lydgate paraded flighty, foreign notions, which would not wear. He swallowed his ire for the moment, but he afterwards wrote to decline further attendance in the case. The house might be a good one, but Mr. Wrench was not going to truckle to anybody on a professional matter. He reflected, with much probability on his side, that Lydgate would by-and-by be caught tripping too, and that his ungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his professional brethren, would by-and-by recoil on himself. He threw out biting remarks on Lydgate's tricks, worthy only of a quack, to get himself a factitious reputation with credulous people. That cant about cures was never got up by sound practitioners. This was a point on which Lydgate smarted as much as Wrench could desire. To be puffed by ignorance was not only humiliating, but perilous, and not more enviable than the reputation of the weather-prophet. He was impatient of the foolish expectations amidst which all work must be carried on, and likely enough to damage himself as much as Mr. Wrench could wish, by an unprofessional openness. However, Lydgate was installed as medical attendant on the Vincys, and the event was a subject of general conversation in Middlemarch. Some said, that the Vincys had behaved scandalously, that Mr. Vincy had threatened Wrench, and that Mrs. Vincy had accused him of poisoning her son. Others were of opinion that Mr. Lydgate's passing by was providential, that he was wonderfully clever in fevers, and that Bulstrode was in the right to bring him forward. Many people believed that Lydgate's coming to the town at all was really due to Bulstrode; and Mrs. Taft, who was always counting stitches and gathered her information in misleading fragments caught between the rows of her knitting, had got it into her head that Mr. Lydgate was a natural son of Bulstrode's, a fact which seemed to justify her suspicions of evangelical laymen. She one day communicated this piece of knowledge to Mrs. Farebrother, who did not fail to tell her son of it, observing-- "I should not be surprised at anything in Bulstrode, but I should be sorry to think it of Mr. Lydgate." "Why, mother," said Mr. Farebrother, after an explosive laugh, "you know very well that Lydgate is of a good family in the North. He never heard of Bulstrode before he came here." "That is satisfactory so far as Mr. Lydgate is concerned, Camden," said the old lady, with an air of precision.--"But as to Bulstrode--the report may be true of some other son."

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for book 3, chapter 30 with the given context.

book 3, chapter 28|book 3, chapter 30

Lydgate comes to check on Casaubon, and cannot find anything immediately wrong; he asks that Casaubon give up his studies for the time being, and focus on leisurely pursuits. Dorothea is informed as to the details of whatever ails Casaubon; Lydgate says that he must be kept from any stresses, or else his condition might be aggravated, and his life cut short. Dorothea is sad, but not sure exactly what to think; Ladislaw is supposed to be arriving there in a few days, and she asks Mr. Brooke to write Ladislaw a letter saying that Casaubon is ill, and not to visit. Mr. Brooke does write a letter, but the contents are nothing like Dorothea intends; Mr. Brooke invites Ladislaw, and also proposes that he might work for Mr. Brooke's newspaper, since Mr. Brooke has been favorably impressed with what he has heard.

----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 28--------- 1st Gent. All times are good to seek your wedded home Bringing a mutual delight. 2d Gent. Why, true. The calendar hath not an evil day For souls made one by love, and even death Were sweetness, if it came like rolling waves While they two clasped each other, and foresaw No life apart. Mr. and Mrs. Casaubon, returning from their wedding journey, arrived at Lowick Manor in the middle of January. A light snow was falling as they descended at the door, and in the morning, when Dorothea passed from her dressing-room avenue the blue-green boudoir that we know of, she saw the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from a white earth, and spreading white branches against the dun and motionless sky. The distant flat shrank in uniform whiteness and low-hanging uniformity of cloud. The very furniture in the room seemed to have shrunk since she saw it before: the stag in the tapestry looked more like a ghost in his ghostly blue-green world; the volumes of polite literature in the bookcase looked more like immovable imitations of books. The bright fire of dry oak-boughs burning on the logs seemed an incongruous renewal of life and glow--like the figure of Dorothea herself as she entered carrying the red-leather cases containing the cameos for Celia. She was glowing from her morning toilet as only healthful youth can glow: there was gem-like brightness on her coiled hair and in her hazel eyes; there was warm red life in her lips; her throat had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the fur which itself seemed to wind about her neck and cling down her blue-gray pelisse with a tenderness gathered from her own, a sentient commingled innocence which kept its loveliness against the crystalline purity of the outdoor snow. As she laid the cameo-cases on the table in the bow-window, she unconsciously kept her hands on them, immediately absorbed in looking out on the still, white enclosure which made her visible world. Mr. Casaubon, who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was in the library giving audience to his curate Mr. Tucker. By-and-by Celia would come in her quality of bridesmaid as well as sister, and through the next weeks there would be wedding visits received and given; all in continuance of that transitional life understood to correspond with the excitement of bridal felicity, and keeping up the sense of busy ineffectiveness, as of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect. The duties of her married life, contemplated as so great beforehand, seemed to be shrinking with the furniture and the white vapor-walled landscape. The clear heights where she expected to walk in full communion had become difficult to see even in her imagination; the delicious repose of the soul on a complete superior had been shaken into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment. When would the days begin of that active wifely devotion which was to strengthen her husband's life and exalt her own? Never perhaps, as she had preconceived them; but somehow--still somehow. In this solemnly pledged union of her life, duty would present itself in some new form of inspiration and give a new meaning to wifely love. Meanwhile there was the snow and the low arch of dun vapor--there was the stifling oppression of that gentlewoman's world, where everything was done for her and none asked for her aid--where the sense of connection with a manifold pregnant existence had to be kept up painfully as an inward vision, instead of coming from without in claims that would have shaped her energies.-- "What shall I do?" "Whatever you please, my dear:" that had been her brief history since she had left off learning morning lessons and practising silly rhythms on the hated piano. Marriage, which was to bring guidance into worthy and imperative occupation, had not yet freed her from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty: it had not even filled her leisure with the ruminant joy of unchecked tenderness. Her blooming full-pulsed youth stood there in a moral imprisonment which made itself one with the chill, colorless, narrowed landscape, with the shrunken furniture, the never-read books, and the ghostly stag in a pale fantastic world that seemed to be vanishing from the daylight. In the first minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt nothing but the dreary oppression; then came a keen remembrance, and turning away from the window she walked round the room. The ideas and hopes which were living in her mind when she first saw this room nearly three months before were present now only as memories: she judged them as we judge transient and departed things. All existence seemed to beat with a lower pulse than her own, and her religious faith was a solitary cry, the struggle out of a nightmare in which every object was withering and shrinking away from her. Each remembered thing in the room was disenchanted, was deadened as an unlit transparency, till her wandering gaze came to the group of miniatures, and there at last she saw something which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was the miniature of Mr. Casaubon's aunt Julia, who had made the unfortunate marriage--of Will Ladislaw's grandmother. Dorothea could fancy that it was alive now--the delicate woman's face which yet had a headstrong look, a peculiarity difficult to interpret. Was it only her friends who thought her marriage unfortunate? or did she herself find it out to be a mistake, and taste the salt bitterness of her tears in the merciful silence of the night? What breadths of experience Dorothea seemed to have passed over since she first looked at this miniature! She felt a new companionship with it, as if it had an ear for her and could see how she was looking at it. Here was a woman who had known some difficulty about marriage. Nay, the colors deepened, the lips and chin seemed to get larger, the hair and eyes seemed to be sending out light, the face was masculine and beamed on her with that full gaze which tells her on whom it falls that she is too interesting for the slightest movement of her eyelid to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted. The vivid presentation came like a pleasant glow to Dorothea: she felt herself smiling, and turning from the miniature sat down and looked up as if she were again talking to a figure in front of her. But the smile disappeared as she went on meditating, and at last she said aloud-- "Oh, it was cruel to speak so! How sad--how dreadful!" She rose quickly and went out of the room, hurrying along the corridor, with the irresistible impulse to go and see her husband and inquire if she could do anything for him. Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr. Casaubon was alone in the library. She felt as if all her morning's gloom would vanish if she could see her husband glad because of her presence. But when she reached the head of the dark oak there was Celia coming up, and below there was Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Casaubon. "Dodo!" said Celia, in her quiet staccato; then kissed her sister, whose arms encircled her, and said no more. I think they both cried a little in a furtive manner, while Dorothea ran down-stairs to greet her uncle. "I need not ask how you are, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, after kissing her forehead. "Rome has agreed with you, I see--happiness, frescos, the antique--that sort of thing. Well, it's very pleasant to have you back again, and you understand all about art now, eh? But Casaubon is a little pale, I tell him--a little pale, you know. Studying hard in his holidays is carrying it rather too far. I overdid it at one time"--Mr. Brooke still held Dorothea's hand, but had turned his face to Mr. Casaubon--"about topography, ruins, temples--I thought I had a clew, but I saw it would carry me too far, and nothing might come of it. You may go any length in that sort of thing, and nothing may come of it, you know." Dorothea's eyes also were turned up to her husband's face with some anxiety at the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be aware of signs which she had not noticed. "Nothing to alarm you, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. "A little English beef and mutton will soon make a difference. It was all very well to look pale, sitting for the portrait of Aquinas, you know--we got your letter just in time. But Aquinas, now--he was a little too subtle, wasn't he? Does anybody read Aquinas?" "He is not indeed an author adapted to superficial minds," said Mr. Casaubon, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience. "You would like coffee in your own room, uncle?" said Dorothea, coming to the rescue. "Yes; and you must go to Celia: she has great news to tell you, you know. I leave it all to her." The blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a pelisse exactly like her sister's, surveying the cameos with a placid satisfaction, while the conversation passed on to other topics. "Do you think it nice to go to Rome on a wedding journey?" said Celia, with her ready delicate blush which Dorothea was used to on the smallest occasions. "It would not suit all--not you, dear, for example," said Dorothea, quietly. No one would ever know what she thought of a wedding journey to Rome. "Mrs. Cadwallader says it is nonsense, people going a long journey when they are married. She says they get tired to death of each other, and can't quarrel comfortably, as they would at home. And Lady Chettam says she went to Bath." Celia's color changed again and again--seemed "To come and go with tidings from the heart, As it a running messenger had been." It must mean more than Celia's blushing usually did. "Celia! has something happened?" said Dorothea, in a tone full of sisterly feeling. "Have you really any great news to tell me?" "It was because you went away, Dodo. Then there was nobody but me for Sir James to talk to," said Celia, with a certain roguishness in her eyes. "I understand. It is as I used to hope and believe," said Dorothea, taking her sister's face between her hands, and looking at her half anxiously. Celia's marriage seemed more serious than it used to do. "It was only three days ago," said Celia. "And Lady Chettam is very kind." "And you are very happy?" "Yes. We are not going to be married yet. Because every thing is to be got ready. And I don't want to be married so very soon, because I think it is nice to be engaged. And we shall be married all our lives after." "I do believe you could not marry better, Kitty. Sir James is a good, honorable man," said Dorothea, warmly. "He has gone on with the cottages, Dodo. He will tell you about them when he comes. Shall you be glad to see him?" "Of course I shall. How can you ask me?" "Only I was afraid you would be getting so learned," said Celia, regarding Mr. Casaubon's learning as a kind of damp which might in due time saturate a neighboring body. ----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 30--------- "Qui veut delasser hors de propos, lasse."--PASCAL. Mr. Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the first, and in a few days began to recover his usual condition. But Lydgate seemed to think the case worth a great deal of attention. He not only used his stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course in practice at that time), but sat quietly by his patient and watched him. To Mr. Casaubon's questions about himself, he replied that the source of the illness was the common error of intellectual men--a too eager and monotonous application: the remedy was, to be satisfied with moderate work, and to seek variety of relaxation. Mr. Brooke, who sat by on one occasion, suggested that Mr. Casaubon should go fishing, as Cadwallader did, and have a turning-room, make toys, table-legs, and that kind of thing. "In short, you recommend me to anticipate the arrival of my second childhood," said poor Mr. Casaubon, with some bitterness. "These things," he added, looking at Lydgate, "would be to me such relaxation as tow-picking is to prisoners in a house of correction." "I confess," said Lydgate, smiling, "amusement is rather an unsatisfactory prescription. It is something like telling people to keep up their spirits. Perhaps I had better say, that you must submit to be mildly bored rather than to go on working." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Brooke. "Get Dorothea to play backgammon with you in the evenings. And shuttlecock, now--I don't know a finer game than shuttlecock for the daytime. I remember it all the fashion. To be sure, your eyes might not stand that, Casaubon. But you must unbend, you know. Why, you might take to some light study: conchology, now: I always think that must be a light study. Or get Dorothea to read you light things, Smollett--'Roderick Random,' 'Humphrey Clinker:' they are a little broad, but she may read anything now she's married, you know. I remember they made me laugh uncommonly--there's a droll bit about a postilion's breeches. We have no such humor now. I have gone through all these things, but they might be rather new to you." "As new as eating thistles," would have been an answer to represent Mr. Casaubon's feelings. But he only bowed resignedly, with due respect to his wife's uncle, and observed that doubtless the works he mentioned had "served as a resource to a certain order of minds." "You see," said the able magistrate to Lydgate, when they were outside the door, "Casaubon has been a little narrow: it leaves him rather at a loss when you forbid him his particular work, which I believe is something very deep indeed--in the line of research, you know. I would never give way to that; I was always versatile. But a clergyman is tied a little tight. If they would make him a bishop, now!--he did a very good pamphlet for Peel. He would have more movement then, more show; he might get a little flesh. But I recommend you to talk to Mrs. Casaubon. She is clever enough for anything, is my niece. Tell her, her husband wants liveliness, diversion: put her on amusing tactics." Without Mr. Brooke's advice, Lydgate had determined on speaking to Dorothea. She had not been present while her uncle was throwing out his pleasant suggestions as to the mode in which life at Lowick might be enlivened, but she was usually by her husband's side, and the unaffected signs of intense anxiety in her face and voice about whatever touched his mind or health, made a drama which Lydgate was inclined to watch. He said to himself that he was only doing right in telling her the truth about her husband's probable future, but he certainly thought also that it would be interesting to talk confidentially with her. A medical man likes to make psychological observations, and sometimes in the pursuit of such studies is too easily tempted into momentous prophecy which life and death easily set at nought. Lydgate had often been satirical on this gratuitous prediction, and he meant now to be guarded. He asked for Mrs. Casaubon, but being told that she was out walking, he was going away, when Dorothea and Celia appeared, both glowing from their struggle with the March wind. When Lydgate begged to speak with her alone, Dorothea opened the library door which happened to be the nearest, thinking of nothing at the moment but what he might have to say about Mr. Casaubon. It was the first time she had entered this room since her husband had been taken ill, and the servant had chosen not to open the shutters. But there was light enough to read by from the narrow upper panes of the windows. "You will not mind this sombre light," said Dorothea, standing in the middle of the room. "Since you forbade books, the library has been out of the question. But Mr. Casaubon will soon be here again, I hope. Is he not making progress?" "Yes, much more rapid progress than I at first expected. Indeed, he is already nearly in his usual state of health." "You do not fear that the illness will return?" said Dorothea, whose quick ear had detected some significance in Lydgate's tone. "Such cases are peculiarly difficult to pronounce upon," said Lydgate. "The only point on which I can be confident is that it will be desirable to be very watchful on Mr. Casaubon's account, lest he should in any way strain his nervous power." "I beseech you to speak quite plainly," said Dorothea, in an imploring tone. "I cannot bear to think that there might be something which I did not know, and which, if I had known it, would have made me act differently." The words came out like a cry: it was evident that they were the voice of some mental experience which lay not very far off. "Sit down," she added, placing herself on the nearest chair, and throwing off her bonnet and gloves, with an instinctive discarding of formality where a great question of destiny was concerned. "What you say now justifies my own view," said Lydgate. "I think it is one's function as a medical man to hinder regrets of that sort as far as possible. But I beg you to observe that Mr. Casaubon's case is precisely of the kind in which the issue is most difficult to pronounce upon. He may possibly live for fifteen years or more, without much worse health than he has had hitherto." Dorothea had turned very pale, and when Lydgate paused she said in a low voice, "You mean if we are very careful." "Yes--careful against mental agitation of all kinds, and against excessive application." "He would be miserable, if he had to give up his work," said Dorothea, with a quick prevision of that wretchedness. "I am aware of that. The only course is to try by all means, direct and indirect, to moderate and vary his occupations. With a happy concurrence of circumstances, there is, as I said, no immediate danger from that affection of the heart, which I believe to have been the cause of his late attack. On the other hand, it is possible that the disease may develop itself more rapidly: it is one of those cases in which death is sometimes sudden. Nothing should be neglected which might be affected by such an issue." There was silence for a few moments, while Dorothea sat as if she had been turned to marble, though the life within her was so intense that her mind had never before swept in brief time over an equal range of scenes and motives. "Help me, pray," she said, at last, in the same low voice as before. "Tell me what I can do." "What do you think of foreign travel? You have been lately in Rome, I think." The memories which made this resource utterly hopeless were a new current that shook Dorothea out of her pallid immobility. "Oh, that would not do--that would be worse than anything," she said with a more childlike despondency, while the tears rolled down. "Nothing will be of any use that he does not enjoy." "I wish that I could have spared you this pain," said Lydgate, deeply touched, yet wondering about her marriage. Women just like Dorothea had not entered into his traditions. "It was right of you to tell me. I thank you for telling me the truth." "I wish you to understand that I shall not say anything to enlighten Mr. Casaubon himself. I think it desirable for him to know nothing more than that he must not overwork himself, and must observe certain rules. Anxiety of any kind would be precisely the most unfavorable condition for him." Lydgate rose, and Dorothea mechanically rose at the same time, unclasping her cloak and throwing it off as if it stifled her. He was bowing and quitting her, when an impulse which if she had been alone would have turned into a prayer, made her say with a sob in her voice-- "Oh, you are a wise man, are you not? You know all about life and death. Advise me. Think what I can do. He has been laboring all his life and looking forward. He minds about nothing else.-- And I mind about nothing else--" For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by this involuntary appeal--this cry from soul to soul, without other consciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the same embroiled medium, the same troublous fitfully illuminated life. But what could he say now except that he should see Mr. Casaubon again to-morrow? When he was gone, Dorothea's tears gushed forth, and relieved her stifling oppression. Then she dried her eyes, reminded that her distress must not be betrayed to her husband; and looked round the room thinking that she must order the servant to attend to it as usual, since Mr. Casaubon might now at any moment wish to enter. On his writing-table there were letters which had lain untouched since the morning when he was taken ill, and among them, as Dorothea well remembered, there were young Ladislaw's letters, the one addressed to her still unopened. The associations of these letters had been made the more painful by that sudden attack of illness which she felt that the agitation caused by her anger might have helped to bring on: it would be time enough to read them when they were again thrust upon her, and she had had no inclination to fetch them from the library. But now it occurred to her that they should be put out of her husband's sight: whatever might have been the sources of his annoyance about them, he must, if possible, not be annoyed again; and she ran her eyes first over the letter addressed to him to assure herself whether or not it would be necessary to write in order to hinder the offensive visit. Will wrote from Rome, and began by saying that his obligations to Mr. Casaubon were too deep for all thanks not to seem impertinent. It was plain that if he were not grateful, he must be the poorest-spirited rascal who had ever found a generous friend. To expand in wordy thanks would be like saying, "I am honest." But Will had come to perceive that his defects--defects which Mr. Casaubon had himself often pointed to--needed for their correction that more strenuous position which his relative's generosity had hitherto prevented from being inevitable. He trusted that he should make the best return, if return were possible, by showing the effectiveness of the education for which he was indebted, and by ceasing in future to need any diversion towards himself of funds on which others might have a better claim. He was coming to England, to try his fortune, as many other young men were obliged to do whose only capital was in their brains. His friend Naumann had desired him to take charge of the "Dispute"--the picture painted for Mr. Casaubon, with whose permission, and Mrs. Casaubon's, Will would convey it to Lowick in person. A letter addressed to the Poste Restante in Paris within the fortnight would hinder him, if necessary, from arriving at an inconvenient moment. He enclosed a letter to Mrs. Casaubon in which he continued a discussion about art, begun with her in Rome. Opening her own letter Dorothea saw that it was a lively continuation of his remonstrance with her fanatical sympathy and her want of sturdy neutral delight in things as they were--an outpouring of his young vivacity which it was impossible to read just now. She had immediately to consider what was to be done about the other letter: there was still time perhaps to prevent Will from coming to Lowick. Dorothea ended by giving the letter to her uncle, who was still in the house, and begging him to let Will know that Mr. Casaubon had been ill, and that his health would not allow the reception of any visitors. No one more ready than Mr. Brooke to write a letter: his only difficulty was to write a short one, and his ideas in this case expanded over the three large pages and the inward foldings. He had simply said to Dorothea-- "To be sure, I will write, my dear. He's a very clever young fellow--this young Ladislaw--I dare say will be a rising young man. It's a good letter--marks his sense of things, you know. However, I will tell him about Casaubon." But the end of Mr. Brooke's pen was a thinking organ, evolving sentences, especially of a benevolent kind, before the rest of his mind could well overtake them. It expressed regrets and proposed remedies, which, when Mr. Brooke read them, seemed felicitously worded--surprisingly the right thing, and determined a sequel which he had never before thought of. In this case, his pen found it such a pity young Ladislaw should not have come into the neighborhood just at that time, in order that Mr. Brooke might make his acquaintance more fully, and that they might go over the long-neglected Italian drawings together--it also felt such an interest in a young man who was starting in life with a stock of ideas--that by the end of the second page it had persuaded Mr. Brooke to invite young Ladislaw, since he could not be received at Lowick, to come to Tipton Grange. Why not? They could find a great many things to do together, and this was a period of peculiar growth--the political horizon was expanding, and--in short, Mr. Brooke's pen went off into a little speech which it had lately reported for that imperfectly edited organ the "Middlemarch Pioneer." While Mr. Brooke was sealing this letter, he felt elated with an influx of dim projects:--a young man capable of putting ideas into form, the "Pioneer" purchased to clear the pathway for a new candidate, documents utilized--who knew what might come of it all? Since Celia was going to marry immediately, it would be very pleasant to have a young fellow at table with him, at least for a time. But he went away without telling Dorothea what he had put into the letter, for she was engaged with her husband, and--in fact, these things were of no importance to her.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of book 3, chapter 33 using the context provided.

book 3, chapter 33|book 3, chapter 25

Mary Garth is sitting with Mr. Featherstone at night, as she usually does, reflecting on the events of the day, and sitting in silence, for the most part. She figures that the issue of Featherstone's will shall disappoint everyone involved. Mr. Featherstone suddenly tells her to open the chest with his will in it, and burn one of them; Mary refuses, even when she is offered a sizable amount of money to do so. Mary is scared of his sudden energy, and does not think that he is in his right mind; Mr. Featherstone drifts off to sleep, and by the morning he is dead.

----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 33--------- "Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close; And let us all to meditation." --2 Henry VI. That night after twelve o'clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and sat there alone through the small hours. She often chose this task, in which she found some pleasure, notwithstanding the old man's testiness whenever he demanded her attentions. There were intervals in which she could sit perfectly still, enjoying the outer stillness and the subdued light. The red fire with its gently audible movement seemed like a solemn existence calmly independent of the petty passions, the imbecile desires, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which were daily moving her contempt. Mary was fond of her own thoughts, and could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her hands in her lap; for, having early had strong reason to believe that things were not likely to be arranged for her peculiar satisfaction, she wasted no time in astonishment and annoyance at that fact. And she had already come to take life very much as a comedy in which she had a proud, nay, a generous resolution not to act the mean or treacherous part. Mary might have become cynical if she had not had parents whom she honored, and a well of affectionate gratitude within her, which was all the fuller because she had learned to make no unreasonable claims. She sat to-night revolving, as she was wont, the scenes of the day, her lips often curling with amusement at the oddities to which her fancy added fresh drollery: people were so ridiculous with their illusions, carrying their fool's caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque while everybody else's were transparent, making themselves exceptions to everything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone were rosy. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes which were not quite comic to her. She was secretly convinced, though she had no other grounds than her close observation of old Featherstone's nature, that in spite of his fondness for having the Vincys about him, they were as likely to be disappointed as any of the relations whom he kept at a distance. She had a good deal of disdain for Mrs. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred should be alone together, but it did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the way in which Fred would be affected, if it should turn out that his uncle had left him as poor as ever. She could make a butt of Fred when he was present, but she did not enjoy his follies when he was absent. Yet she liked her thoughts: a vigorous young mind not overbalanced by passion, finds a good in making acquaintance with life, and watches its own powers with interest. Mary had plenty of merriment within. Her thought was not veined by any solemnity or pathos about the old man on the bed: such sentiments are easier to affect than to feel about an aged creature whose life is not visibly anything but a remnant of vices. She had always seen the most disagreeable side of Mr. Featherstone: he was not proud of her, and she was only useful to him. To be anxious about a soul that is always snapping at you must be left to the saints of the earth; and Mary was not one of them. She had never returned him a harsh word, and had waited on him faithfully: that was her utmost. Old Featherstone himself was not in the least anxious about his soul, and had declined to see Mr. Tucker on the subject. To-night he had not snapped, and for the first hour or two he lay remarkably still, until at last Mary heard him rattling his bunch of keys against the tin box which he always kept in the bed beside him. About three o'clock he said, with remarkable distinctness, "Missy, come here!" Mary obeyed, and found that he had already drawn the tin box from under the clothes, though he usually asked to have this done for him; and he had selected the key. He now unlocked the box, and, drawing from it another key, looked straight at her with eyes that seemed to have recovered all their sharpness and said, "How many of 'em are in the house?" "You mean of your own relations, sir," said Mary, well used to the old man's way of speech. He nodded slightly and she went on. "Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here." "Oh ay, they stick, do they? and the rest--they come every day, I'll warrant--Solomon and Jane, and all the young uns? They come peeping, and counting and casting up?" "Not all of them every day. Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule are here every day, and the others come often." The old man listened with a grimace while she spoke, and then said, relaxing his face, "The more fools they. You hearken, missy. It's three o'clock in the morning, and I've got all my faculties as well as ever I had in my life. I know all my property, and where the money's put out, and everything. And I've made everything ready to change my mind, and do as I like at the last. Do you hear, missy? I've got my faculties." "Well, sir?" said Mary, quietly. He now lowered his tone with an air of deeper cunning. "I've made two wills, and I'm going to burn one. Now you do as I tell you. This is the key of my iron chest, in the closet there. You push well at the side of the brass plate at the top, till it goes like a bolt: then you can put the key in the front lock and turn it. See and do that; and take out the topmost paper--Last Will and Testament--big printed." "No, sir," said Mary, in a firm voice, "I cannot do that." "Not do it? I tell you, you must," said the old man, his voice beginning to shake under the shock of this resistance. "I cannot touch your iron chest or your will. I must refuse to do anything that might lay me open to suspicion." "I tell you, I'm in my right mind. Shan't I do as I like at the last? I made two wills on purpose. Take the key, I say." "No, sir, I will not," said Mary, more resolutely still. Her repulsion was getting stronger. "I tell you, there's no time to lose." "I cannot help that, sir. I will not let the close of your life soil the beginning of mine. I will not touch your iron chest or your will." She moved to a little distance from the bedside. The old man paused with a blank stare for a little while, holding the one key erect on the ring; then with an agitated jerk he began to work with his bony left hand at emptying the tin box before him. "Missy," he began to say, hurriedly, "look here! take the money--the notes and gold--look here--take it--you shall have it all--do as I tell you." He made an effort to stretch out the key towards her as far as possible, and Mary again retreated. "I will not touch your key or your money, sir. Pray don't ask me to do it again. If you do, I must go and call your brother." He let his hand fall, and for the first time in her life Mary saw old Peter Featherstone begin to cry childishly. She said, in as gentle a tone as she could command, "Pray put up your money, sir;" and then went away to her seat by the fire, hoping this would help to convince him that it was useless to say more. Presently he rallied and said eagerly-- "Look here, then. Call the young chap. Call Fred Vincy." Mary's heart began to beat more quickly. Various ideas rushed through her mind as to what the burning of a second will might imply. She had to make a difficult decision in a hurry. "I will call him, if you will let me call Mr. Jonah and others with him." "Nobody else, I say. The young chap. I shall do as I like." "Wait till broad daylight, sir, when every one is stirring. Or let me call Simmons now, to go and fetch the lawyer? He can be here in less than two hours." "Lawyer? What do I want with the lawyer? Nobody shall know--I say, nobody shall know. I shall do as I like." "Let me call some one else, sir," said Mary, persuasively. She did not like her position--alone with the old man, who seemed to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to speak again and again without falling into his usual cough; yet she desired not to push unnecessarily the contradiction which agitated him. "Let me, pray, call some one else." "You let me alone, I say. Look here, missy. Take the money. You'll never have the chance again. It's pretty nigh two hundred--there's more in the box, and nobody knows how much there was. Take it and do as I tell you." Mary, standing by the fire, saw its red light falling on the old man, propped up on his pillows and bed-rest, with his bony hand holding out the key, and the money lying on the quilt before him. She never forgot that vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at the last. But the way in which he had put the offer of the money urged her to speak with harder resolution than ever. "It is of no use, sir. I will not do it. Put up your money. I will not touch your money. I will do anything else I can to comfort you; but I will not touch your keys or your money." "Anything else anything else!" said old Featherstone, with hoarse rage, which, as if in a nightmare, tried to be loud, and yet was only just audible. "I want nothing else. You come here--you come here." Mary approached him cautiously, knowing him too well. She saw him dropping his keys and trying to grasp his stick, while he looked at her like an aged hyena, the muscles of his face getting distorted with the effort of his hand. She paused at a safe distance. "Let me give you some cordial," she said, quietly, "and try to compose yourself. You will perhaps go to sleep. And to-morrow by daylight you can do as you like." He lifted the stick, in spite of her being beyond his reach, and threw it with a hard effort which was but impotence. It fell, slipping over the foot of the bed. Mary let it lie, and retreated to her chair by the fire. By-and-by she would go to him with the cordial. Fatigue would make him passive. It was getting towards the chillest moment of the morning, the fire had got low, and she could see through the chink between the moreen window-curtains the light whitened by the blind. Having put some wood on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, she sat down, hoping that Mr. Featherstone might now fall asleep. If she went near him the irritation might be kept up. He had said nothing after throwing the stick, but she had seen him taking his keys again and laying his right hand on the money. He did not put it up, however, and she thought that he was dropping off to sleep. But Mary herself began to be more agitated by the remembrance of what she had gone through, than she had been by the reality--questioning those acts of hers which had come imperatively and excluded all question in the critical moment. Presently the dry wood sent out a flame which illuminated every crevice, and Mary saw that the old man was lying quietly with his head turned a little on one side. She went towards him with inaudible steps, and thought that his face looked strangely motionless; but the next moment the movement of the flame communicating itself to all objects made her uncertain. The violent beating of her heart rendered her perceptions so doubtful that even when she touched him and listened for his breathing, she could not trust her conclusions. She went to the window and gently propped aside the curtain and blind, so that the still light of the sky fell on the bed. The next moment she ran to the bell and rang it energetically. In a very little while there was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstone was dead, with his right hand clasping the keys, and his left hand lying on the heap of notes and gold. BOOK IV. THREE LOVE PROBLEMS. ----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 25--------- "Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care But for another gives its ease And builds a heaven in hell's despair. . . . . . . . Love seeketh only self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven's despite." --W. BLAKE: Songs of Experience Fred Vincy wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary could not expect him, and when his uncle was not down-stairs in that case she might be sitting alone in the wainscoted parlor. He left his horse in the yard to avoid making a noise on the gravel in front, and entered the parlor without other notice than the noise of the door-handle. Mary was in her usual corner, laughing over Mrs. Piozzi's recollections of Johnson, and looked up with the fun still in her face. It gradually faded as she saw Fred approach her without speaking, and stand before her with his elbow on the mantel-piece, looking ill. She too was silent, only raising her eyes to him inquiringly. "Mary," he began, "I am a good-for-nothing blackguard." "I should think one of those epithets would do at a time," said Mary, trying to smile, but feeling alarmed. "I know you will never think well of me any more. You will think me a liar. You will think me dishonest. You will think I didn't care for you, or your father and mother. You always do make the worst of me, I know." "I cannot deny that I shall think all that of you, Fred, if you give me good reasons. But please to tell me at once what you have done. I would rather know the painful truth than imagine it." "I owed money--a hundred and sixty pounds. I asked your father to put his name to a bill. I thought it would not signify to him. I made sure of paying the money myself, and I have tried as hard as I could. And now, I have been so unlucky--a horse has turned out badly--I can only pay fifty pounds. And I can't ask my father for the money: he would not give me a farthing. And my uncle gave me a hundred a little while ago. So what can I do? And now your father has no ready money to spare, and your mother will have to pay away her ninety-two pounds that she has saved, and she says your savings must go too. You see what a--" "Oh, poor mother, poor father!" said Mary, her eyes filling with tears, and a little sob rising which she tried to repress. She looked straight before her and took no notice of Fred, all the consequences at home becoming present to her. He too remained silent for some moments, feeling more miserable than ever. "I wouldn't have hurt you for the world, Mary," he said at last. "You can never forgive me." "What does it matter whether I forgive you?" said Mary, passionately. "Would that make it any better for my mother to lose the money she has been earning by lessons for four years, that she might send Alfred to Mr. Hanmer's? Should you think all that pleasant enough if I forgave you?" "Say what you like, Mary. I deserve it all." "I don't want to say anything," said Mary, more quietly, "and my anger is of no use." She dried her eyes, threw aside her book, rose and fetched her sewing. Fred followed her with his eyes, hoping that they would meet hers, and in that way find access for his imploring penitence. But no! Mary could easily avoid looking upward. "I do care about your mother's money going," he said, when she was seated again and sewing quickly. "I wanted to ask you, Mary--don't you think that Mr. Featherstone--if you were to tell him--tell him, I mean, about apprenticing Alfred--would advance the money?" "My family is not fond of begging, Fred. We would rather work for our money. Besides, you say that Mr. Featherstone has lately given you a hundred pounds. He rarely makes presents; he has never made presents to us. I am sure my father will not ask him for anything; and even if I chose to beg of him, it would be of no use." "I am so miserable, Mary--if you knew how miserable I am, you would be sorry for me." "There are other things to be more sorry for than that. But selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the world. I see enough of that every day." "It is hardly fair to call me selfish. If you knew what things other young men do, you would think me a good way off the worst." "I know that people who spend a great deal of money on themselves without knowing how they shall pay, must be selfish. They are always thinking of what they can get for themselves, and not of what other people may lose." "Any man may be unfortunate, Mary, and find himself unable to pay when he meant it. There is not a better man in the world than your father, and yet he got into trouble." "How dare you make any comparison between my father and you, Fred?" said Mary, in a deep tone of indignation. "He never got into trouble by thinking of his own idle pleasures, but because he was always thinking of the work he was doing for other people. And he has fared hard, and worked hard to make good everybody's loss." "And you think that I shall never try to make good anything, Mary. It is not generous to believe the worst of a man. When you have got any power over him, I think you might try and use it to make him better; but that is what you never do. However, I'm going," Fred ended, languidly. "I shall never speak to you about anything again. I'm very sorry for all the trouble I've caused--that's all." Mary had dropped her work out of her hand and looked up. There is often something maternal even in a girlish love, and Mary's hard experience had wrought her nature to an impressibility very different from that hard slight thing which we call girlishness. At Fred's last words she felt an instantaneous pang, something like what a mother feels at the imagined sobs or cries of her naughty truant child, which may lose itself and get harm. And when, looking up, her eyes met his dull despairing glance, her pity for him surmounted her anger and all her other anxieties. "Oh, Fred, how ill you look! Sit down a moment. Don't go yet. Let me tell uncle that you are here. He has been wondering that he has not seen you for a whole week." Mary spoke hurriedly, saying the words that came first without knowing very well what they were, but saying them in a half-soothing half-beseeching tone, and rising as if to go away to Mr. Featherstone. Of course Fred felt as if the clouds had parted and a gleam had come: he moved and stood in her way. "Say one word, Mary, and I will do anything. Say you will not think the worst of me--will not give me up altogether." "As if it were any pleasure to me to think ill of you," said Mary, in a mournful tone. "As if it were not very painful to me to see you an idle frivolous creature. How can you bear to be so contemptible, when others are working and striving, and there are so many things to be done--how can you bear to be fit for nothing in the world that is useful? And with so much good in your disposition, Fred,--you might be worth a great deal." "I will try to be anything you like, Mary, if you will say that you love me." "I should be ashamed to say that I loved a man who must always be hanging on others, and reckoning on what they would do for him. What will you be when you are forty? Like Mr. Bowyer, I suppose--just as idle, living in Mrs. Beck's front parlor--fat and shabby, hoping somebody will invite you to dinner--spending your morning in learning a comic song--oh no! learning a tune on the flute." Mary's lips had begun to curl with a smile as soon as she had asked that question about Fred's future (young souls are mobile), and before she ended, her face had its full illumination of fun. To him it was like the cessation of an ache that Mary could laugh at him, and with a passive sort of smile he tried to reach her hand; but she slipped away quickly towards the door and said, "I shall tell uncle. You _must_ see him for a moment or two." Fred secretly felt that his future was guaranteed against the fulfilment of Mary's sarcastic prophecies, apart from that "anything" which he was ready to do if she would define it. He never dared in Mary's presence to approach the subject of his expectations from Mr. Featherstone, and she always ignored them, as if everything depended on himself. But if ever he actually came into the property, she must recognize the change in his position. All this passed through his mind somewhat languidly, before he went up to see his uncle. He stayed but a little while, excusing himself on the ground that he had a cold; and Mary did not reappear before he left the house. But as he rode home, he began to be more conscious of being ill, than of being melancholy. When Caleb Garth arrived at Stone Court soon after dusk, Mary was not surprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a visit, and was not at all fond of having to talk with Mr. Featherstone. The old man, on the other hand, felt himself ill at ease with a brother-in-law whom he could not annoy, who did not mind about being considered poor, had nothing to ask of him, and understood all kinds of farming and mining business better than he did. But Mary had felt sure that her parents would want to see her, and if her father had not come, she would have obtained leave to go home for an hour or two the next day. After discussing prices during tea with Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-by, and said, "I want to speak to you, Mary." She took a candle into another large parlor, where there was no fire, and setting down the feeble light on the dark mahogany table, turned round to her father, and putting her arms round his neck kissed him with childish kisses which he delighted in,--the expression of his large brows softening as the expression of a great beautiful dog softens when it is caressed. Mary was his favorite child, and whatever Susan might say, and right as she was on all other subjects, Caleb thought it natural that Fred or any one else should think Mary more lovable than other girls. "I've got something to tell you, my dear," said Caleb in his hesitating way. "No very good news; but then it might be worse." "About money, father? I think I know what it is." "Ay? how can that be? You see, I've been a bit of a fool again, and put my name to a bill, and now it comes to paying; and your mother has got to part with her savings, that's the worst of it, and even they won't quite make things even. We wanted a hundred and ten pounds: your mother has ninety-two, and I have none to spare in the bank; and she thinks that you have some savings." "Oh yes; I have more than four-and-twenty pounds. I thought you would come, father, so I put it in my bag. See! beautiful white notes and gold." Mary took out the folded money from her reticule and put it into her father's hand. "Well, but how--we only want eighteen--here, put the rest back, child,--but how did you know about it?" said Caleb, who, in his unconquerable indifference to money, was beginning to be chiefly concerned about the relation the affair might have to Mary's affections. "Fred told me this morning." "Ah! Did he come on purpose?" "Yes, I think so. He was a good deal distressed." "I'm afraid Fred is not to be trusted, Mary," said the father, with hesitating tenderness. "He means better than he acts, perhaps. But I should think it a pity for any body's happiness to be wrapped up in him, and so would your mother." "And so should I, father," said Mary, not looking up, but putting the back of her father's hand against her cheek. "I don't want to pry, my dear. But I was afraid there might be something between you and Fred, and I wanted to caution you. You see, Mary"--here Caleb's voice became more tender; he had been pushing his hat about on the table and looking at it, but finally he turned his eyes on his daughter--"a woman, let her be as good as she may, has got to put up with the life her husband makes for her. Your mother has had to put up with a good deal because of me." Mary turned the back of her father's hand to her lips and smiled at him. "Well, well, nobody's perfect, but"--here Mr. Garth shook his head to help out the inadequacy of words--"what I am thinking of is--what it must be for a wife when she's never sure of her husband, when he hasn't got a principle in him to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others than of getting his own toes pinched. That's the long and the short of it, Mary. Young folks may get fond of each other before they know what life is, and they may think it all holiday if they can only get together; but it soon turns into working day, my dear. However, you have more sense than most, and you haven't been kept in cotton-wool: there may be no occasion for me to say this, but a father trembles for his daughter, and you are all by yourself here." "Don't fear for me, father," said Mary, gravely meeting her father's eyes; "Fred has always been very good to me; he is kind-hearted and affectionate, and not false, I think, with all his self-indulgence. But I will never engage myself to one who has no manly independence, and who goes on loitering away his time on the chance that others will provide for him. You and my mother have taught me too much pride for that." "That's right--that's right. Then I am easy," said Mr. Garth, taking up his hat. "But it's hard to run away with your earnings, eh child." "Father!" said Mary, in her deepest tone of remonstrance. "Take pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home," was her last word before he closed the outer door on himself. "I suppose your father wanted your earnings," said old Mr. Featherstone, with his usual power of unpleasant surmise, when Mary returned to him. "He makes but a tight fit, I reckon. You're of age now; you ought to be saving for yourself." "I consider my father and mother the best part of myself, sir," said Mary, coldly. Mr. Featherstone grunted: he could not deny that an ordinary sort of girl like her might be expected to be useful, so he thought of another rejoinder, disagreeable enough to be always apropos. "If Fred Vincy comes to-morrow, now, don't you keep him chattering: let him come up to me."

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of book 3, chapter 26 using the context provided.

book 3, chapter 26|book 3, chapter 28

Fred doesn't get to visit Mary again the next day because he develops a nasty fever overnight. His mother calls their usual surgeon, Mr. Wrench, who prescribes the wrong thing and then doesn't come back to check in on him. So Rosamond recommends that they call Mr. Lydgate , who immediately sees that it's typhoid fever . Lydgate doesn't want to step on any toes or annoy Mr. Wrench, so he tries to be nice about the fact that Wrench totally screwed up. Everyone in Middlemarch finds out about the matter, but they all hear different versions of the story. Some gossip is even getting spread that Lydgate is the illegitimate son of Mr. Bulstrode.

----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 26--------- "He beats me and I rail at him: O worthy satisfaction! would it were otherwise--that I could beat him while he railed at me.--" --Troilus and Cressida. But Fred did not go to Stone Court the next day, for reasons that were quite peremptory. From those visits to unsanitary Houndsley streets in search of Diamond, he had brought back not only a bad bargain in horse-flesh, but the further misfortune of some ailment which for a day or two had deemed mere depression and headache, but which got so much worse when he returned from his visit to Stone Court that, going into the dining-room, he threw himself on the sofa, and in answer to his mother's anxious question, said, "I feel very ill: I think you must send for Wrench." Wrench came, but did not apprehend anything serious, spoke of a "slight derangement," and did not speak of coming again on the morrow. He had a due value for the Vincys' house, but the wariest men are apt to be dulled by routine, and on worried mornings will sometimes go through their business with the zest of the daily bell-ringer. Mr. Wrench was a small, neat, bilious man, with a well-dressed wig: he had a laborious practice, an irascible temper, a lymphatic wife and seven children; and he was already rather late before setting out on a four-miles drive to meet Dr. Minchin on the other side of Tipton, the decease of Hicks, a rural practitioner, having increased Middlemarch practice in that direction. Great statesmen err, and why not small medical men? Mr. Wrench did not neglect sending the usual white parcels, which this time had black and drastic contents. Their effect was not alleviating to poor Fred, who, however, unwilling as he said to believe that he was "in for an illness," rose at his usual easy hour the next morning and went down-stairs meaning to breakfast, but succeeded in nothing but in sitting and shivering by the fire. Mr. Wrench was again sent for, but was gone on his rounds, and Mrs. Vincy seeing her darling's changed looks and general misery, began to cry and said she would send for Dr. Sprague. "Oh, nonsense, mother! It's nothing," said Fred, putting out his hot dry hand to her, "I shall soon be all right. I must have taken cold in that nasty damp ride." "Mamma!" said Rosamond, who was seated near the window (the dining-room windows looked on that highly respectable street called Lowick Gate), "there is Mr. Lydgate, stopping to speak to some one. If I were you I would call him in. He has cured Ellen Bulstrode. They say he cures every one." Mrs. Vincy sprang to the window and opened it in an instant, thinking only of Fred and not of medical etiquette. Lydgate was only two yards off on the other side of some iron palisading, and turned round at the sudden sound of the sash, before she called to him. In two minutes he was in the room, and Rosamond went out, after waiting just long enough to show a pretty anxiety conflicting with her sense of what was becoming. Lydgate had to hear a narrative in which Mrs. Vincy's mind insisted with remarkable instinct on every point of minor importance, especially on what Mr. Wrench had said and had not said about coming again. That there might be an awkward affair with Wrench, Lydgate saw at once; but the case was serious enough to make him dismiss that consideration: he was convinced that Fred was in the pink-skinned stage of typhoid fever, and that he had taken just the wrong medicines. He must go to bed immediately, must have a regular nurse, and various appliances and precautions must be used, about which Lydgate was particular. Poor Mrs. Vincy's terror at these indications of danger found vent in such words as came most easily. She thought it "very ill usage on the part of Mr. Wrench, who had attended their house so many years in preference to Mr. Peacock, though Mr. Peacock was equally a friend. Why Mr. Wrench should neglect her children more than others, she could not for the life of her understand. He had not neglected Mrs. Larcher's when they had the measles, nor indeed would Mrs. Vincy have wished that he should. And if anything should happen--" Here poor Mrs. Vincy's spirit quite broke down, and her Niobe throat and good-humored face were sadly convulsed. This was in the hall out of Fred's hearing, but Rosamond had opened the drawing-room door, and now came forward anxiously. Lydgate apologized for Mr. Wrench, said that the symptoms yesterday might have been disguising, and that this form of fever was very equivocal in its beginnings: he would go immediately to the druggist's and have a prescription made up in order to lose no time, but he would write to Mr. Wrench and tell him what had been done. "But you must come again--you must go on attending Fred. I can't have my boy left to anybody who may come or not. I bear nobody ill-will, thank God, and Mr. Wrench saved me in the pleurisy, but he'd better have let me die--if--if--" "I will meet Mr. Wrench here, then, shall I?" said Lydgate, really believing that Wrench was not well prepared to deal wisely with a case of this kind. "Pray make that arrangement, Mr. Lydgate," said Rosamond, coming to her mother's aid, and supporting her arm to lead her away. When Mr. Vincy came home he was very angry with Wrench, and did not care if he never came into his house again. Lydgate should go on now, whether Wrench liked it or not. It was no joke to have fever in the house. Everybody must be sent to now, not to come to dinner on Thursday. And Pritchard needn't get up any wine: brandy was the best thing against infection. "I shall drink brandy," added Mr. Vincy, emphatically--as much as to say, this was not an occasion for firing with blank-cartridges. "He's an uncommonly unfortunate lad, is Fred. He'd need have--some luck by-and-by to make up for all this--else I don't know who'd have an eldest son." "Don't say so, Vincy," said the mother, with a quivering lip, "if you don't want him to be taken from me." "It will worret you to death, Lucy; _that_ I can see," said Mr. Vincy, more mildly. "However, Wrench shall know what I think of the matter." (What Mr. Vincy thought confusedly was, that the fever might somehow have been hindered if Wrench had shown the proper solicitude about his--the Mayor's--family.) "I'm the last man to give in to the cry about new doctors, or new parsons either--whether they're Bulstrode's men or not. But Wrench shall know what I think, take it as he will." Wrench did not take it at all well. Lydgate was as polite as he could be in his offhand way, but politeness in a man who has placed you at a disadvantage is only an additional exasperation, especially if he happens to have been an object of dislike beforehand. Country practitioners used to be an irritable species, susceptible on the point of honor; and Mr. Wrench was one of the most irritable among them. He did not refuse to meet Lydgate in the evening, but his temper was somewhat tried on the occasion. He had to hear Mrs. Vincy say-- "Oh, Mr. Wrench, what have I ever done that you should use me so?-- To go away, and never to come again! And my boy might have been stretched a corpse!" Mr. Vincy, who had been keeping up a sharp fire on the enemy Infection, and was a good deal heated in consequence, started up when he heard Wrench come in, and went into the hall to let him know what he thought. "I'll tell you what, Wrench, this is beyond a joke," said the Mayor, who of late had had to rebuke offenders with an official air, and how broadened himself by putting his thumbs in his armholes.-- "To let fever get unawares into a house like this. There are some things that ought to be actionable, and are not so-- that's my opinion." But irrational reproaches were easier to bear than the sense of being instructed, or rather the sense that a younger man, like Lydgate, inwardly considered him in need of instruction, for "in point of fact," Mr. Wrench afterwards said, Lydgate paraded flighty, foreign notions, which would not wear. He swallowed his ire for the moment, but he afterwards wrote to decline further attendance in the case. The house might be a good one, but Mr. Wrench was not going to truckle to anybody on a professional matter. He reflected, with much probability on his side, that Lydgate would by-and-by be caught tripping too, and that his ungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his professional brethren, would by-and-by recoil on himself. He threw out biting remarks on Lydgate's tricks, worthy only of a quack, to get himself a factitious reputation with credulous people. That cant about cures was never got up by sound practitioners. This was a point on which Lydgate smarted as much as Wrench could desire. To be puffed by ignorance was not only humiliating, but perilous, and not more enviable than the reputation of the weather-prophet. He was impatient of the foolish expectations amidst which all work must be carried on, and likely enough to damage himself as much as Mr. Wrench could wish, by an unprofessional openness. However, Lydgate was installed as medical attendant on the Vincys, and the event was a subject of general conversation in Middlemarch. Some said, that the Vincys had behaved scandalously, that Mr. Vincy had threatened Wrench, and that Mrs. Vincy had accused him of poisoning her son. Others were of opinion that Mr. Lydgate's passing by was providential, that he was wonderfully clever in fevers, and that Bulstrode was in the right to bring him forward. Many people believed that Lydgate's coming to the town at all was really due to Bulstrode; and Mrs. Taft, who was always counting stitches and gathered her information in misleading fragments caught between the rows of her knitting, had got it into her head that Mr. Lydgate was a natural son of Bulstrode's, a fact which seemed to justify her suspicions of evangelical laymen. She one day communicated this piece of knowledge to Mrs. Farebrother, who did not fail to tell her son of it, observing-- "I should not be surprised at anything in Bulstrode, but I should be sorry to think it of Mr. Lydgate." "Why, mother," said Mr. Farebrother, after an explosive laugh, "you know very well that Lydgate is of a good family in the North. He never heard of Bulstrode before he came here." "That is satisfactory so far as Mr. Lydgate is concerned, Camden," said the old lady, with an air of precision.--"But as to Bulstrode--the report may be true of some other son." ----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 28--------- 1st Gent. All times are good to seek your wedded home Bringing a mutual delight. 2d Gent. Why, true. The calendar hath not an evil day For souls made one by love, and even death Were sweetness, if it came like rolling waves While they two clasped each other, and foresaw No life apart. Mr. and Mrs. Casaubon, returning from their wedding journey, arrived at Lowick Manor in the middle of January. A light snow was falling as they descended at the door, and in the morning, when Dorothea passed from her dressing-room avenue the blue-green boudoir that we know of, she saw the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from a white earth, and spreading white branches against the dun and motionless sky. The distant flat shrank in uniform whiteness and low-hanging uniformity of cloud. The very furniture in the room seemed to have shrunk since she saw it before: the stag in the tapestry looked more like a ghost in his ghostly blue-green world; the volumes of polite literature in the bookcase looked more like immovable imitations of books. The bright fire of dry oak-boughs burning on the logs seemed an incongruous renewal of life and glow--like the figure of Dorothea herself as she entered carrying the red-leather cases containing the cameos for Celia. She was glowing from her morning toilet as only healthful youth can glow: there was gem-like brightness on her coiled hair and in her hazel eyes; there was warm red life in her lips; her throat had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the fur which itself seemed to wind about her neck and cling down her blue-gray pelisse with a tenderness gathered from her own, a sentient commingled innocence which kept its loveliness against the crystalline purity of the outdoor snow. As she laid the cameo-cases on the table in the bow-window, she unconsciously kept her hands on them, immediately absorbed in looking out on the still, white enclosure which made her visible world. Mr. Casaubon, who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was in the library giving audience to his curate Mr. Tucker. By-and-by Celia would come in her quality of bridesmaid as well as sister, and through the next weeks there would be wedding visits received and given; all in continuance of that transitional life understood to correspond with the excitement of bridal felicity, and keeping up the sense of busy ineffectiveness, as of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect. The duties of her married life, contemplated as so great beforehand, seemed to be shrinking with the furniture and the white vapor-walled landscape. The clear heights where she expected to walk in full communion had become difficult to see even in her imagination; the delicious repose of the soul on a complete superior had been shaken into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment. When would the days begin of that active wifely devotion which was to strengthen her husband's life and exalt her own? Never perhaps, as she had preconceived them; but somehow--still somehow. In this solemnly pledged union of her life, duty would present itself in some new form of inspiration and give a new meaning to wifely love. Meanwhile there was the snow and the low arch of dun vapor--there was the stifling oppression of that gentlewoman's world, where everything was done for her and none asked for her aid--where the sense of connection with a manifold pregnant existence had to be kept up painfully as an inward vision, instead of coming from without in claims that would have shaped her energies.-- "What shall I do?" "Whatever you please, my dear:" that had been her brief history since she had left off learning morning lessons and practising silly rhythms on the hated piano. Marriage, which was to bring guidance into worthy and imperative occupation, had not yet freed her from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty: it had not even filled her leisure with the ruminant joy of unchecked tenderness. Her blooming full-pulsed youth stood there in a moral imprisonment which made itself one with the chill, colorless, narrowed landscape, with the shrunken furniture, the never-read books, and the ghostly stag in a pale fantastic world that seemed to be vanishing from the daylight. In the first minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt nothing but the dreary oppression; then came a keen remembrance, and turning away from the window she walked round the room. The ideas and hopes which were living in her mind when she first saw this room nearly three months before were present now only as memories: she judged them as we judge transient and departed things. All existence seemed to beat with a lower pulse than her own, and her religious faith was a solitary cry, the struggle out of a nightmare in which every object was withering and shrinking away from her. Each remembered thing in the room was disenchanted, was deadened as an unlit transparency, till her wandering gaze came to the group of miniatures, and there at last she saw something which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was the miniature of Mr. Casaubon's aunt Julia, who had made the unfortunate marriage--of Will Ladislaw's grandmother. Dorothea could fancy that it was alive now--the delicate woman's face which yet had a headstrong look, a peculiarity difficult to interpret. Was it only her friends who thought her marriage unfortunate? or did she herself find it out to be a mistake, and taste the salt bitterness of her tears in the merciful silence of the night? What breadths of experience Dorothea seemed to have passed over since she first looked at this miniature! She felt a new companionship with it, as if it had an ear for her and could see how she was looking at it. Here was a woman who had known some difficulty about marriage. Nay, the colors deepened, the lips and chin seemed to get larger, the hair and eyes seemed to be sending out light, the face was masculine and beamed on her with that full gaze which tells her on whom it falls that she is too interesting for the slightest movement of her eyelid to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted. The vivid presentation came like a pleasant glow to Dorothea: she felt herself smiling, and turning from the miniature sat down and looked up as if she were again talking to a figure in front of her. But the smile disappeared as she went on meditating, and at last she said aloud-- "Oh, it was cruel to speak so! How sad--how dreadful!" She rose quickly and went out of the room, hurrying along the corridor, with the irresistible impulse to go and see her husband and inquire if she could do anything for him. Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr. Casaubon was alone in the library. She felt as if all her morning's gloom would vanish if she could see her husband glad because of her presence. But when she reached the head of the dark oak there was Celia coming up, and below there was Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Casaubon. "Dodo!" said Celia, in her quiet staccato; then kissed her sister, whose arms encircled her, and said no more. I think they both cried a little in a furtive manner, while Dorothea ran down-stairs to greet her uncle. "I need not ask how you are, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, after kissing her forehead. "Rome has agreed with you, I see--happiness, frescos, the antique--that sort of thing. Well, it's very pleasant to have you back again, and you understand all about art now, eh? But Casaubon is a little pale, I tell him--a little pale, you know. Studying hard in his holidays is carrying it rather too far. I overdid it at one time"--Mr. Brooke still held Dorothea's hand, but had turned his face to Mr. Casaubon--"about topography, ruins, temples--I thought I had a clew, but I saw it would carry me too far, and nothing might come of it. You may go any length in that sort of thing, and nothing may come of it, you know." Dorothea's eyes also were turned up to her husband's face with some anxiety at the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be aware of signs which she had not noticed. "Nothing to alarm you, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. "A little English beef and mutton will soon make a difference. It was all very well to look pale, sitting for the portrait of Aquinas, you know--we got your letter just in time. But Aquinas, now--he was a little too subtle, wasn't he? Does anybody read Aquinas?" "He is not indeed an author adapted to superficial minds," said Mr. Casaubon, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience. "You would like coffee in your own room, uncle?" said Dorothea, coming to the rescue. "Yes; and you must go to Celia: she has great news to tell you, you know. I leave it all to her." The blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a pelisse exactly like her sister's, surveying the cameos with a placid satisfaction, while the conversation passed on to other topics. "Do you think it nice to go to Rome on a wedding journey?" said Celia, with her ready delicate blush which Dorothea was used to on the smallest occasions. "It would not suit all--not you, dear, for example," said Dorothea, quietly. No one would ever know what she thought of a wedding journey to Rome. "Mrs. Cadwallader says it is nonsense, people going a long journey when they are married. She says they get tired to death of each other, and can't quarrel comfortably, as they would at home. And Lady Chettam says she went to Bath." Celia's color changed again and again--seemed "To come and go with tidings from the heart, As it a running messenger had been." It must mean more than Celia's blushing usually did. "Celia! has something happened?" said Dorothea, in a tone full of sisterly feeling. "Have you really any great news to tell me?" "It was because you went away, Dodo. Then there was nobody but me for Sir James to talk to," said Celia, with a certain roguishness in her eyes. "I understand. It is as I used to hope and believe," said Dorothea, taking her sister's face between her hands, and looking at her half anxiously. Celia's marriage seemed more serious than it used to do. "It was only three days ago," said Celia. "And Lady Chettam is very kind." "And you are very happy?" "Yes. We are not going to be married yet. Because every thing is to be got ready. And I don't want to be married so very soon, because I think it is nice to be engaged. And we shall be married all our lives after." "I do believe you could not marry better, Kitty. Sir James is a good, honorable man," said Dorothea, warmly. "He has gone on with the cottages, Dodo. He will tell you about them when he comes. Shall you be glad to see him?" "Of course I shall. How can you ask me?" "Only I was afraid you would be getting so learned," said Celia, regarding Mr. Casaubon's learning as a kind of damp which might in due time saturate a neighboring body.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of book 3, chapter 33 using the context provided.

book 3, chapter 30|book 3, chapter 33

Mary Garth is sitting up in Mr. Featherstone's room, in case he should want anything during the night. He wakes up and calls her over to his bedside. He asks her to get his will out of the safe, and gives her the keys. He wants her to burn the second will so that only the first will be valid. She refuses - without any witnesses in the room, messing with his will, even at his request, could get her in a lot of trouble. He gets frustrated, and even offers her a bribe, but she holds firm. And then he dies.

----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 30--------- "Qui veut delasser hors de propos, lasse."--PASCAL. Mr. Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the first, and in a few days began to recover his usual condition. But Lydgate seemed to think the case worth a great deal of attention. He not only used his stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course in practice at that time), but sat quietly by his patient and watched him. To Mr. Casaubon's questions about himself, he replied that the source of the illness was the common error of intellectual men--a too eager and monotonous application: the remedy was, to be satisfied with moderate work, and to seek variety of relaxation. Mr. Brooke, who sat by on one occasion, suggested that Mr. Casaubon should go fishing, as Cadwallader did, and have a turning-room, make toys, table-legs, and that kind of thing. "In short, you recommend me to anticipate the arrival of my second childhood," said poor Mr. Casaubon, with some bitterness. "These things," he added, looking at Lydgate, "would be to me such relaxation as tow-picking is to prisoners in a house of correction." "I confess," said Lydgate, smiling, "amusement is rather an unsatisfactory prescription. It is something like telling people to keep up their spirits. Perhaps I had better say, that you must submit to be mildly bored rather than to go on working." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Brooke. "Get Dorothea to play backgammon with you in the evenings. And shuttlecock, now--I don't know a finer game than shuttlecock for the daytime. I remember it all the fashion. To be sure, your eyes might not stand that, Casaubon. But you must unbend, you know. Why, you might take to some light study: conchology, now: I always think that must be a light study. Or get Dorothea to read you light things, Smollett--'Roderick Random,' 'Humphrey Clinker:' they are a little broad, but she may read anything now she's married, you know. I remember they made me laugh uncommonly--there's a droll bit about a postilion's breeches. We have no such humor now. I have gone through all these things, but they might be rather new to you." "As new as eating thistles," would have been an answer to represent Mr. Casaubon's feelings. But he only bowed resignedly, with due respect to his wife's uncle, and observed that doubtless the works he mentioned had "served as a resource to a certain order of minds." "You see," said the able magistrate to Lydgate, when they were outside the door, "Casaubon has been a little narrow: it leaves him rather at a loss when you forbid him his particular work, which I believe is something very deep indeed--in the line of research, you know. I would never give way to that; I was always versatile. But a clergyman is tied a little tight. If they would make him a bishop, now!--he did a very good pamphlet for Peel. He would have more movement then, more show; he might get a little flesh. But I recommend you to talk to Mrs. Casaubon. She is clever enough for anything, is my niece. Tell her, her husband wants liveliness, diversion: put her on amusing tactics." Without Mr. Brooke's advice, Lydgate had determined on speaking to Dorothea. She had not been present while her uncle was throwing out his pleasant suggestions as to the mode in which life at Lowick might be enlivened, but she was usually by her husband's side, and the unaffected signs of intense anxiety in her face and voice about whatever touched his mind or health, made a drama which Lydgate was inclined to watch. He said to himself that he was only doing right in telling her the truth about her husband's probable future, but he certainly thought also that it would be interesting to talk confidentially with her. A medical man likes to make psychological observations, and sometimes in the pursuit of such studies is too easily tempted into momentous prophecy which life and death easily set at nought. Lydgate had often been satirical on this gratuitous prediction, and he meant now to be guarded. He asked for Mrs. Casaubon, but being told that she was out walking, he was going away, when Dorothea and Celia appeared, both glowing from their struggle with the March wind. When Lydgate begged to speak with her alone, Dorothea opened the library door which happened to be the nearest, thinking of nothing at the moment but what he might have to say about Mr. Casaubon. It was the first time she had entered this room since her husband had been taken ill, and the servant had chosen not to open the shutters. But there was light enough to read by from the narrow upper panes of the windows. "You will not mind this sombre light," said Dorothea, standing in the middle of the room. "Since you forbade books, the library has been out of the question. But Mr. Casaubon will soon be here again, I hope. Is he not making progress?" "Yes, much more rapid progress than I at first expected. Indeed, he is already nearly in his usual state of health." "You do not fear that the illness will return?" said Dorothea, whose quick ear had detected some significance in Lydgate's tone. "Such cases are peculiarly difficult to pronounce upon," said Lydgate. "The only point on which I can be confident is that it will be desirable to be very watchful on Mr. Casaubon's account, lest he should in any way strain his nervous power." "I beseech you to speak quite plainly," said Dorothea, in an imploring tone. "I cannot bear to think that there might be something which I did not know, and which, if I had known it, would have made me act differently." The words came out like a cry: it was evident that they were the voice of some mental experience which lay not very far off. "Sit down," she added, placing herself on the nearest chair, and throwing off her bonnet and gloves, with an instinctive discarding of formality where a great question of destiny was concerned. "What you say now justifies my own view," said Lydgate. "I think it is one's function as a medical man to hinder regrets of that sort as far as possible. But I beg you to observe that Mr. Casaubon's case is precisely of the kind in which the issue is most difficult to pronounce upon. He may possibly live for fifteen years or more, without much worse health than he has had hitherto." Dorothea had turned very pale, and when Lydgate paused she said in a low voice, "You mean if we are very careful." "Yes--careful against mental agitation of all kinds, and against excessive application." "He would be miserable, if he had to give up his work," said Dorothea, with a quick prevision of that wretchedness. "I am aware of that. The only course is to try by all means, direct and indirect, to moderate and vary his occupations. With a happy concurrence of circumstances, there is, as I said, no immediate danger from that affection of the heart, which I believe to have been the cause of his late attack. On the other hand, it is possible that the disease may develop itself more rapidly: it is one of those cases in which death is sometimes sudden. Nothing should be neglected which might be affected by such an issue." There was silence for a few moments, while Dorothea sat as if she had been turned to marble, though the life within her was so intense that her mind had never before swept in brief time over an equal range of scenes and motives. "Help me, pray," she said, at last, in the same low voice as before. "Tell me what I can do." "What do you think of foreign travel? You have been lately in Rome, I think." The memories which made this resource utterly hopeless were a new current that shook Dorothea out of her pallid immobility. "Oh, that would not do--that would be worse than anything," she said with a more childlike despondency, while the tears rolled down. "Nothing will be of any use that he does not enjoy." "I wish that I could have spared you this pain," said Lydgate, deeply touched, yet wondering about her marriage. Women just like Dorothea had not entered into his traditions. "It was right of you to tell me. I thank you for telling me the truth." "I wish you to understand that I shall not say anything to enlighten Mr. Casaubon himself. I think it desirable for him to know nothing more than that he must not overwork himself, and must observe certain rules. Anxiety of any kind would be precisely the most unfavorable condition for him." Lydgate rose, and Dorothea mechanically rose at the same time, unclasping her cloak and throwing it off as if it stifled her. He was bowing and quitting her, when an impulse which if she had been alone would have turned into a prayer, made her say with a sob in her voice-- "Oh, you are a wise man, are you not? You know all about life and death. Advise me. Think what I can do. He has been laboring all his life and looking forward. He minds about nothing else.-- And I mind about nothing else--" For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by this involuntary appeal--this cry from soul to soul, without other consciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the same embroiled medium, the same troublous fitfully illuminated life. But what could he say now except that he should see Mr. Casaubon again to-morrow? When he was gone, Dorothea's tears gushed forth, and relieved her stifling oppression. Then she dried her eyes, reminded that her distress must not be betrayed to her husband; and looked round the room thinking that she must order the servant to attend to it as usual, since Mr. Casaubon might now at any moment wish to enter. On his writing-table there were letters which had lain untouched since the morning when he was taken ill, and among them, as Dorothea well remembered, there were young Ladislaw's letters, the one addressed to her still unopened. The associations of these letters had been made the more painful by that sudden attack of illness which she felt that the agitation caused by her anger might have helped to bring on: it would be time enough to read them when they were again thrust upon her, and she had had no inclination to fetch them from the library. But now it occurred to her that they should be put out of her husband's sight: whatever might have been the sources of his annoyance about them, he must, if possible, not be annoyed again; and she ran her eyes first over the letter addressed to him to assure herself whether or not it would be necessary to write in order to hinder the offensive visit. Will wrote from Rome, and began by saying that his obligations to Mr. Casaubon were too deep for all thanks not to seem impertinent. It was plain that if he were not grateful, he must be the poorest-spirited rascal who had ever found a generous friend. To expand in wordy thanks would be like saying, "I am honest." But Will had come to perceive that his defects--defects which Mr. Casaubon had himself often pointed to--needed for their correction that more strenuous position which his relative's generosity had hitherto prevented from being inevitable. He trusted that he should make the best return, if return were possible, by showing the effectiveness of the education for which he was indebted, and by ceasing in future to need any diversion towards himself of funds on which others might have a better claim. He was coming to England, to try his fortune, as many other young men were obliged to do whose only capital was in their brains. His friend Naumann had desired him to take charge of the "Dispute"--the picture painted for Mr. Casaubon, with whose permission, and Mrs. Casaubon's, Will would convey it to Lowick in person. A letter addressed to the Poste Restante in Paris within the fortnight would hinder him, if necessary, from arriving at an inconvenient moment. He enclosed a letter to Mrs. Casaubon in which he continued a discussion about art, begun with her in Rome. Opening her own letter Dorothea saw that it was a lively continuation of his remonstrance with her fanatical sympathy and her want of sturdy neutral delight in things as they were--an outpouring of his young vivacity which it was impossible to read just now. She had immediately to consider what was to be done about the other letter: there was still time perhaps to prevent Will from coming to Lowick. Dorothea ended by giving the letter to her uncle, who was still in the house, and begging him to let Will know that Mr. Casaubon had been ill, and that his health would not allow the reception of any visitors. No one more ready than Mr. Brooke to write a letter: his only difficulty was to write a short one, and his ideas in this case expanded over the three large pages and the inward foldings. He had simply said to Dorothea-- "To be sure, I will write, my dear. He's a very clever young fellow--this young Ladislaw--I dare say will be a rising young man. It's a good letter--marks his sense of things, you know. However, I will tell him about Casaubon." But the end of Mr. Brooke's pen was a thinking organ, evolving sentences, especially of a benevolent kind, before the rest of his mind could well overtake them. It expressed regrets and proposed remedies, which, when Mr. Brooke read them, seemed felicitously worded--surprisingly the right thing, and determined a sequel which he had never before thought of. In this case, his pen found it such a pity young Ladislaw should not have come into the neighborhood just at that time, in order that Mr. Brooke might make his acquaintance more fully, and that they might go over the long-neglected Italian drawings together--it also felt such an interest in a young man who was starting in life with a stock of ideas--that by the end of the second page it had persuaded Mr. Brooke to invite young Ladislaw, since he could not be received at Lowick, to come to Tipton Grange. Why not? They could find a great many things to do together, and this was a period of peculiar growth--the political horizon was expanding, and--in short, Mr. Brooke's pen went off into a little speech which it had lately reported for that imperfectly edited organ the "Middlemarch Pioneer." While Mr. Brooke was sealing this letter, he felt elated with an influx of dim projects:--a young man capable of putting ideas into form, the "Pioneer" purchased to clear the pathway for a new candidate, documents utilized--who knew what might come of it all? Since Celia was going to marry immediately, it would be very pleasant to have a young fellow at table with him, at least for a time. But he went away without telling Dorothea what he had put into the letter, for she was engaged with her husband, and--in fact, these things were of no importance to her. ----------BOOK 3, CHAPTER 33--------- "Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close; And let us all to meditation." --2 Henry VI. That night after twelve o'clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and sat there alone through the small hours. She often chose this task, in which she found some pleasure, notwithstanding the old man's testiness whenever he demanded her attentions. There were intervals in which she could sit perfectly still, enjoying the outer stillness and the subdued light. The red fire with its gently audible movement seemed like a solemn existence calmly independent of the petty passions, the imbecile desires, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which were daily moving her contempt. Mary was fond of her own thoughts, and could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her hands in her lap; for, having early had strong reason to believe that things were not likely to be arranged for her peculiar satisfaction, she wasted no time in astonishment and annoyance at that fact. And she had already come to take life very much as a comedy in which she had a proud, nay, a generous resolution not to act the mean or treacherous part. Mary might have become cynical if she had not had parents whom she honored, and a well of affectionate gratitude within her, which was all the fuller because she had learned to make no unreasonable claims. She sat to-night revolving, as she was wont, the scenes of the day, her lips often curling with amusement at the oddities to which her fancy added fresh drollery: people were so ridiculous with their illusions, carrying their fool's caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque while everybody else's were transparent, making themselves exceptions to everything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone were rosy. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes which were not quite comic to her. She was secretly convinced, though she had no other grounds than her close observation of old Featherstone's nature, that in spite of his fondness for having the Vincys about him, they were as likely to be disappointed as any of the relations whom he kept at a distance. She had a good deal of disdain for Mrs. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred should be alone together, but it did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the way in which Fred would be affected, if it should turn out that his uncle had left him as poor as ever. She could make a butt of Fred when he was present, but she did not enjoy his follies when he was absent. Yet she liked her thoughts: a vigorous young mind not overbalanced by passion, finds a good in making acquaintance with life, and watches its own powers with interest. Mary had plenty of merriment within. Her thought was not veined by any solemnity or pathos about the old man on the bed: such sentiments are easier to affect than to feel about an aged creature whose life is not visibly anything but a remnant of vices. She had always seen the most disagreeable side of Mr. Featherstone: he was not proud of her, and she was only useful to him. To be anxious about a soul that is always snapping at you must be left to the saints of the earth; and Mary was not one of them. She had never returned him a harsh word, and had waited on him faithfully: that was her utmost. Old Featherstone himself was not in the least anxious about his soul, and had declined to see Mr. Tucker on the subject. To-night he had not snapped, and for the first hour or two he lay remarkably still, until at last Mary heard him rattling his bunch of keys against the tin box which he always kept in the bed beside him. About three o'clock he said, with remarkable distinctness, "Missy, come here!" Mary obeyed, and found that he had already drawn the tin box from under the clothes, though he usually asked to have this done for him; and he had selected the key. He now unlocked the box, and, drawing from it another key, looked straight at her with eyes that seemed to have recovered all their sharpness and said, "How many of 'em are in the house?" "You mean of your own relations, sir," said Mary, well used to the old man's way of speech. He nodded slightly and she went on. "Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here." "Oh ay, they stick, do they? and the rest--they come every day, I'll warrant--Solomon and Jane, and all the young uns? They come peeping, and counting and casting up?" "Not all of them every day. Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule are here every day, and the others come often." The old man listened with a grimace while she spoke, and then said, relaxing his face, "The more fools they. You hearken, missy. It's three o'clock in the morning, and I've got all my faculties as well as ever I had in my life. I know all my property, and where the money's put out, and everything. And I've made everything ready to change my mind, and do as I like at the last. Do you hear, missy? I've got my faculties." "Well, sir?" said Mary, quietly. He now lowered his tone with an air of deeper cunning. "I've made two wills, and I'm going to burn one. Now you do as I tell you. This is the key of my iron chest, in the closet there. You push well at the side of the brass plate at the top, till it goes like a bolt: then you can put the key in the front lock and turn it. See and do that; and take out the topmost paper--Last Will and Testament--big printed." "No, sir," said Mary, in a firm voice, "I cannot do that." "Not do it? I tell you, you must," said the old man, his voice beginning to shake under the shock of this resistance. "I cannot touch your iron chest or your will. I must refuse to do anything that might lay me open to suspicion." "I tell you, I'm in my right mind. Shan't I do as I like at the last? I made two wills on purpose. Take the key, I say." "No, sir, I will not," said Mary, more resolutely still. Her repulsion was getting stronger. "I tell you, there's no time to lose." "I cannot help that, sir. I will not let the close of your life soil the beginning of mine. I will not touch your iron chest or your will." She moved to a little distance from the bedside. The old man paused with a blank stare for a little while, holding the one key erect on the ring; then with an agitated jerk he began to work with his bony left hand at emptying the tin box before him. "Missy," he began to say, hurriedly, "look here! take the money--the notes and gold--look here--take it--you shall have it all--do as I tell you." He made an effort to stretch out the key towards her as far as possible, and Mary again retreated. "I will not touch your key or your money, sir. Pray don't ask me to do it again. If you do, I must go and call your brother." He let his hand fall, and for the first time in her life Mary saw old Peter Featherstone begin to cry childishly. She said, in as gentle a tone as she could command, "Pray put up your money, sir;" and then went away to her seat by the fire, hoping this would help to convince him that it was useless to say more. Presently he rallied and said eagerly-- "Look here, then. Call the young chap. Call Fred Vincy." Mary's heart began to beat more quickly. Various ideas rushed through her mind as to what the burning of a second will might imply. She had to make a difficult decision in a hurry. "I will call him, if you will let me call Mr. Jonah and others with him." "Nobody else, I say. The young chap. I shall do as I like." "Wait till broad daylight, sir, when every one is stirring. Or let me call Simmons now, to go and fetch the lawyer? He can be here in less than two hours." "Lawyer? What do I want with the lawyer? Nobody shall know--I say, nobody shall know. I shall do as I like." "Let me call some one else, sir," said Mary, persuasively. She did not like her position--alone with the old man, who seemed to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to speak again and again without falling into his usual cough; yet she desired not to push unnecessarily the contradiction which agitated him. "Let me, pray, call some one else." "You let me alone, I say. Look here, missy. Take the money. You'll never have the chance again. It's pretty nigh two hundred--there's more in the box, and nobody knows how much there was. Take it and do as I tell you." Mary, standing by the fire, saw its red light falling on the old man, propped up on his pillows and bed-rest, with his bony hand holding out the key, and the money lying on the quilt before him. She never forgot that vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at the last. But the way in which he had put the offer of the money urged her to speak with harder resolution than ever. "It is of no use, sir. I will not do it. Put up your money. I will not touch your money. I will do anything else I can to comfort you; but I will not touch your keys or your money." "Anything else anything else!" said old Featherstone, with hoarse rage, which, as if in a nightmare, tried to be loud, and yet was only just audible. "I want nothing else. You come here--you come here." Mary approached him cautiously, knowing him too well. She saw him dropping his keys and trying to grasp his stick, while he looked at her like an aged hyena, the muscles of his face getting distorted with the effort of his hand. She paused at a safe distance. "Let me give you some cordial," she said, quietly, "and try to compose yourself. You will perhaps go to sleep. And to-morrow by daylight you can do as you like." He lifted the stick, in spite of her being beyond his reach, and threw it with a hard effort which was but impotence. It fell, slipping over the foot of the bed. Mary let it lie, and retreated to her chair by the fire. By-and-by she would go to him with the cordial. Fatigue would make him passive. It was getting towards the chillest moment of the morning, the fire had got low, and she could see through the chink between the moreen window-curtains the light whitened by the blind. Having put some wood on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, she sat down, hoping that Mr. Featherstone might now fall asleep. If she went near him the irritation might be kept up. He had said nothing after throwing the stick, but she had seen him taking his keys again and laying his right hand on the money. He did not put it up, however, and she thought that he was dropping off to sleep. But Mary herself began to be more agitated by the remembrance of what she had gone through, than she had been by the reality--questioning those acts of hers which had come imperatively and excluded all question in the critical moment. Presently the dry wood sent out a flame which illuminated every crevice, and Mary saw that the old man was lying quietly with his head turned a little on one side. She went towards him with inaudible steps, and thought that his face looked strangely motionless; but the next moment the movement of the flame communicating itself to all objects made her uncertain. The violent beating of her heart rendered her perceptions so doubtful that even when she touched him and listened for his breathing, she could not trust her conclusions. She went to the window and gently propped aside the curtain and blind, so that the still light of the sky fell on the bed. The next moment she ran to the bell and rang it energetically. In a very little while there was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstone was dead, with his right hand clasping the keys, and his left hand lying on the heap of notes and gold. BOOK IV. THREE LOVE PROBLEMS.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 26, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 25|chapter 26

Fred arrives home feeling feverish and ill. His mother sends for Wrench, one of the local doctors, who do not feel his ailment, is serious. He hands over some powders and departs Next day, Fred is much worse, and Wrench, being out on is rounds, cannot be reached. Rosamond sees Lydgate on the street and suggests calling him in. Mrs. Vincy, unaware of medical etiquette, rushes to consult him, Lydgate knows it is a tricky situation, but has little option seeing Freds condition. He is convinced it is typhoid fever, and begins treatment. The Vincys are furious with Wrench and no amount of tact use by Lydgate can disarm Wrenchs hostility to him. The incidents breed a lot of gossip among the townsfolk in which every fact is distorted, until someone even claims that Lydgate is Bulstrodes illegitimate son!

----------CHAPTER 25--------- "Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care But for another gives its ease And builds a heaven in hell's despair. . . . . . . . Love seeketh only self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven's despite." --W. BLAKE: Songs of Experience Fred Vincy wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary could not expect him, and when his uncle was not down-stairs in that case she might be sitting alone in the wainscoted parlor. He left his horse in the yard to avoid making a noise on the gravel in front, and entered the parlor without other notice than the noise of the door-handle. Mary was in her usual corner, laughing over Mrs. Piozzi's recollections of Johnson, and looked up with the fun still in her face. It gradually faded as she saw Fred approach her without speaking, and stand before her with his elbow on the mantel-piece, looking ill. She too was silent, only raising her eyes to him inquiringly. "Mary," he began, "I am a good-for-nothing blackguard." "I should think one of those epithets would do at a time," said Mary, trying to smile, but feeling alarmed. "I know you will never think well of me any more. You will think me a liar. You will think me dishonest. You will think I didn't care for you, or your father and mother. You always do make the worst of me, I know." "I cannot deny that I shall think all that of you, Fred, if you give me good reasons. But please to tell me at once what you have done. I would rather know the painful truth than imagine it." "I owed money--a hundred and sixty pounds. I asked your father to put his name to a bill. I thought it would not signify to him. I made sure of paying the money myself, and I have tried as hard as I could. And now, I have been so unlucky--a horse has turned out badly--I can only pay fifty pounds. And I can't ask my father for the money: he would not give me a farthing. And my uncle gave me a hundred a little while ago. So what can I do? And now your father has no ready money to spare, and your mother will have to pay away her ninety-two pounds that she has saved, and she says your savings must go too. You see what a--" "Oh, poor mother, poor father!" said Mary, her eyes filling with tears, and a little sob rising which she tried to repress. She looked straight before her and took no notice of Fred, all the consequences at home becoming present to her. He too remained silent for some moments, feeling more miserable than ever. "I wouldn't have hurt you for the world, Mary," he said at last. "You can never forgive me." "What does it matter whether I forgive you?" said Mary, passionately. "Would that make it any better for my mother to lose the money she has been earning by lessons for four years, that she might send Alfred to Mr. Hanmer's? Should you think all that pleasant enough if I forgave you?" "Say what you like, Mary. I deserve it all." "I don't want to say anything," said Mary, more quietly, "and my anger is of no use." She dried her eyes, threw aside her book, rose and fetched her sewing. Fred followed her with his eyes, hoping that they would meet hers, and in that way find access for his imploring penitence. But no! Mary could easily avoid looking upward. "I do care about your mother's money going," he said, when she was seated again and sewing quickly. "I wanted to ask you, Mary--don't you think that Mr. Featherstone--if you were to tell him--tell him, I mean, about apprenticing Alfred--would advance the money?" "My family is not fond of begging, Fred. We would rather work for our money. Besides, you say that Mr. Featherstone has lately given you a hundred pounds. He rarely makes presents; he has never made presents to us. I am sure my father will not ask him for anything; and even if I chose to beg of him, it would be of no use." "I am so miserable, Mary--if you knew how miserable I am, you would be sorry for me." "There are other things to be more sorry for than that. But selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the world. I see enough of that every day." "It is hardly fair to call me selfish. If you knew what things other young men do, you would think me a good way off the worst." "I know that people who spend a great deal of money on themselves without knowing how they shall pay, must be selfish. They are always thinking of what they can get for themselves, and not of what other people may lose." "Any man may be unfortunate, Mary, and find himself unable to pay when he meant it. There is not a better man in the world than your father, and yet he got into trouble." "How dare you make any comparison between my father and you, Fred?" said Mary, in a deep tone of indignation. "He never got into trouble by thinking of his own idle pleasures, but because he was always thinking of the work he was doing for other people. And he has fared hard, and worked hard to make good everybody's loss." "And you think that I shall never try to make good anything, Mary. It is not generous to believe the worst of a man. When you have got any power over him, I think you might try and use it to make him better; but that is what you never do. However, I'm going," Fred ended, languidly. "I shall never speak to you about anything again. I'm very sorry for all the trouble I've caused--that's all." Mary had dropped her work out of her hand and looked up. There is often something maternal even in a girlish love, and Mary's hard experience had wrought her nature to an impressibility very different from that hard slight thing which we call girlishness. At Fred's last words she felt an instantaneous pang, something like what a mother feels at the imagined sobs or cries of her naughty truant child, which may lose itself and get harm. And when, looking up, her eyes met his dull despairing glance, her pity for him surmounted her anger and all her other anxieties. "Oh, Fred, how ill you look! Sit down a moment. Don't go yet. Let me tell uncle that you are here. He has been wondering that he has not seen you for a whole week." Mary spoke hurriedly, saying the words that came first without knowing very well what they were, but saying them in a half-soothing half-beseeching tone, and rising as if to go away to Mr. Featherstone. Of course Fred felt as if the clouds had parted and a gleam had come: he moved and stood in her way. "Say one word, Mary, and I will do anything. Say you will not think the worst of me--will not give me up altogether." "As if it were any pleasure to me to think ill of you," said Mary, in a mournful tone. "As if it were not very painful to me to see you an idle frivolous creature. How can you bear to be so contemptible, when others are working and striving, and there are so many things to be done--how can you bear to be fit for nothing in the world that is useful? And with so much good in your disposition, Fred,--you might be worth a great deal." "I will try to be anything you like, Mary, if you will say that you love me." "I should be ashamed to say that I loved a man who must always be hanging on others, and reckoning on what they would do for him. What will you be when you are forty? Like Mr. Bowyer, I suppose--just as idle, living in Mrs. Beck's front parlor--fat and shabby, hoping somebody will invite you to dinner--spending your morning in learning a comic song--oh no! learning a tune on the flute." Mary's lips had begun to curl with a smile as soon as she had asked that question about Fred's future (young souls are mobile), and before she ended, her face had its full illumination of fun. To him it was like the cessation of an ache that Mary could laugh at him, and with a passive sort of smile he tried to reach her hand; but she slipped away quickly towards the door and said, "I shall tell uncle. You _must_ see him for a moment or two." Fred secretly felt that his future was guaranteed against the fulfilment of Mary's sarcastic prophecies, apart from that "anything" which he was ready to do if she would define it. He never dared in Mary's presence to approach the subject of his expectations from Mr. Featherstone, and she always ignored them, as if everything depended on himself. But if ever he actually came into the property, she must recognize the change in his position. All this passed through his mind somewhat languidly, before he went up to see his uncle. He stayed but a little while, excusing himself on the ground that he had a cold; and Mary did not reappear before he left the house. But as he rode home, he began to be more conscious of being ill, than of being melancholy. When Caleb Garth arrived at Stone Court soon after dusk, Mary was not surprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a visit, and was not at all fond of having to talk with Mr. Featherstone. The old man, on the other hand, felt himself ill at ease with a brother-in-law whom he could not annoy, who did not mind about being considered poor, had nothing to ask of him, and understood all kinds of farming and mining business better than he did. But Mary had felt sure that her parents would want to see her, and if her father had not come, she would have obtained leave to go home for an hour or two the next day. After discussing prices during tea with Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-by, and said, "I want to speak to you, Mary." She took a candle into another large parlor, where there was no fire, and setting down the feeble light on the dark mahogany table, turned round to her father, and putting her arms round his neck kissed him with childish kisses which he delighted in,--the expression of his large brows softening as the expression of a great beautiful dog softens when it is caressed. Mary was his favorite child, and whatever Susan might say, and right as she was on all other subjects, Caleb thought it natural that Fred or any one else should think Mary more lovable than other girls. "I've got something to tell you, my dear," said Caleb in his hesitating way. "No very good news; but then it might be worse." "About money, father? I think I know what it is." "Ay? how can that be? You see, I've been a bit of a fool again, and put my name to a bill, and now it comes to paying; and your mother has got to part with her savings, that's the worst of it, and even they won't quite make things even. We wanted a hundred and ten pounds: your mother has ninety-two, and I have none to spare in the bank; and she thinks that you have some savings." "Oh yes; I have more than four-and-twenty pounds. I thought you would come, father, so I put it in my bag. See! beautiful white notes and gold." Mary took out the folded money from her reticule and put it into her father's hand. "Well, but how--we only want eighteen--here, put the rest back, child,--but how did you know about it?" said Caleb, who, in his unconquerable indifference to money, was beginning to be chiefly concerned about the relation the affair might have to Mary's affections. "Fred told me this morning." "Ah! Did he come on purpose?" "Yes, I think so. He was a good deal distressed." "I'm afraid Fred is not to be trusted, Mary," said the father, with hesitating tenderness. "He means better than he acts, perhaps. But I should think it a pity for any body's happiness to be wrapped up in him, and so would your mother." "And so should I, father," said Mary, not looking up, but putting the back of her father's hand against her cheek. "I don't want to pry, my dear. But I was afraid there might be something between you and Fred, and I wanted to caution you. You see, Mary"--here Caleb's voice became more tender; he had been pushing his hat about on the table and looking at it, but finally he turned his eyes on his daughter--"a woman, let her be as good as she may, has got to put up with the life her husband makes for her. Your mother has had to put up with a good deal because of me." Mary turned the back of her father's hand to her lips and smiled at him. "Well, well, nobody's perfect, but"--here Mr. Garth shook his head to help out the inadequacy of words--"what I am thinking of is--what it must be for a wife when she's never sure of her husband, when he hasn't got a principle in him to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others than of getting his own toes pinched. That's the long and the short of it, Mary. Young folks may get fond of each other before they know what life is, and they may think it all holiday if they can only get together; but it soon turns into working day, my dear. However, you have more sense than most, and you haven't been kept in cotton-wool: there may be no occasion for me to say this, but a father trembles for his daughter, and you are all by yourself here." "Don't fear for me, father," said Mary, gravely meeting her father's eyes; "Fred has always been very good to me; he is kind-hearted and affectionate, and not false, I think, with all his self-indulgence. But I will never engage myself to one who has no manly independence, and who goes on loitering away his time on the chance that others will provide for him. You and my mother have taught me too much pride for that." "That's right--that's right. Then I am easy," said Mr. Garth, taking up his hat. "But it's hard to run away with your earnings, eh child." "Father!" said Mary, in her deepest tone of remonstrance. "Take pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home," was her last word before he closed the outer door on himself. "I suppose your father wanted your earnings," said old Mr. Featherstone, with his usual power of unpleasant surmise, when Mary returned to him. "He makes but a tight fit, I reckon. You're of age now; you ought to be saving for yourself." "I consider my father and mother the best part of myself, sir," said Mary, coldly. Mr. Featherstone grunted: he could not deny that an ordinary sort of girl like her might be expected to be useful, so he thought of another rejoinder, disagreeable enough to be always apropos. "If Fred Vincy comes to-morrow, now, don't you keep him chattering: let him come up to me." ----------CHAPTER 26--------- "He beats me and I rail at him: O worthy satisfaction! would it were otherwise--that I could beat him while he railed at me.--" --Troilus and Cressida. But Fred did not go to Stone Court the next day, for reasons that were quite peremptory. From those visits to unsanitary Houndsley streets in search of Diamond, he had brought back not only a bad bargain in horse-flesh, but the further misfortune of some ailment which for a day or two had deemed mere depression and headache, but which got so much worse when he returned from his visit to Stone Court that, going into the dining-room, he threw himself on the sofa, and in answer to his mother's anxious question, said, "I feel very ill: I think you must send for Wrench." Wrench came, but did not apprehend anything serious, spoke of a "slight derangement," and did not speak of coming again on the morrow. He had a due value for the Vincys' house, but the wariest men are apt to be dulled by routine, and on worried mornings will sometimes go through their business with the zest of the daily bell-ringer. Mr. Wrench was a small, neat, bilious man, with a well-dressed wig: he had a laborious practice, an irascible temper, a lymphatic wife and seven children; and he was already rather late before setting out on a four-miles drive to meet Dr. Minchin on the other side of Tipton, the decease of Hicks, a rural practitioner, having increased Middlemarch practice in that direction. Great statesmen err, and why not small medical men? Mr. Wrench did not neglect sending the usual white parcels, which this time had black and drastic contents. Their effect was not alleviating to poor Fred, who, however, unwilling as he said to believe that he was "in for an illness," rose at his usual easy hour the next morning and went down-stairs meaning to breakfast, but succeeded in nothing but in sitting and shivering by the fire. Mr. Wrench was again sent for, but was gone on his rounds, and Mrs. Vincy seeing her darling's changed looks and general misery, began to cry and said she would send for Dr. Sprague. "Oh, nonsense, mother! It's nothing," said Fred, putting out his hot dry hand to her, "I shall soon be all right. I must have taken cold in that nasty damp ride." "Mamma!" said Rosamond, who was seated near the window (the dining-room windows looked on that highly respectable street called Lowick Gate), "there is Mr. Lydgate, stopping to speak to some one. If I were you I would call him in. He has cured Ellen Bulstrode. They say he cures every one." Mrs. Vincy sprang to the window and opened it in an instant, thinking only of Fred and not of medical etiquette. Lydgate was only two yards off on the other side of some iron palisading, and turned round at the sudden sound of the sash, before she called to him. In two minutes he was in the room, and Rosamond went out, after waiting just long enough to show a pretty anxiety conflicting with her sense of what was becoming. Lydgate had to hear a narrative in which Mrs. Vincy's mind insisted with remarkable instinct on every point of minor importance, especially on what Mr. Wrench had said and had not said about coming again. That there might be an awkward affair with Wrench, Lydgate saw at once; but the case was serious enough to make him dismiss that consideration: he was convinced that Fred was in the pink-skinned stage of typhoid fever, and that he had taken just the wrong medicines. He must go to bed immediately, must have a regular nurse, and various appliances and precautions must be used, about which Lydgate was particular. Poor Mrs. Vincy's terror at these indications of danger found vent in such words as came most easily. She thought it "very ill usage on the part of Mr. Wrench, who had attended their house so many years in preference to Mr. Peacock, though Mr. Peacock was equally a friend. Why Mr. Wrench should neglect her children more than others, she could not for the life of her understand. He had not neglected Mrs. Larcher's when they had the measles, nor indeed would Mrs. Vincy have wished that he should. And if anything should happen--" Here poor Mrs. Vincy's spirit quite broke down, and her Niobe throat and good-humored face were sadly convulsed. This was in the hall out of Fred's hearing, but Rosamond had opened the drawing-room door, and now came forward anxiously. Lydgate apologized for Mr. Wrench, said that the symptoms yesterday might have been disguising, and that this form of fever was very equivocal in its beginnings: he would go immediately to the druggist's and have a prescription made up in order to lose no time, but he would write to Mr. Wrench and tell him what had been done. "But you must come again--you must go on attending Fred. I can't have my boy left to anybody who may come or not. I bear nobody ill-will, thank God, and Mr. Wrench saved me in the pleurisy, but he'd better have let me die--if--if--" "I will meet Mr. Wrench here, then, shall I?" said Lydgate, really believing that Wrench was not well prepared to deal wisely with a case of this kind. "Pray make that arrangement, Mr. Lydgate," said Rosamond, coming to her mother's aid, and supporting her arm to lead her away. When Mr. Vincy came home he was very angry with Wrench, and did not care if he never came into his house again. Lydgate should go on now, whether Wrench liked it or not. It was no joke to have fever in the house. Everybody must be sent to now, not to come to dinner on Thursday. And Pritchard needn't get up any wine: brandy was the best thing against infection. "I shall drink brandy," added Mr. Vincy, emphatically--as much as to say, this was not an occasion for firing with blank-cartridges. "He's an uncommonly unfortunate lad, is Fred. He'd need have--some luck by-and-by to make up for all this--else I don't know who'd have an eldest son." "Don't say so, Vincy," said the mother, with a quivering lip, "if you don't want him to be taken from me." "It will worret you to death, Lucy; _that_ I can see," said Mr. Vincy, more mildly. "However, Wrench shall know what I think of the matter." (What Mr. Vincy thought confusedly was, that the fever might somehow have been hindered if Wrench had shown the proper solicitude about his--the Mayor's--family.) "I'm the last man to give in to the cry about new doctors, or new parsons either--whether they're Bulstrode's men or not. But Wrench shall know what I think, take it as he will." Wrench did not take it at all well. Lydgate was as polite as he could be in his offhand way, but politeness in a man who has placed you at a disadvantage is only an additional exasperation, especially if he happens to have been an object of dislike beforehand. Country practitioners used to be an irritable species, susceptible on the point of honor; and Mr. Wrench was one of the most irritable among them. He did not refuse to meet Lydgate in the evening, but his temper was somewhat tried on the occasion. He had to hear Mrs. Vincy say-- "Oh, Mr. Wrench, what have I ever done that you should use me so?-- To go away, and never to come again! And my boy might have been stretched a corpse!" Mr. Vincy, who had been keeping up a sharp fire on the enemy Infection, and was a good deal heated in consequence, started up when he heard Wrench come in, and went into the hall to let him know what he thought. "I'll tell you what, Wrench, this is beyond a joke," said the Mayor, who of late had had to rebuke offenders with an official air, and how broadened himself by putting his thumbs in his armholes.-- "To let fever get unawares into a house like this. There are some things that ought to be actionable, and are not so-- that's my opinion." But irrational reproaches were easier to bear than the sense of being instructed, or rather the sense that a younger man, like Lydgate, inwardly considered him in need of instruction, for "in point of fact," Mr. Wrench afterwards said, Lydgate paraded flighty, foreign notions, which would not wear. He swallowed his ire for the moment, but he afterwards wrote to decline further attendance in the case. The house might be a good one, but Mr. Wrench was not going to truckle to anybody on a professional matter. He reflected, with much probability on his side, that Lydgate would by-and-by be caught tripping too, and that his ungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his professional brethren, would by-and-by recoil on himself. He threw out biting remarks on Lydgate's tricks, worthy only of a quack, to get himself a factitious reputation with credulous people. That cant about cures was never got up by sound practitioners. This was a point on which Lydgate smarted as much as Wrench could desire. To be puffed by ignorance was not only humiliating, but perilous, and not more enviable than the reputation of the weather-prophet. He was impatient of the foolish expectations amidst which all work must be carried on, and likely enough to damage himself as much as Mr. Wrench could wish, by an unprofessional openness. However, Lydgate was installed as medical attendant on the Vincys, and the event was a subject of general conversation in Middlemarch. Some said, that the Vincys had behaved scandalously, that Mr. Vincy had threatened Wrench, and that Mrs. Vincy had accused him of poisoning her son. Others were of opinion that Mr. Lydgate's passing by was providential, that he was wonderfully clever in fevers, and that Bulstrode was in the right to bring him forward. Many people believed that Lydgate's coming to the town at all was really due to Bulstrode; and Mrs. Taft, who was always counting stitches and gathered her information in misleading fragments caught between the rows of her knitting, had got it into her head that Mr. Lydgate was a natural son of Bulstrode's, a fact which seemed to justify her suspicions of evangelical laymen. She one day communicated this piece of knowledge to Mrs. Farebrother, who did not fail to tell her son of it, observing-- "I should not be surprised at anything in Bulstrode, but I should be sorry to think it of Mr. Lydgate." "Why, mother," said Mr. Farebrother, after an explosive laugh, "you know very well that Lydgate is of a good family in the North. He never heard of Bulstrode before he came here." "That is satisfactory so far as Mr. Lydgate is concerned, Camden," said the old lady, with an air of precision.--"But as to Bulstrode--the report may be true of some other son."

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 30 based on the provided context.

chapter 28|chapter 30

Lydgate tells Casaubon that stress and over-exertion cause his illness. He recommends moderation in work and some relaxation. Casaubon is miserable at the idea of rest or hobbies, of which he has none. He ignores Brookes eager suggestions that he take up fishing, carpentry, or card games or shuttlecock. Lydgate meets Dorothea privately, and on her request for frankness, tells her strain and emotional upheavals are to be avoided. He fears a heart ailment, which if neglected, could result in sudden death, but with care, could be controlled. Dorothea is shattered, but she could still serve her husband. She puts aside formality and pleads with Lydgate as a kindred spirit, to advise her how to be useful. He promises his support and leaves. Dorothea composes herself and goes through Wills letters. She asks her uncle to reply, and to advise putting off his visit in view of Casaubons illness Brooke, as usual, carried away by his imagination, ends up inviting Will to stay at Tipton. With both nieces married, he feels he will enjoy his company and spins all sorts of plans for social and political activity, in which Will can assist him. Dorothea is unaware of his reply.

----------CHAPTER 28--------- 1st Gent. All times are good to seek your wedded home Bringing a mutual delight. 2d Gent. Why, true. The calendar hath not an evil day For souls made one by love, and even death Were sweetness, if it came like rolling waves While they two clasped each other, and foresaw No life apart. Mr. and Mrs. Casaubon, returning from their wedding journey, arrived at Lowick Manor in the middle of January. A light snow was falling as they descended at the door, and in the morning, when Dorothea passed from her dressing-room avenue the blue-green boudoir that we know of, she saw the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from a white earth, and spreading white branches against the dun and motionless sky. The distant flat shrank in uniform whiteness and low-hanging uniformity of cloud. The very furniture in the room seemed to have shrunk since she saw it before: the stag in the tapestry looked more like a ghost in his ghostly blue-green world; the volumes of polite literature in the bookcase looked more like immovable imitations of books. The bright fire of dry oak-boughs burning on the logs seemed an incongruous renewal of life and glow--like the figure of Dorothea herself as she entered carrying the red-leather cases containing the cameos for Celia. She was glowing from her morning toilet as only healthful youth can glow: there was gem-like brightness on her coiled hair and in her hazel eyes; there was warm red life in her lips; her throat had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the fur which itself seemed to wind about her neck and cling down her blue-gray pelisse with a tenderness gathered from her own, a sentient commingled innocence which kept its loveliness against the crystalline purity of the outdoor snow. As she laid the cameo-cases on the table in the bow-window, she unconsciously kept her hands on them, immediately absorbed in looking out on the still, white enclosure which made her visible world. Mr. Casaubon, who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was in the library giving audience to his curate Mr. Tucker. By-and-by Celia would come in her quality of bridesmaid as well as sister, and through the next weeks there would be wedding visits received and given; all in continuance of that transitional life understood to correspond with the excitement of bridal felicity, and keeping up the sense of busy ineffectiveness, as of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect. The duties of her married life, contemplated as so great beforehand, seemed to be shrinking with the furniture and the white vapor-walled landscape. The clear heights where she expected to walk in full communion had become difficult to see even in her imagination; the delicious repose of the soul on a complete superior had been shaken into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment. When would the days begin of that active wifely devotion which was to strengthen her husband's life and exalt her own? Never perhaps, as she had preconceived them; but somehow--still somehow. In this solemnly pledged union of her life, duty would present itself in some new form of inspiration and give a new meaning to wifely love. Meanwhile there was the snow and the low arch of dun vapor--there was the stifling oppression of that gentlewoman's world, where everything was done for her and none asked for her aid--where the sense of connection with a manifold pregnant existence had to be kept up painfully as an inward vision, instead of coming from without in claims that would have shaped her energies.-- "What shall I do?" "Whatever you please, my dear:" that had been her brief history since she had left off learning morning lessons and practising silly rhythms on the hated piano. Marriage, which was to bring guidance into worthy and imperative occupation, had not yet freed her from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty: it had not even filled her leisure with the ruminant joy of unchecked tenderness. Her blooming full-pulsed youth stood there in a moral imprisonment which made itself one with the chill, colorless, narrowed landscape, with the shrunken furniture, the never-read books, and the ghostly stag in a pale fantastic world that seemed to be vanishing from the daylight. In the first minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt nothing but the dreary oppression; then came a keen remembrance, and turning away from the window she walked round the room. The ideas and hopes which were living in her mind when she first saw this room nearly three months before were present now only as memories: she judged them as we judge transient and departed things. All existence seemed to beat with a lower pulse than her own, and her religious faith was a solitary cry, the struggle out of a nightmare in which every object was withering and shrinking away from her. Each remembered thing in the room was disenchanted, was deadened as an unlit transparency, till her wandering gaze came to the group of miniatures, and there at last she saw something which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was the miniature of Mr. Casaubon's aunt Julia, who had made the unfortunate marriage--of Will Ladislaw's grandmother. Dorothea could fancy that it was alive now--the delicate woman's face which yet had a headstrong look, a peculiarity difficult to interpret. Was it only her friends who thought her marriage unfortunate? or did she herself find it out to be a mistake, and taste the salt bitterness of her tears in the merciful silence of the night? What breadths of experience Dorothea seemed to have passed over since she first looked at this miniature! She felt a new companionship with it, as if it had an ear for her and could see how she was looking at it. Here was a woman who had known some difficulty about marriage. Nay, the colors deepened, the lips and chin seemed to get larger, the hair and eyes seemed to be sending out light, the face was masculine and beamed on her with that full gaze which tells her on whom it falls that she is too interesting for the slightest movement of her eyelid to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted. The vivid presentation came like a pleasant glow to Dorothea: she felt herself smiling, and turning from the miniature sat down and looked up as if she were again talking to a figure in front of her. But the smile disappeared as she went on meditating, and at last she said aloud-- "Oh, it was cruel to speak so! How sad--how dreadful!" She rose quickly and went out of the room, hurrying along the corridor, with the irresistible impulse to go and see her husband and inquire if she could do anything for him. Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr. Casaubon was alone in the library. She felt as if all her morning's gloom would vanish if she could see her husband glad because of her presence. But when she reached the head of the dark oak there was Celia coming up, and below there was Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr. Casaubon. "Dodo!" said Celia, in her quiet staccato; then kissed her sister, whose arms encircled her, and said no more. I think they both cried a little in a furtive manner, while Dorothea ran down-stairs to greet her uncle. "I need not ask how you are, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, after kissing her forehead. "Rome has agreed with you, I see--happiness, frescos, the antique--that sort of thing. Well, it's very pleasant to have you back again, and you understand all about art now, eh? But Casaubon is a little pale, I tell him--a little pale, you know. Studying hard in his holidays is carrying it rather too far. I overdid it at one time"--Mr. Brooke still held Dorothea's hand, but had turned his face to Mr. Casaubon--"about topography, ruins, temples--I thought I had a clew, but I saw it would carry me too far, and nothing might come of it. You may go any length in that sort of thing, and nothing may come of it, you know." Dorothea's eyes also were turned up to her husband's face with some anxiety at the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be aware of signs which she had not noticed. "Nothing to alarm you, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, observing her expression. "A little English beef and mutton will soon make a difference. It was all very well to look pale, sitting for the portrait of Aquinas, you know--we got your letter just in time. But Aquinas, now--he was a little too subtle, wasn't he? Does anybody read Aquinas?" "He is not indeed an author adapted to superficial minds," said Mr. Casaubon, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience. "You would like coffee in your own room, uncle?" said Dorothea, coming to the rescue. "Yes; and you must go to Celia: she has great news to tell you, you know. I leave it all to her." The blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a pelisse exactly like her sister's, surveying the cameos with a placid satisfaction, while the conversation passed on to other topics. "Do you think it nice to go to Rome on a wedding journey?" said Celia, with her ready delicate blush which Dorothea was used to on the smallest occasions. "It would not suit all--not you, dear, for example," said Dorothea, quietly. No one would ever know what she thought of a wedding journey to Rome. "Mrs. Cadwallader says it is nonsense, people going a long journey when they are married. She says they get tired to death of each other, and can't quarrel comfortably, as they would at home. And Lady Chettam says she went to Bath." Celia's color changed again and again--seemed "To come and go with tidings from the heart, As it a running messenger had been." It must mean more than Celia's blushing usually did. "Celia! has something happened?" said Dorothea, in a tone full of sisterly feeling. "Have you really any great news to tell me?" "It was because you went away, Dodo. Then there was nobody but me for Sir James to talk to," said Celia, with a certain roguishness in her eyes. "I understand. It is as I used to hope and believe," said Dorothea, taking her sister's face between her hands, and looking at her half anxiously. Celia's marriage seemed more serious than it used to do. "It was only three days ago," said Celia. "And Lady Chettam is very kind." "And you are very happy?" "Yes. We are not going to be married yet. Because every thing is to be got ready. And I don't want to be married so very soon, because I think it is nice to be engaged. And we shall be married all our lives after." "I do believe you could not marry better, Kitty. Sir James is a good, honorable man," said Dorothea, warmly. "He has gone on with the cottages, Dodo. He will tell you about them when he comes. Shall you be glad to see him?" "Of course I shall. How can you ask me?" "Only I was afraid you would be getting so learned," said Celia, regarding Mr. Casaubon's learning as a kind of damp which might in due time saturate a neighboring body. ----------CHAPTER 30--------- "Qui veut delasser hors de propos, lasse."--PASCAL. Mr. Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the first, and in a few days began to recover his usual condition. But Lydgate seemed to think the case worth a great deal of attention. He not only used his stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course in practice at that time), but sat quietly by his patient and watched him. To Mr. Casaubon's questions about himself, he replied that the source of the illness was the common error of intellectual men--a too eager and monotonous application: the remedy was, to be satisfied with moderate work, and to seek variety of relaxation. Mr. Brooke, who sat by on one occasion, suggested that Mr. Casaubon should go fishing, as Cadwallader did, and have a turning-room, make toys, table-legs, and that kind of thing. "In short, you recommend me to anticipate the arrival of my second childhood," said poor Mr. Casaubon, with some bitterness. "These things," he added, looking at Lydgate, "would be to me such relaxation as tow-picking is to prisoners in a house of correction." "I confess," said Lydgate, smiling, "amusement is rather an unsatisfactory prescription. It is something like telling people to keep up their spirits. Perhaps I had better say, that you must submit to be mildly bored rather than to go on working." "Yes, yes," said Mr. Brooke. "Get Dorothea to play backgammon with you in the evenings. And shuttlecock, now--I don't know a finer game than shuttlecock for the daytime. I remember it all the fashion. To be sure, your eyes might not stand that, Casaubon. But you must unbend, you know. Why, you might take to some light study: conchology, now: I always think that must be a light study. Or get Dorothea to read you light things, Smollett--'Roderick Random,' 'Humphrey Clinker:' they are a little broad, but she may read anything now she's married, you know. I remember they made me laugh uncommonly--there's a droll bit about a postilion's breeches. We have no such humor now. I have gone through all these things, but they might be rather new to you." "As new as eating thistles," would have been an answer to represent Mr. Casaubon's feelings. But he only bowed resignedly, with due respect to his wife's uncle, and observed that doubtless the works he mentioned had "served as a resource to a certain order of minds." "You see," said the able magistrate to Lydgate, when they were outside the door, "Casaubon has been a little narrow: it leaves him rather at a loss when you forbid him his particular work, which I believe is something very deep indeed--in the line of research, you know. I would never give way to that; I was always versatile. But a clergyman is tied a little tight. If they would make him a bishop, now!--he did a very good pamphlet for Peel. He would have more movement then, more show; he might get a little flesh. But I recommend you to talk to Mrs. Casaubon. She is clever enough for anything, is my niece. Tell her, her husband wants liveliness, diversion: put her on amusing tactics." Without Mr. Brooke's advice, Lydgate had determined on speaking to Dorothea. She had not been present while her uncle was throwing out his pleasant suggestions as to the mode in which life at Lowick might be enlivened, but she was usually by her husband's side, and the unaffected signs of intense anxiety in her face and voice about whatever touched his mind or health, made a drama which Lydgate was inclined to watch. He said to himself that he was only doing right in telling her the truth about her husband's probable future, but he certainly thought also that it would be interesting to talk confidentially with her. A medical man likes to make psychological observations, and sometimes in the pursuit of such studies is too easily tempted into momentous prophecy which life and death easily set at nought. Lydgate had often been satirical on this gratuitous prediction, and he meant now to be guarded. He asked for Mrs. Casaubon, but being told that she was out walking, he was going away, when Dorothea and Celia appeared, both glowing from their struggle with the March wind. When Lydgate begged to speak with her alone, Dorothea opened the library door which happened to be the nearest, thinking of nothing at the moment but what he might have to say about Mr. Casaubon. It was the first time she had entered this room since her husband had been taken ill, and the servant had chosen not to open the shutters. But there was light enough to read by from the narrow upper panes of the windows. "You will not mind this sombre light," said Dorothea, standing in the middle of the room. "Since you forbade books, the library has been out of the question. But Mr. Casaubon will soon be here again, I hope. Is he not making progress?" "Yes, much more rapid progress than I at first expected. Indeed, he is already nearly in his usual state of health." "You do not fear that the illness will return?" said Dorothea, whose quick ear had detected some significance in Lydgate's tone. "Such cases are peculiarly difficult to pronounce upon," said Lydgate. "The only point on which I can be confident is that it will be desirable to be very watchful on Mr. Casaubon's account, lest he should in any way strain his nervous power." "I beseech you to speak quite plainly," said Dorothea, in an imploring tone. "I cannot bear to think that there might be something which I did not know, and which, if I had known it, would have made me act differently." The words came out like a cry: it was evident that they were the voice of some mental experience which lay not very far off. "Sit down," she added, placing herself on the nearest chair, and throwing off her bonnet and gloves, with an instinctive discarding of formality where a great question of destiny was concerned. "What you say now justifies my own view," said Lydgate. "I think it is one's function as a medical man to hinder regrets of that sort as far as possible. But I beg you to observe that Mr. Casaubon's case is precisely of the kind in which the issue is most difficult to pronounce upon. He may possibly live for fifteen years or more, without much worse health than he has had hitherto." Dorothea had turned very pale, and when Lydgate paused she said in a low voice, "You mean if we are very careful." "Yes--careful against mental agitation of all kinds, and against excessive application." "He would be miserable, if he had to give up his work," said Dorothea, with a quick prevision of that wretchedness. "I am aware of that. The only course is to try by all means, direct and indirect, to moderate and vary his occupations. With a happy concurrence of circumstances, there is, as I said, no immediate danger from that affection of the heart, which I believe to have been the cause of his late attack. On the other hand, it is possible that the disease may develop itself more rapidly: it is one of those cases in which death is sometimes sudden. Nothing should be neglected which might be affected by such an issue." There was silence for a few moments, while Dorothea sat as if she had been turned to marble, though the life within her was so intense that her mind had never before swept in brief time over an equal range of scenes and motives. "Help me, pray," she said, at last, in the same low voice as before. "Tell me what I can do." "What do you think of foreign travel? You have been lately in Rome, I think." The memories which made this resource utterly hopeless were a new current that shook Dorothea out of her pallid immobility. "Oh, that would not do--that would be worse than anything," she said with a more childlike despondency, while the tears rolled down. "Nothing will be of any use that he does not enjoy." "I wish that I could have spared you this pain," said Lydgate, deeply touched, yet wondering about her marriage. Women just like Dorothea had not entered into his traditions. "It was right of you to tell me. I thank you for telling me the truth." "I wish you to understand that I shall not say anything to enlighten Mr. Casaubon himself. I think it desirable for him to know nothing more than that he must not overwork himself, and must observe certain rules. Anxiety of any kind would be precisely the most unfavorable condition for him." Lydgate rose, and Dorothea mechanically rose at the same time, unclasping her cloak and throwing it off as if it stifled her. He was bowing and quitting her, when an impulse which if she had been alone would have turned into a prayer, made her say with a sob in her voice-- "Oh, you are a wise man, are you not? You know all about life and death. Advise me. Think what I can do. He has been laboring all his life and looking forward. He minds about nothing else.-- And I mind about nothing else--" For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by this involuntary appeal--this cry from soul to soul, without other consciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the same embroiled medium, the same troublous fitfully illuminated life. But what could he say now except that he should see Mr. Casaubon again to-morrow? When he was gone, Dorothea's tears gushed forth, and relieved her stifling oppression. Then she dried her eyes, reminded that her distress must not be betrayed to her husband; and looked round the room thinking that she must order the servant to attend to it as usual, since Mr. Casaubon might now at any moment wish to enter. On his writing-table there were letters which had lain untouched since the morning when he was taken ill, and among them, as Dorothea well remembered, there were young Ladislaw's letters, the one addressed to her still unopened. The associations of these letters had been made the more painful by that sudden attack of illness which she felt that the agitation caused by her anger might have helped to bring on: it would be time enough to read them when they were again thrust upon her, and she had had no inclination to fetch them from the library. But now it occurred to her that they should be put out of her husband's sight: whatever might have been the sources of his annoyance about them, he must, if possible, not be annoyed again; and she ran her eyes first over the letter addressed to him to assure herself whether or not it would be necessary to write in order to hinder the offensive visit. Will wrote from Rome, and began by saying that his obligations to Mr. Casaubon were too deep for all thanks not to seem impertinent. It was plain that if he were not grateful, he must be the poorest-spirited rascal who had ever found a generous friend. To expand in wordy thanks would be like saying, "I am honest." But Will had come to perceive that his defects--defects which Mr. Casaubon had himself often pointed to--needed for their correction that more strenuous position which his relative's generosity had hitherto prevented from being inevitable. He trusted that he should make the best return, if return were possible, by showing the effectiveness of the education for which he was indebted, and by ceasing in future to need any diversion towards himself of funds on which others might have a better claim. He was coming to England, to try his fortune, as many other young men were obliged to do whose only capital was in their brains. His friend Naumann had desired him to take charge of the "Dispute"--the picture painted for Mr. Casaubon, with whose permission, and Mrs. Casaubon's, Will would convey it to Lowick in person. A letter addressed to the Poste Restante in Paris within the fortnight would hinder him, if necessary, from arriving at an inconvenient moment. He enclosed a letter to Mrs. Casaubon in which he continued a discussion about art, begun with her in Rome. Opening her own letter Dorothea saw that it was a lively continuation of his remonstrance with her fanatical sympathy and her want of sturdy neutral delight in things as they were--an outpouring of his young vivacity which it was impossible to read just now. She had immediately to consider what was to be done about the other letter: there was still time perhaps to prevent Will from coming to Lowick. Dorothea ended by giving the letter to her uncle, who was still in the house, and begging him to let Will know that Mr. Casaubon had been ill, and that his health would not allow the reception of any visitors. No one more ready than Mr. Brooke to write a letter: his only difficulty was to write a short one, and his ideas in this case expanded over the three large pages and the inward foldings. He had simply said to Dorothea-- "To be sure, I will write, my dear. He's a very clever young fellow--this young Ladislaw--I dare say will be a rising young man. It's a good letter--marks his sense of things, you know. However, I will tell him about Casaubon." But the end of Mr. Brooke's pen was a thinking organ, evolving sentences, especially of a benevolent kind, before the rest of his mind could well overtake them. It expressed regrets and proposed remedies, which, when Mr. Brooke read them, seemed felicitously worded--surprisingly the right thing, and determined a sequel which he had never before thought of. In this case, his pen found it such a pity young Ladislaw should not have come into the neighborhood just at that time, in order that Mr. Brooke might make his acquaintance more fully, and that they might go over the long-neglected Italian drawings together--it also felt such an interest in a young man who was starting in life with a stock of ideas--that by the end of the second page it had persuaded Mr. Brooke to invite young Ladislaw, since he could not be received at Lowick, to come to Tipton Grange. Why not? They could find a great many things to do together, and this was a period of peculiar growth--the political horizon was expanding, and--in short, Mr. Brooke's pen went off into a little speech which it had lately reported for that imperfectly edited organ the "Middlemarch Pioneer." While Mr. Brooke was sealing this letter, he felt elated with an influx of dim projects:--a young man capable of putting ideas into form, the "Pioneer" purchased to clear the pathway for a new candidate, documents utilized--who knew what might come of it all? Since Celia was going to marry immediately, it would be very pleasant to have a young fellow at table with him, at least for a time. But he went away without telling Dorothea what he had put into the letter, for she was engaged with her husband, and--in fact, these things were of no importance to her.

Middlemarch.book 4.chapte

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for book 4, chapter 41 based on the provided context.

The chapter opens with a description of Joshua Rigg Featherstone - he looks like a frog, as we've already been told, but he's generally a sober and upstanding guy, though possibly a little too ambitious. Rigg, or Rigg Featherstone, as everyone now has to call him , has a visitor - a guy named John Raffles. Apparently Raffles had married Rigg's mother, and Rigg has never liked his stepfather . Raffles is after money, of course. Rigg is ashamed of his stepfather; Raffles knows it and is hoping that Rigg will pay him to stay away. Rigg doesn't disappoint - he gives Raffles a brandy bottle to top up his flask, and a sovereign . Raffles fills his flask from the bottle, and wedges it closed with a letter he found lying around - something signed by "Nicholas Bulstrode" - and takes off.

----------BOOK 4, CHAPTER 41--------- "By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day. --Twelfth Night The transactions referred to by Caleb Garth as having gone forward between Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Joshua Rigg Featherstone concerning the land attached to Stone Court, had occasioned the interchange of a letter or two between these personages. Who shall tell what may be the effect of writing? If it happens to have been cut in stone, though it lie face down-most for ages on a forsaken beach, or "rest quietly under the drums and tramplings of many conquests," it may end by letting us into the secret of usurpations and other scandals gossiped about long empires ago:--this world being apparently a huge whispering-gallery. Such conditions are often minutely represented in our petty lifetimes. As the stone which has been kicked by generations of clowns may come by curious little links of effect under the eyes of a scholar, through whose labors it may at last fix the date of invasions and unlock religions, so a bit of ink and paper which has long been an innocent wrapping or stop-gap may at last be laid open under the one pair of eyes which have knowledge enough to turn it into the opening of a catastrophe. To Uriel watching the progress of planetary history from the sun, the one result would be just as much of a coincidence as the other. Having made this rather lofty comparison I am less uneasy in calling attention to the existence of low people by whose interference, however little we may like it, the course of the world is very much determined. It would be well, certainly, if we could help to reduce their number, and something might perhaps be done by not lightly giving occasion to their existence. Socially speaking, Joshua Rigg would have been generally pronounced a superfluity. But those who like Peter Featherstone never had a copy of themselves demanded, are the very last to wait for such a request either in prose or verse. The copy in this case bore more of outside resemblance to the mother, in whose sex frog-features, accompanied with fresh-colored cheeks and a well-rounded figure, are compatible with much charm for a certain order of admirers. The result is sometimes a frog-faced male, desirable, surely, to no order of intelligent beings. Especially when he is suddenly brought into evidence to frustrate other people's expectations--the very lowest aspect in which a social superfluity can present himself. But Mr. Rigg Featherstone's low characteristics were all of the sober, water-drinking kind. From the earliest to the latest hour of the day he was always as sleek, neat, and cool as the frog he resembled, and old Peter had secretly chuckled over an offshoot almost more calculating, and far more imperturbable, than himself. I will add that his finger-nails were scrupulously attended to, and that he meant to marry a well-educated young lady (as yet unspecified) whose person was good, and whose connections, in a solid middle-class way, were undeniable. Thus his nails and modesty were comparable to those of most gentlemen; though his ambition had been educated only by the opportunities of a clerk and accountant in the smaller commercial houses of a seaport. He thought the rural Featherstones very simple absurd people, and they in their turn regarded his "bringing up" in a seaport town as an exaggeration of the monstrosity that their brother Peter, and still more Peter's property, should have had such belongings. The garden and gravel approach, as seen from the two windows of the wainscoted parlor at Stone Court, were never in better trim than now, when Mr. Rigg Featherstone stood, with his hands behind him, looking out on these grounds as their master. But it seemed doubtful whether he looked out for the sake of contemplation or of turning his back to a person who stood in the middle of the room, with his legs considerably apart and his hands in his trouser-pockets: a person in all respects a contrast to the sleek and cool Rigg. He was a man obviously on the way towards sixty, very florid and hairy, with much gray in his bushy whiskers and thick curly hair, a stoutish body which showed to disadvantage the somewhat worn joinings of his clothes, and the air of a swaggerer, who would aim at being noticeable even at a show of fireworks, regarding his own remarks on any other person's performance as likely to be more interesting than the performance itself. His name was John Raffles, and he sometimes wrote jocosely W.A.G. after his signature, observing when he did so, that he was once taught by Leonard Lamb of Finsbury who wrote B.A. after his name, and that he, Raffles, originated the witticism of calling that celebrated principal Ba-Lamb. Such were the appearance and mental flavor of Mr. Raffles, both of which seemed to have a stale odor of travellers' rooms in the commercial hotels of that period. "Come, now, Josh," he was saying, in a full rumbling tone, "look at it in this light: here is your poor mother going into the vale of years, and you could afford something handsome now to make her comfortable." "Not while you live. Nothing would make her comfortable while you live," returned Rigg, in his cool high voice. "What I give her, you'll take." "You bear me a grudge, Josh, that I know. But come, now--as between man and man--without humbug--a little capital might enable me to make a first-rate thing of the shop. The tobacco trade is growing. I should cut my own nose off in not doing the best I could at it. I should stick to it like a flea to a fleece for my own sake. I should always be on the spot. And nothing would make your poor mother so happy. I've pretty well done with my wild oats--turned fifty-five. I want to settle down in my chimney-corner. And if I once buckled to the tobacco trade, I could bring an amount of brains and experience to bear on it that would not be found elsewhere in a hurry. I don't want to be bothering you one time after another, but to get things once for all into the right channel. Consider that, Josh--as between man and man--and with your poor mother to be made easy for her life. I was always fond of the old woman, by Jove!" "Have you done?" said Mr. Rigg, quietly, without looking away from the window. "Yes, I've done," said Raffles, taking hold of his hat which stood before him on the table, and giving it a sort of oratorical push. "Then just listen to me. The more you say anything, the less I shall believe it. The more you want me to do a thing, the more reason I shall have for never doing it. Do you think I mean to forget your kicking me when I was a lad, and eating all the best victual away from me and my mother? Do you think I forget your always coming home to sell and pocket everything, and going off again leaving us in the lurch? I should be glad to see you whipped at the cart-tail. My mother was a fool to you: she'd no right to give me a father-in-law, and she's been punished for it. She shall have her weekly allowance paid and no more: and that shall be stopped if you dare to come on to these premises again, or to come into this country after me again. The next time you show yourself inside the gates here, you shall be driven off with the dogs and the wagoner's whip." As Rigg pronounced the last words he turned round and looked at Raffles with his prominent frozen eyes. The contrast was as striking as it could have been eighteen years before, when Rigg was a most unengaging kickable boy, and Raffles was the rather thick-set Adonis of bar-rooms and back-parlors. But the advantage now was on the side of Rigg, and auditors of this conversation might probably have expected that Raffles would retire with the air of a defeated dog. Not at all. He made a grimace which was habitual with him whenever he was "out" in a game; then subsided into a laugh, and drew a brandy-flask from his pocket. "Come, Josh," he said, in a cajoling tone, "give us a spoonful of brandy, and a sovereign to pay the way back, and I'll go. Honor bright! I'll go like a bullet, _by_ Jove!" "Mind," said Rigg, drawing out a bunch of keys, "if I ever see you again, I shan't speak to you. I don't own you any more than if I saw a crow; and if you want to own me you'll get nothing by it but a character for being what you are--a spiteful, brassy, bullying rogue." "That's a pity, now, Josh," said Raffles, affecting to scratch his head and wrinkle his brows upward as if he were nonplussed. "I'm very fond of you; _by_ Jove, I am! There's nothing I like better than plaguing you--you're so like your mother, and I must do without it. But the brandy and the sovereign's a bargain." He jerked forward the flask and Rigg went to a fine old oaken bureau with his keys. But Raffles had reminded himself by his movement with the flask that it had become dangerously loose from its leather covering, and catching sight of a folded paper which had fallen within the fender, he took it up and shoved it under the leather so as to make the glass firm. By that time Rigg came forward with a brandy-bottle, filled the flask, and handed Raffles a sovereign, neither looking at him nor speaking to him. After locking up the bureau again, he walked to the window and gazed out as impassibly as he had done at the beginning of the interview, while Raffles took a small allowance from the flask, screwed it up, and deposited it in his side-pocket, with provoking slowness, making a grimace at his stepson's back. "Farewell, Josh--and if forever!" said Raffles, turning back his head as he opened the door. Rigg saw him leave the grounds and enter the lane. The gray day had turned to a light drizzling rain, which freshened the hedgerows and the grassy borders of the by-roads, and hastened the laborers who were loading the last shocks of corn. Raffles, walking with the uneasy gait of a town loiterer obliged to do a bit of country journeying on foot, looked as incongruous amid this moist rural quiet and industry as if he had been a baboon escaped from a menagerie. But there were none to stare at him except the long-weaned calves, and none to show dislike of his appearance except the little water-rats which rustled away at his approach. He was fortunate enough when he got on to the highroad to be overtaken by the stage-coach, which carried him to Brassing; and there he took the new-made railway, observing to his fellow-passengers that he considered it pretty well seasoned now it had done for Huskisson. Mr. Raffles on most occasions kept up the sense of having been educated at an academy, and being able, if he chose, to pass well everywhere; indeed, there was not one of his fellow-men whom he did not feel himself in a position to ridicule and torment, confident of the entertainment which he thus gave to all the rest of the company. He played this part now with as much spirit as if his journey had been entirely successful, resorting at frequent intervals to his flask. The paper with which he had wedged it was a letter signed Nicholas Bulstrode, but Raffles was not likely to disturb it from its present useful position. ----------CHAPTER 41--------- "By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day. --Twelfth Night The transactions referred to by Caleb Garth as having gone forward between Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Joshua Rigg Featherstone concerning the land attached to Stone Court, had occasioned the interchange of a letter or two between these personages. Who shall tell what may be the effect of writing? If it happens to have been cut in stone, though it lie face down-most for ages on a forsaken beach, or "rest quietly under the drums and tramplings of many conquests," it may end by letting us into the secret of usurpations and other scandals gossiped about long empires ago:--this world being apparently a huge whispering-gallery. Such conditions are often minutely represented in our petty lifetimes. As the stone which has been kicked by generations of clowns may come by curious little links of effect under the eyes of a scholar, through whose labors it may at last fix the date of invasions and unlock religions, so a bit of ink and paper which has long been an innocent wrapping or stop-gap may at last be laid open under the one pair of eyes which have knowledge enough to turn it into the opening of a catastrophe. To Uriel watching the progress of planetary history from the sun, the one result would be just as much of a coincidence as the other. Having made this rather lofty comparison I am less uneasy in calling attention to the existence of low people by whose interference, however little we may like it, the course of the world is very much determined. It would be well, certainly, if we could help to reduce their number, and something might perhaps be done by not lightly giving occasion to their existence. Socially speaking, Joshua Rigg would have been generally pronounced a superfluity. But those who like Peter Featherstone never had a copy of themselves demanded, are the very last to wait for such a request either in prose or verse. The copy in this case bore more of outside resemblance to the mother, in whose sex frog-features, accompanied with fresh-colored cheeks and a well-rounded figure, are compatible with much charm for a certain order of admirers. The result is sometimes a frog-faced male, desirable, surely, to no order of intelligent beings. Especially when he is suddenly brought into evidence to frustrate other people's expectations--the very lowest aspect in which a social superfluity can present himself. But Mr. Rigg Featherstone's low characteristics were all of the sober, water-drinking kind. From the earliest to the latest hour of the day he was always as sleek, neat, and cool as the frog he resembled, and old Peter had secretly chuckled over an offshoot almost more calculating, and far more imperturbable, than himself. I will add that his finger-nails were scrupulously attended to, and that he meant to marry a well-educated young lady (as yet unspecified) whose person was good, and whose connections, in a solid middle-class way, were undeniable. Thus his nails and modesty were comparable to those of most gentlemen; though his ambition had been educated only by the opportunities of a clerk and accountant in the smaller commercial houses of a seaport. He thought the rural Featherstones very simple absurd people, and they in their turn regarded his "bringing up" in a seaport town as an exaggeration of the monstrosity that their brother Peter, and still more Peter's property, should have had such belongings. The garden and gravel approach, as seen from the two windows of the wainscoted parlor at Stone Court, were never in better trim than now, when Mr. Rigg Featherstone stood, with his hands behind him, looking out on these grounds as their master. But it seemed doubtful whether he looked out for the sake of contemplation or of turning his back to a person who stood in the middle of the room, with his legs considerably apart and his hands in his trouser-pockets: a person in all respects a contrast to the sleek and cool Rigg. He was a man obviously on the way towards sixty, very florid and hairy, with much gray in his bushy whiskers and thick curly hair, a stoutish body which showed to disadvantage the somewhat worn joinings of his clothes, and the air of a swaggerer, who would aim at being noticeable even at a show of fireworks, regarding his own remarks on any other person's performance as likely to be more interesting than the performance itself. His name was John Raffles, and he sometimes wrote jocosely W.A.G. after his signature, observing when he did so, that he was once taught by Leonard Lamb of Finsbury who wrote B.A. after his name, and that he, Raffles, originated the witticism of calling that celebrated principal Ba-Lamb. Such were the appearance and mental flavor of Mr. Raffles, both of which seemed to have a stale odor of travellers' rooms in the commercial hotels of that period. "Come, now, Josh," he was saying, in a full rumbling tone, "look at it in this light: here is your poor mother going into the vale of years, and you could afford something handsome now to make her comfortable." "Not while you live. Nothing would make her comfortable while you live," returned Rigg, in his cool high voice. "What I give her, you'll take." "You bear me a grudge, Josh, that I know. But come, now--as between man and man--without humbug--a little capital might enable me to make a first-rate thing of the shop. The tobacco trade is growing. I should cut my own nose off in not doing the best I could at it. I should stick to it like a flea to a fleece for my own sake. I should always be on the spot. And nothing would make your poor mother so happy. I've pretty well done with my wild oats--turned fifty-five. I want to settle down in my chimney-corner. And if I once buckled to the tobacco trade, I could bring an amount of brains and experience to bear on it that would not be found elsewhere in a hurry. I don't want to be bothering you one time after another, but to get things once for all into the right channel. Consider that, Josh--as between man and man--and with your poor mother to be made easy for her life. I was always fond of the old woman, by Jove!" "Have you done?" said Mr. Rigg, quietly, without looking away from the window. "Yes, I've done," said Raffles, taking hold of his hat which stood before him on the table, and giving it a sort of oratorical push. "Then just listen to me. The more you say anything, the less I shall believe it. The more you want me to do a thing, the more reason I shall have for never doing it. Do you think I mean to forget your kicking me when I was a lad, and eating all the best victual away from me and my mother? Do you think I forget your always coming home to sell and pocket everything, and going off again leaving us in the lurch? I should be glad to see you whipped at the cart-tail. My mother was a fool to you: she'd no right to give me a father-in-law, and she's been punished for it. She shall have her weekly allowance paid and no more: and that shall be stopped if you dare to come on to these premises again, or to come into this country after me again. The next time you show yourself inside the gates here, you shall be driven off with the dogs and the wagoner's whip." As Rigg pronounced the last words he turned round and looked at Raffles with his prominent frozen eyes. The contrast was as striking as it could have been eighteen years before, when Rigg was a most unengaging kickable boy, and Raffles was the rather thick-set Adonis of bar-rooms and back-parlors. But the advantage now was on the side of Rigg, and auditors of this conversation might probably have expected that Raffles would retire with the air of a defeated dog. Not at all. He made a grimace which was habitual with him whenever he was "out" in a game; then subsided into a laugh, and drew a brandy-flask from his pocket. "Come, Josh," he said, in a cajoling tone, "give us a spoonful of brandy, and a sovereign to pay the way back, and I'll go. Honor bright! I'll go like a bullet, _by_ Jove!" "Mind," said Rigg, drawing out a bunch of keys, "if I ever see you again, I shan't speak to you. I don't own you any more than if I saw a crow; and if you want to own me you'll get nothing by it but a character for being what you are--a spiteful, brassy, bullying rogue." "That's a pity, now, Josh," said Raffles, affecting to scratch his head and wrinkle his brows upward as if he were nonplussed. "I'm very fond of you; _by_ Jove, I am! There's nothing I like better than plaguing you--you're so like your mother, and I must do without it. But the brandy and the sovereign's a bargain." He jerked forward the flask and Rigg went to a fine old oaken bureau with his keys. But Raffles had reminded himself by his movement with the flask that it had become dangerously loose from its leather covering, and catching sight of a folded paper which had fallen within the fender, he took it up and shoved it under the leather so as to make the glass firm. By that time Rigg came forward with a brandy-bottle, filled the flask, and handed Raffles a sovereign, neither looking at him nor speaking to him. After locking up the bureau again, he walked to the window and gazed out as impassibly as he had done at the beginning of the interview, while Raffles took a small allowance from the flask, screwed it up, and deposited it in his side-pocket, with provoking slowness, making a grimace at his stepson's back. "Farewell, Josh--and if forever!" said Raffles, turning back his head as he opened the door. Rigg saw him leave the grounds and enter the lane. The gray day had turned to a light drizzling rain, which freshened the hedgerows and the grassy borders of the by-roads, and hastened the laborers who were loading the last shocks of corn. Raffles, walking with the uneasy gait of a town loiterer obliged to do a bit of country journeying on foot, looked as incongruous amid this moist rural quiet and industry as if he had been a baboon escaped from a menagerie. But there were none to stare at him except the long-weaned calves, and none to show dislike of his appearance except the little water-rats which rustled away at his approach. He was fortunate enough when he got on to the highroad to be overtaken by the stage-coach, which carried him to Brassing; and there he took the new-made railway, observing to his fellow-passengers that he considered it pretty well seasoned now it had done for Huskisson. Mr. Raffles on most occasions kept up the sense of having been educated at an academy, and being able, if he chose, to pass well everywhere; indeed, there was not one of his fellow-men whom he did not feel himself in a position to ridicule and torment, confident of the entertainment which he thus gave to all the rest of the company. He played this part now with as much spirit as if his journey had been entirely successful, resorting at frequent intervals to his flask. The paper with which he had wedged it was a letter signed Nicholas Bulstrode, but Raffles was not likely to disturb it from its present useful position.

Middlemarch.book 5.chapte

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of book 5, chapter 44 using the context provided.

book 5, chapter 43|book 5, chapter 44

Dorothea finally talks to Lydgate, and Lydgate tells her that Casaubon now knows about his condition, and he is probably upset by it. Lydgate turns her attention to the new hospital; Bulstrode has been one of the few supporting it, and so many are against the hospital because they do not like Bulstrode. Dorothea says that she would like to do something for such a good cause, and pledges money from her yearly allowance; she is happier that she is able to make a significant contribution, but still her husband's illness and behavior bother her.

----------BOOK 5, CHAPTER 43--------- This figure hath high price: 't was wrought with love Ages ago in finest ivory; Nought modish in it, pure and noble lines Of generous womanhood that fits all time That too is costly ware; majolica Of deft design, to please a lordly eye: The smile, you see, is perfect--wonderful As mere Faience! a table ornament To suit the richest mounting." Dorothea seldom left home without her husband, but she did occasionally drive into Middlemarch alone, on little errands of shopping or charity such as occur to every lady of any wealth when she lives within three miles of a town. Two days after that scene in the Yew-tree Walk, she determined to use such an opportunity in order if possible to see Lydgate, and learn from him whether her husband had really felt any depressing change of symptoms which he was concealing from her, and whether he had insisted on knowing the utmost about himself. She felt almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from another, but the dread of being without it--the dread of that ignorance which would make her unjust or hard--overcame every scruple. That there had been some crisis in her husband's mind she was certain: he had the very next day begun a new method of arranging his notes, and had associated her quite newly in carrying out his plan. Poor Dorothea needed to lay up stores of patience. It was about four o'clock when she drove to Lydgate's house in Lowick Gate, wishing, in her immediate doubt of finding him at home, that she had written beforehand. And he was not at home. "Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?" said Dorothea, who had never, that she knew of, seen Rosamond, but now remembered the fact of the marriage. Yes, Mrs. Lydgate was at home. "I will go in and speak to her, if she will allow me. Will you ask her if she can see me--see Mrs. Casaubon, for a few minutes?" When the servant had gone to deliver that message, Dorothea could hear sounds of music through an open window--a few notes from a man's voice and then a piano bursting into roulades. But the roulades broke off suddenly, and then the servant came back saying that Mrs. Lydgate would be happy to see Mrs. Casaubon. When the drawing-room door opened and Dorothea entered, there was a sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the habits of the different ranks were less blent than now. Let those who know, tell us exactly what stuff it was that Dorothea wore in those days of mild autumn--that thin white woollen stuff soft to the touch and soft to the eye. It always seemed to have been lately washed, and to smell of the sweet hedges--was always in the shape of a pelisse with sleeves hanging all out of the fashion. Yet if she had entered before a still audience as Imogene or Cato's daughter, the dress might have seemed right enough: the grace and dignity were in her limbs and neck; and about her simply parted hair and candid eyes the large round poke which was then in the fate of women, seemed no more odd as a head-dress than the gold trencher we call a halo. By the present audience of two persons, no dramatic heroine could have been expected with more interest than Mrs. Casaubon. To Rosamond she was one of those county divinities not mixing with Middlemarch mortality, whose slightest marks of manner or appearance were worthy of her study; moreover, Rosamond was not without satisfaction that Mrs. Casaubon should have an opportunity of studying _her_. What is the use of being exquisite if you are not seen by the best judges? and since Rosamond had received the highest compliments at Sir Godwin Lydgate's, she felt quite confident of the impression she must make on people of good birth. Dorothea put out her hand with her usual simple kindness, and looked admiringly at Lydgate's lovely bride--aware that there was a gentleman standing at a distance, but seeing him merely as a coated figure at a wide angle. The gentleman was too much occupied with the presence of the one woman to reflect on the contrast between the two--a contrast that would certainly have been striking to a calm observer. They were both tall, and their eyes were on a level; but imagine Rosamond's infantine blondness and wondrous crown of hair-plaits, with her pale-blue dress of a fit and fashion so perfect that no dressmaker could look at it without emotion, a large embroidered collar which it was to be hoped all beholders would know the price of, her small hands duly set off with rings, and that controlled self-consciousness of manner which is the expensive substitute for simplicity. "Thank you very much for allowing me to interrupt you," said Dorothea, immediately. "I am anxious to see Mr. Lydgate, if possible, before I go home, and I hoped that you might possibly tell me where I could find him, or even allow me to wait for him, if you expect him soon." "He is at the New Hospital," said Rosamond; "I am not sure how soon he will come home. But I can send for him." "Will you let me go and fetch him?" said Will Ladislaw, coming forward. He had already taken up his hat before Dorothea entered. She colored with surprise, but put out her hand with a smile of unmistakable pleasure, saying-- "I did not know it was you: I had no thought of seeing you here." "May I go to the Hospital and tell Mr. Lydgate that you wish to see him?" said Will. "It would be quicker to send the carriage for him," said Dorothea, "if you will be kind enough to give the message to the coachman." Will was moving to the door when Dorothea, whose mind had flashed in an instant over many connected memories, turned quickly and said, "I will go myself, thank you. I wish to lose no time before getting home again. I will drive to the Hospital and see Mr. Lydgate there. Pray excuse me, Mrs. Lydgate. I am very much obliged to you." Her mind was evidently arrested by some sudden thought, and she left the room hardly conscious of what was immediately around her--hardly conscious that Will opened the door for her and offered her his arm to lead her to the carriage. She took the arm but said nothing. Will was feeling rather vexed and miserable, and found nothing to say on his side. He handed her into the carriage in silence, they said good-by, and Dorothea drove away. In the five minutes' drive to the Hospital she had time for some reflections that were quite new to her. Her decision to go, and her preoccupation in leaving the room, had come from the sudden sense that there would be a sort of deception in her voluntarily allowing any further intercourse between herself and Will which she was unable to mention to her husband, and already her errand in seeking Lydgate was a matter of concealment. That was all that had been explicitly in her mind; but she had been urged also by a vague discomfort. Now that she was alone in her drive, she heard the notes of the man's voice and the accompanying piano, which she had not noted much at the time, returning on her inward sense; and she found herself thinking with some wonder that Will Ladislaw was passing his time with Mrs. Lydgate in her husband's absence. And then she could not help remembering that he had passed some time with her under like circumstances, so why should there be any unfitness in the fact? But Will was Mr. Casaubon's relative, and one towards whom she was bound to show kindness. Still there had been signs which perhaps she ought to have understood as implying that Mr. Casaubon did not like his cousin's visits during his own absence. "Perhaps I have been mistaken in many things," said poor Dorothea to herself, while the tears came rolling and she had to dry them quickly. She felt confusedly unhappy, and the image of Will which had been so clear to her before was mysteriously spoiled. But the carriage stopped at the gate of the Hospital. She was soon walking round the grass plots with Lydgate, and her feelings recovered the strong bent which had made her seek for this interview. Will Ladislaw, meanwhile, was mortified, and knew the reason of it clearly enough. His chances of meeting Dorothea were rare; and here for the first time there had come a chance which had set him at a disadvantage. It was not only, as it had been hitherto, that she was not supremely occupied with him, but that she had seen him under circumstances in which he might appear not to be supremely occupied with her. He felt thrust to a new distance from her, amongst the circles of Middlemarchers who made no part of her life. But that was not his fault: of course, since he had taken his lodgings in the town, he had been making as many acquaintances as he could, his position requiring that he should know everybody and everything. Lydgate was really better worth knowing than any one else in the neighborhood, and he happened to have a wife who was musical and altogether worth calling upon. Here was the whole history of the situation in which Diana had descended too unexpectedly on her worshipper. It was mortifying. Will was conscious that he should not have been at Middlemarch but for Dorothea; and yet his position there was threatening to divide him from her with those barriers of habitual sentiment which are more fatal to the persistence of mutual interest than all the distance between Rome and Britain. Prejudices about rank and status were easy enough to defy in the form of a tyrannical letter from Mr. Casaubon; but prejudices, like odorous bodies, have a double existence both solid and subtle--solid as the pyramids, subtle as the twentieth echo of an echo, or as the memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness. And Will was of a temperament to feel keenly the presence of subtleties: a man of clumsier perceptions would not have felt, as he did, that for the first time some sense of unfitness in perfect freedom with him had sprung up in Dorothea's mind, and that their silence, as he conducted her to the carriage, had had a chill in it. Perhaps Casaubon, in his hatred and jealousy, had been insisting to Dorothea that Will had slid below her socially. Confound Casaubon! Will re-entered the drawing-room, took up his hat, and looking irritated as he advanced towards Mrs. Lydgate, who had seated herself at her work-table, said-- "It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted. May I come another day and just finish about the rendering of 'Lungi dal caro bene'?" "I shall be happy to be taught," said Rosamond. "But I am sure you admit that the interruption was a very beautiful one. I quite envy your acquaintance with Mrs. Casaubon. Is she very clever? She looks as if she were." "Really, I never thought about it," said Will, sulkily. "That is just the answer Tertius gave me, when I first asked him if she were handsome. What is it that you gentlemen are thinking of when you are with Mrs. Casaubon?" "Herself," said Will, not indisposed to provoke the charming Mrs. Lydgate. "When one sees a perfect woman, one never thinks of her attributes--one is conscious of her presence." "I shall be jealous when Tertius goes to Lowick," said Rosamond, dimpling, and speaking with aery lightness. "He will come back and think nothing of me." "That does not seem to have been the effect on Lydgate hitherto. Mrs. Casaubon is too unlike other women for them to be compared with her." "You are a devout worshipper, I perceive. You often see her, I suppose." "No," said Will, almost pettishly. "Worship is usually a matter of theory rather than of practice. But I am practising it to excess just at this moment--I must really tear myself away." "Pray come again some evening: Mr. Lydgate will like to hear the music, and I cannot enjoy it so well without him." When her husband was at home again, Rosamond said, standing in front of him and holding his coat-collar with both her hands, "Mr. Ladislaw was here singing with me when Mrs. Casaubon came in. He seemed vexed. Do you think he disliked her seeing him at our house? Surely your position is more than equal to his--whatever may be his relation to the Casaubons." "No, no; it must be something else if he were really vexed, Ladislaw is a sort of gypsy; he thinks nothing of leather and prunella." "Music apart, he is not always very agreeable. Do you like him?" "Yes: I think he is a good fellow: rather miscellaneous and bric-a-brac, but likable." "Do you know, I think he adores Mrs. Casaubon." "Poor devil!" said Lydgate, smiling and pinching his wife's ears. Rosamond felt herself beginning to know a great deal of the world, especially in discovering what when she was in her unmarried girlhood had been inconceivable to her except as a dim tragedy in by-gone costumes--that women, even after marriage, might make conquests and enslave men. At that time young ladies in the country, even when educated at Mrs. Lemon's, read little French literature later than Racine, and public prints had not cast their present magnificent illumination over the scandals of life. Still, vanity, with a woman's whole mind and day to work in, can construct abundantly on slight hints, especially on such a hint as the possibility of indefinite conquests. How delightful to make captives from the throne of marriage with a husband as crown-prince by your side--himself in fact a subject--while the captives look up forever hopeless, losing their rest probably, and if their appetite too, so much the better! But Rosamond's romance turned at present chiefly on her crown-prince, and it was enough to enjoy his assured subjection. When he said, "Poor devil!" she asked, with playful curiosity-- "Why so?" "Why, what can a man do when he takes to adoring one of you mermaids? He only neglects his work and runs up bills." "I am sure you do not neglect your work. You are always at the Hospital, or seeing poor patients, or thinking about some doctor's quarrel; and then at home you always want to pore over your microscope and phials. Confess you like those things better than me." "Haven't you ambition enough to wish that your husband should be something better than a Middlemarch doctor?" said Lydgate, letting his hands fall on to his wife's shoulders, and looking at her with affectionate gravity. "I shall make you learn my favorite bit from an old poet-- 'Why should our pride make such a stir to be And be forgot? What good is like to this, To do worthy the writing, and to write Worthy the reading and the worlds delight?' What I want, Rosy, is to do worthy the writing,--and to write out myself what I have done. A man must work, to do that, my pet." "Of course, I wish you to make discoveries: no one could more wish you to attain a high position in some better place than Middlemarch. You cannot say that I have ever tried to hinder you from working. But we cannot live like hermits. You are not discontented with me, Tertius?" "No, dear, no. I am too entirely contented." "But what did Mrs. Casaubon want to say to you?" "Merely to ask about her husband's health. But I think she is going to be splendid to our New Hospital: I think she will give us two hundred a-year." ----------BOOK 5, CHAPTER 44--------- I would not creep along the coast but steer Out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars. When Dorothea, walking round the laurel-planted plots of the New Hospital with Lydgate, had learned from him that there were no signs of change in Mr. Casaubon's bodily condition beyond the mental sign of anxiety to know the truth about his illness, she was silent for a few moments, wondering whether she had said or done anything to rouse this new anxiety. Lydgate, not willing to let slip an opportunity of furthering a favorite purpose, ventured to say-- "I don't know whether your or Mr.--Casaubon's attention has been drawn to the needs of our New Hospital. Circumstances have made it seem rather egotistic in me to urge the subject; but that is not my fault: it is because there is a fight being made against it by the other medical men. I think you are generally interested in such things, for I remember that when I first had the pleasure of seeing you at Tipton Grange before your marriage, you were asking me some questions about the way in which the health of the poor was affected by their miserable housing." "Yes, indeed," said Dorothea, brightening. "I shall be quite grateful to you if you will tell me how I can help to make things a little better. Everything of that sort has slipped away from me since I have been married. I mean," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "that the people in our village are tolerably comfortable, and my mind has been too much taken up for me to inquire further. But here--in such a place as Middlemarch--there must be a great deal to be done." "There is everything to be done," said Lydgate, with abrupt energy. "And this Hospital is a capital piece of work, due entirely to Mr. Bulstrode's exertions, and in a great degree to his money. But one man can't do everything in a scheme of this sort. Of course he looked forward to help. And now there's a mean, petty feud set up against the thing in the town, by certain persons who want to make it a failure." "What can be their reasons?" said Dorothea, with naive surprise. "Chiefly Mr. Bulstrode's unpopularity, to begin with. Half the town would almost take trouble for the sake of thwarting him. In this stupid world most people never consider that a thing is good to be done unless it is done by their own set. I had no connection with Bulstrode before I came here. I look at him quite impartially, and I see that he has some notions--that he has set things on foot--which I can turn to good public purpose. If a fair number of the better educated men went to work with the belief that their observations might contribute to the reform of medical doctrine and practice, we should soon see a change for the better. That's my point of view. I hold that by refusing to work with Mr. Bulstrode I should be turning my back on an opportunity of making my profession more generally serviceable." "I quite agree with you," said Dorothea, at once fascinated by the situation sketched in Lydgate's words. "But what is there against Mr. Bulstrode? I know that my uncle is friendly with him." "People don't like his religious tone," said Lydgate, breaking off there. "That is all the stronger reason for despising such an opposition," said Dorothea, looking at the affairs of Middlemarch by the light of the great persecutions. "To put the matter quite fairly, they have other objections to him:--he is masterful and rather unsociable, and he is concerned with trade, which has complaints of its own that I know nothing about. But what has that to do with the question whether it would not be a fine thing to establish here a more valuable hospital than any they have in the county? The immediate motive to the opposition, however, is the fact that Bulstrode has put the medical direction into my hands. Of course I am glad of that. It gives me an opportunity of doing some good work,--and I am aware that I have to justify his choice of me. But the consequence is, that the whole profession in Middlemarch have set themselves tooth and nail against the Hospital, and not only refuse to cooperate themselves, but try to blacken the whole affair and hinder subscriptions." "How very petty!" exclaimed Dorothea, indignantly. "I suppose one must expect to fight one's way: there is hardly anything to be done without it. And the ignorance of people about here is stupendous. I don't lay claim to anything else than having used some opportunities which have not come within everybody's reach; but there is no stifling the offence of being young, and a new-comer, and happening to know something more than the old inhabitants. Still, if I believe that I can set going a better method of treatment--if I believe that I can pursue certain observations and inquiries which may be a lasting benefit to medical practice, I should be a base truckler if I allowed any consideration of personal comfort to hinder me. And the course is all the clearer from there being no salary in question to put my persistence in an equivocal light." "I am glad you have told me this, Mr. Lydgate," said Dorothea, cordially. "I feel sure I can help a little. I have some money, and don't know what to do with it--that is often an uncomfortable thought to me. I am sure I can spare two hundred a-year for a grand purpose like this. How happy you must be, to know things that you feel sure will do great good! I wish I could awake with that knowledge every morning. There seems to be so much trouble taken that one can hardly see the good of!" There was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as she spoke these last words. But she presently added, more cheerfully, "Pray come to Lowick and tell us more of this. I will mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon. I must hasten home now." She did mention it that evening, and said that she should like to subscribe two hundred a-year--she had seven hundred a-year as the equivalent of her own fortune, settled on her at her marriage. Mr. Casaubon made no objection beyond a passing remark that the sum might be disproportionate in relation to other good objects, but when Dorothea in her ignorance resisted that suggestion, he acquiesced. He did not care himself about spending money, and was not reluctant to give it. If he ever felt keenly any question of money it was through the medium of another passion than the love of material property. Dorothea told him that she had seen Lydgate, and recited the gist of her conversation with him about the Hospital. Mr. Casaubon did not question her further, but he felt sure that she had wished to know what had passed between Lydgate and himself "She knows that I know," said the ever-restless voice within; but that increase of tacit knowledge only thrust further off any confidence between them. He distrusted her affection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for book 5, chapter 43 with the given context.

book 5, chapter 43|book 5, chapter 44

Dorothea has decided to go to Middlemarch on her own to visit Mr. Lydgate and ask if Casaubon's symptoms had changed. She feels bad asking for information behind his back, but she's afraid that he's gotten sicker and is hiding it from her. Lydgate isn't home, but Mrs. Lydgate is. Dorothea has never met Rosamond, but asks to come in and wait for Lydgate. Rosamond is happy to have "Mrs. Casaubon" come to visit. She's proud of her new house, and proud of the fact that she was welcomed with honor by Mr. Lydgate's rich uncles. Dorothea goes into the house and shakes hands with Rosamond, apologizing for the intrusion and asking if she might wait for Lydgate if she thinks he'll be home soon. Will Ladislaw steps out of the background and offers to fetch Lydgate from the hospital. Dorothea doesn't want to spend any more time with Will than she has to, knowing that it would make her husband unhappy if he found out, so she says she'll go herself. On her way to the hospital, she reflects that it's odd that Will is hanging out with Lydgate's pretty wife in his absence, and then remembers that he'd hung out with her in Casaubon's absence, too. She wonders whether she'd been wrong about Will, somehow. Will, meanwhile, sees that she's upset about something, and is angry - he thinks that Casaubon has been persuading her that he's below her, now that he works for a newspaper. Will says goodbye to Rosamond rather grouchily, and leaves. Lydgate comes home. Rosamond asks him about Mrs. Casaubon, and he says that she only wanted to ask about her husband's health. He adds that Dorothea has promised to give a big sum of money to the new fever hospital.

----------BOOK 5, CHAPTER 43--------- This figure hath high price: 't was wrought with love Ages ago in finest ivory; Nought modish in it, pure and noble lines Of generous womanhood that fits all time That too is costly ware; majolica Of deft design, to please a lordly eye: The smile, you see, is perfect--wonderful As mere Faience! a table ornament To suit the richest mounting." Dorothea seldom left home without her husband, but she did occasionally drive into Middlemarch alone, on little errands of shopping or charity such as occur to every lady of any wealth when she lives within three miles of a town. Two days after that scene in the Yew-tree Walk, she determined to use such an opportunity in order if possible to see Lydgate, and learn from him whether her husband had really felt any depressing change of symptoms which he was concealing from her, and whether he had insisted on knowing the utmost about himself. She felt almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from another, but the dread of being without it--the dread of that ignorance which would make her unjust or hard--overcame every scruple. That there had been some crisis in her husband's mind she was certain: he had the very next day begun a new method of arranging his notes, and had associated her quite newly in carrying out his plan. Poor Dorothea needed to lay up stores of patience. It was about four o'clock when she drove to Lydgate's house in Lowick Gate, wishing, in her immediate doubt of finding him at home, that she had written beforehand. And he was not at home. "Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?" said Dorothea, who had never, that she knew of, seen Rosamond, but now remembered the fact of the marriage. Yes, Mrs. Lydgate was at home. "I will go in and speak to her, if she will allow me. Will you ask her if she can see me--see Mrs. Casaubon, for a few minutes?" When the servant had gone to deliver that message, Dorothea could hear sounds of music through an open window--a few notes from a man's voice and then a piano bursting into roulades. But the roulades broke off suddenly, and then the servant came back saying that Mrs. Lydgate would be happy to see Mrs. Casaubon. When the drawing-room door opened and Dorothea entered, there was a sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the habits of the different ranks were less blent than now. Let those who know, tell us exactly what stuff it was that Dorothea wore in those days of mild autumn--that thin white woollen stuff soft to the touch and soft to the eye. It always seemed to have been lately washed, and to smell of the sweet hedges--was always in the shape of a pelisse with sleeves hanging all out of the fashion. Yet if she had entered before a still audience as Imogene or Cato's daughter, the dress might have seemed right enough: the grace and dignity were in her limbs and neck; and about her simply parted hair and candid eyes the large round poke which was then in the fate of women, seemed no more odd as a head-dress than the gold trencher we call a halo. By the present audience of two persons, no dramatic heroine could have been expected with more interest than Mrs. Casaubon. To Rosamond she was one of those county divinities not mixing with Middlemarch mortality, whose slightest marks of manner or appearance were worthy of her study; moreover, Rosamond was not without satisfaction that Mrs. Casaubon should have an opportunity of studying _her_. What is the use of being exquisite if you are not seen by the best judges? and since Rosamond had received the highest compliments at Sir Godwin Lydgate's, she felt quite confident of the impression she must make on people of good birth. Dorothea put out her hand with her usual simple kindness, and looked admiringly at Lydgate's lovely bride--aware that there was a gentleman standing at a distance, but seeing him merely as a coated figure at a wide angle. The gentleman was too much occupied with the presence of the one woman to reflect on the contrast between the two--a contrast that would certainly have been striking to a calm observer. They were both tall, and their eyes were on a level; but imagine Rosamond's infantine blondness and wondrous crown of hair-plaits, with her pale-blue dress of a fit and fashion so perfect that no dressmaker could look at it without emotion, a large embroidered collar which it was to be hoped all beholders would know the price of, her small hands duly set off with rings, and that controlled self-consciousness of manner which is the expensive substitute for simplicity. "Thank you very much for allowing me to interrupt you," said Dorothea, immediately. "I am anxious to see Mr. Lydgate, if possible, before I go home, and I hoped that you might possibly tell me where I could find him, or even allow me to wait for him, if you expect him soon." "He is at the New Hospital," said Rosamond; "I am not sure how soon he will come home. But I can send for him." "Will you let me go and fetch him?" said Will Ladislaw, coming forward. He had already taken up his hat before Dorothea entered. She colored with surprise, but put out her hand with a smile of unmistakable pleasure, saying-- "I did not know it was you: I had no thought of seeing you here." "May I go to the Hospital and tell Mr. Lydgate that you wish to see him?" said Will. "It would be quicker to send the carriage for him," said Dorothea, "if you will be kind enough to give the message to the coachman." Will was moving to the door when Dorothea, whose mind had flashed in an instant over many connected memories, turned quickly and said, "I will go myself, thank you. I wish to lose no time before getting home again. I will drive to the Hospital and see Mr. Lydgate there. Pray excuse me, Mrs. Lydgate. I am very much obliged to you." Her mind was evidently arrested by some sudden thought, and she left the room hardly conscious of what was immediately around her--hardly conscious that Will opened the door for her and offered her his arm to lead her to the carriage. She took the arm but said nothing. Will was feeling rather vexed and miserable, and found nothing to say on his side. He handed her into the carriage in silence, they said good-by, and Dorothea drove away. In the five minutes' drive to the Hospital she had time for some reflections that were quite new to her. Her decision to go, and her preoccupation in leaving the room, had come from the sudden sense that there would be a sort of deception in her voluntarily allowing any further intercourse between herself and Will which she was unable to mention to her husband, and already her errand in seeking Lydgate was a matter of concealment. That was all that had been explicitly in her mind; but she had been urged also by a vague discomfort. Now that she was alone in her drive, she heard the notes of the man's voice and the accompanying piano, which she had not noted much at the time, returning on her inward sense; and she found herself thinking with some wonder that Will Ladislaw was passing his time with Mrs. Lydgate in her husband's absence. And then she could not help remembering that he had passed some time with her under like circumstances, so why should there be any unfitness in the fact? But Will was Mr. Casaubon's relative, and one towards whom she was bound to show kindness. Still there had been signs which perhaps she ought to have understood as implying that Mr. Casaubon did not like his cousin's visits during his own absence. "Perhaps I have been mistaken in many things," said poor Dorothea to herself, while the tears came rolling and she had to dry them quickly. She felt confusedly unhappy, and the image of Will which had been so clear to her before was mysteriously spoiled. But the carriage stopped at the gate of the Hospital. She was soon walking round the grass plots with Lydgate, and her feelings recovered the strong bent which had made her seek for this interview. Will Ladislaw, meanwhile, was mortified, and knew the reason of it clearly enough. His chances of meeting Dorothea were rare; and here for the first time there had come a chance which had set him at a disadvantage. It was not only, as it had been hitherto, that she was not supremely occupied with him, but that she had seen him under circumstances in which he might appear not to be supremely occupied with her. He felt thrust to a new distance from her, amongst the circles of Middlemarchers who made no part of her life. But that was not his fault: of course, since he had taken his lodgings in the town, he had been making as many acquaintances as he could, his position requiring that he should know everybody and everything. Lydgate was really better worth knowing than any one else in the neighborhood, and he happened to have a wife who was musical and altogether worth calling upon. Here was the whole history of the situation in which Diana had descended too unexpectedly on her worshipper. It was mortifying. Will was conscious that he should not have been at Middlemarch but for Dorothea; and yet his position there was threatening to divide him from her with those barriers of habitual sentiment which are more fatal to the persistence of mutual interest than all the distance between Rome and Britain. Prejudices about rank and status were easy enough to defy in the form of a tyrannical letter from Mr. Casaubon; but prejudices, like odorous bodies, have a double existence both solid and subtle--solid as the pyramids, subtle as the twentieth echo of an echo, or as the memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness. And Will was of a temperament to feel keenly the presence of subtleties: a man of clumsier perceptions would not have felt, as he did, that for the first time some sense of unfitness in perfect freedom with him had sprung up in Dorothea's mind, and that their silence, as he conducted her to the carriage, had had a chill in it. Perhaps Casaubon, in his hatred and jealousy, had been insisting to Dorothea that Will had slid below her socially. Confound Casaubon! Will re-entered the drawing-room, took up his hat, and looking irritated as he advanced towards Mrs. Lydgate, who had seated herself at her work-table, said-- "It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted. May I come another day and just finish about the rendering of 'Lungi dal caro bene'?" "I shall be happy to be taught," said Rosamond. "But I am sure you admit that the interruption was a very beautiful one. I quite envy your acquaintance with Mrs. Casaubon. Is she very clever? She looks as if she were." "Really, I never thought about it," said Will, sulkily. "That is just the answer Tertius gave me, when I first asked him if she were handsome. What is it that you gentlemen are thinking of when you are with Mrs. Casaubon?" "Herself," said Will, not indisposed to provoke the charming Mrs. Lydgate. "When one sees a perfect woman, one never thinks of her attributes--one is conscious of her presence." "I shall be jealous when Tertius goes to Lowick," said Rosamond, dimpling, and speaking with aery lightness. "He will come back and think nothing of me." "That does not seem to have been the effect on Lydgate hitherto. Mrs. Casaubon is too unlike other women for them to be compared with her." "You are a devout worshipper, I perceive. You often see her, I suppose." "No," said Will, almost pettishly. "Worship is usually a matter of theory rather than of practice. But I am practising it to excess just at this moment--I must really tear myself away." "Pray come again some evening: Mr. Lydgate will like to hear the music, and I cannot enjoy it so well without him." When her husband was at home again, Rosamond said, standing in front of him and holding his coat-collar with both her hands, "Mr. Ladislaw was here singing with me when Mrs. Casaubon came in. He seemed vexed. Do you think he disliked her seeing him at our house? Surely your position is more than equal to his--whatever may be his relation to the Casaubons." "No, no; it must be something else if he were really vexed, Ladislaw is a sort of gypsy; he thinks nothing of leather and prunella." "Music apart, he is not always very agreeable. Do you like him?" "Yes: I think he is a good fellow: rather miscellaneous and bric-a-brac, but likable." "Do you know, I think he adores Mrs. Casaubon." "Poor devil!" said Lydgate, smiling and pinching his wife's ears. Rosamond felt herself beginning to know a great deal of the world, especially in discovering what when she was in her unmarried girlhood had been inconceivable to her except as a dim tragedy in by-gone costumes--that women, even after marriage, might make conquests and enslave men. At that time young ladies in the country, even when educated at Mrs. Lemon's, read little French literature later than Racine, and public prints had not cast their present magnificent illumination over the scandals of life. Still, vanity, with a woman's whole mind and day to work in, can construct abundantly on slight hints, especially on such a hint as the possibility of indefinite conquests. How delightful to make captives from the throne of marriage with a husband as crown-prince by your side--himself in fact a subject--while the captives look up forever hopeless, losing their rest probably, and if their appetite too, so much the better! But Rosamond's romance turned at present chiefly on her crown-prince, and it was enough to enjoy his assured subjection. When he said, "Poor devil!" she asked, with playful curiosity-- "Why so?" "Why, what can a man do when he takes to adoring one of you mermaids? He only neglects his work and runs up bills." "I am sure you do not neglect your work. You are always at the Hospital, or seeing poor patients, or thinking about some doctor's quarrel; and then at home you always want to pore over your microscope and phials. Confess you like those things better than me." "Haven't you ambition enough to wish that your husband should be something better than a Middlemarch doctor?" said Lydgate, letting his hands fall on to his wife's shoulders, and looking at her with affectionate gravity. "I shall make you learn my favorite bit from an old poet-- 'Why should our pride make such a stir to be And be forgot? What good is like to this, To do worthy the writing, and to write Worthy the reading and the worlds delight?' What I want, Rosy, is to do worthy the writing,--and to write out myself what I have done. A man must work, to do that, my pet." "Of course, I wish you to make discoveries: no one could more wish you to attain a high position in some better place than Middlemarch. You cannot say that I have ever tried to hinder you from working. But we cannot live like hermits. You are not discontented with me, Tertius?" "No, dear, no. I am too entirely contented." "But what did Mrs. Casaubon want to say to you?" "Merely to ask about her husband's health. But I think she is going to be splendid to our New Hospital: I think she will give us two hundred a-year." ----------BOOK 5, CHAPTER 44--------- I would not creep along the coast but steer Out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars. When Dorothea, walking round the laurel-planted plots of the New Hospital with Lydgate, had learned from him that there were no signs of change in Mr. Casaubon's bodily condition beyond the mental sign of anxiety to know the truth about his illness, she was silent for a few moments, wondering whether she had said or done anything to rouse this new anxiety. Lydgate, not willing to let slip an opportunity of furthering a favorite purpose, ventured to say-- "I don't know whether your or Mr.--Casaubon's attention has been drawn to the needs of our New Hospital. Circumstances have made it seem rather egotistic in me to urge the subject; but that is not my fault: it is because there is a fight being made against it by the other medical men. I think you are generally interested in such things, for I remember that when I first had the pleasure of seeing you at Tipton Grange before your marriage, you were asking me some questions about the way in which the health of the poor was affected by their miserable housing." "Yes, indeed," said Dorothea, brightening. "I shall be quite grateful to you if you will tell me how I can help to make things a little better. Everything of that sort has slipped away from me since I have been married. I mean," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "that the people in our village are tolerably comfortable, and my mind has been too much taken up for me to inquire further. But here--in such a place as Middlemarch--there must be a great deal to be done." "There is everything to be done," said Lydgate, with abrupt energy. "And this Hospital is a capital piece of work, due entirely to Mr. Bulstrode's exertions, and in a great degree to his money. But one man can't do everything in a scheme of this sort. Of course he looked forward to help. And now there's a mean, petty feud set up against the thing in the town, by certain persons who want to make it a failure." "What can be their reasons?" said Dorothea, with naive surprise. "Chiefly Mr. Bulstrode's unpopularity, to begin with. Half the town would almost take trouble for the sake of thwarting him. In this stupid world most people never consider that a thing is good to be done unless it is done by their own set. I had no connection with Bulstrode before I came here. I look at him quite impartially, and I see that he has some notions--that he has set things on foot--which I can turn to good public purpose. If a fair number of the better educated men went to work with the belief that their observations might contribute to the reform of medical doctrine and practice, we should soon see a change for the better. That's my point of view. I hold that by refusing to work with Mr. Bulstrode I should be turning my back on an opportunity of making my profession more generally serviceable." "I quite agree with you," said Dorothea, at once fascinated by the situation sketched in Lydgate's words. "But what is there against Mr. Bulstrode? I know that my uncle is friendly with him." "People don't like his religious tone," said Lydgate, breaking off there. "That is all the stronger reason for despising such an opposition," said Dorothea, looking at the affairs of Middlemarch by the light of the great persecutions. "To put the matter quite fairly, they have other objections to him:--he is masterful and rather unsociable, and he is concerned with trade, which has complaints of its own that I know nothing about. But what has that to do with the question whether it would not be a fine thing to establish here a more valuable hospital than any they have in the county? The immediate motive to the opposition, however, is the fact that Bulstrode has put the medical direction into my hands. Of course I am glad of that. It gives me an opportunity of doing some good work,--and I am aware that I have to justify his choice of me. But the consequence is, that the whole profession in Middlemarch have set themselves tooth and nail against the Hospital, and not only refuse to cooperate themselves, but try to blacken the whole affair and hinder subscriptions." "How very petty!" exclaimed Dorothea, indignantly. "I suppose one must expect to fight one's way: there is hardly anything to be done without it. And the ignorance of people about here is stupendous. I don't lay claim to anything else than having used some opportunities which have not come within everybody's reach; but there is no stifling the offence of being young, and a new-comer, and happening to know something more than the old inhabitants. Still, if I believe that I can set going a better method of treatment--if I believe that I can pursue certain observations and inquiries which may be a lasting benefit to medical practice, I should be a base truckler if I allowed any consideration of personal comfort to hinder me. And the course is all the clearer from there being no salary in question to put my persistence in an equivocal light." "I am glad you have told me this, Mr. Lydgate," said Dorothea, cordially. "I feel sure I can help a little. I have some money, and don't know what to do with it--that is often an uncomfortable thought to me. I am sure I can spare two hundred a-year for a grand purpose like this. How happy you must be, to know things that you feel sure will do great good! I wish I could awake with that knowledge every morning. There seems to be so much trouble taken that one can hardly see the good of!" There was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as she spoke these last words. But she presently added, more cheerfully, "Pray come to Lowick and tell us more of this. I will mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon. I must hasten home now." She did mention it that evening, and said that she should like to subscribe two hundred a-year--she had seven hundred a-year as the equivalent of her own fortune, settled on her at her marriage. Mr. Casaubon made no objection beyond a passing remark that the sum might be disproportionate in relation to other good objects, but when Dorothea in her ignorance resisted that suggestion, he acquiesced. He did not care himself about spending money, and was not reluctant to give it. If he ever felt keenly any question of money it was through the medium of another passion than the love of material property. Dorothea told him that she had seen Lydgate, and recited the gist of her conversation with him about the Hospital. Mr. Casaubon did not question her further, but he felt sure that she had wished to know what had passed between Lydgate and himself "She knows that I know," said the ever-restless voice within; but that increase of tacit knowledge only thrust further off any confidence between them. He distrusted her affection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of book 5, chapter 49, utilizing the provided context.

book 5, chapter 47|book 5, chapter 49

Sir James and Mr. Brooke are arguing about Casaubon's will. Apparently there's something in the will that Dorothea won't like, and they're trying to decide if there's any way of keeping it from her. But she's an executrix, so she's bound to find out. The part of the will in question has something to do with Will Ladislaw. Sir James asks Mr. Brooke to send Will away for the sake of Dorothea's "dignity," but Mr. Brooke refuses - he likes Will, and thinks he's been useful to the newspaper. At the end of the chapter, it's made clear: Casaubon added a codicil in his will that says that Dorothea will lose all her inheritance from Casaubon if she were to marry Will Ladislaw. And of course, Sir James and Mr. Brooke think that this is a slap in the face to Dorothea. Everyone will think that she wanted to marry Will, or that he wanted to marry her. In any case, people will think that there was a reason for Mr. Casaubon to be jealous. Brooke points out that if they sent Will away, people would think that her own friends didn't trust her. They finally agree that Dorothea should go to Fres***t as soon as possible to stay with Celia and Sir James.

----------BOOK 5, CHAPTER 47--------- Was never true love loved in vain, For truest love is highest gain. No art can make it: it must spring Where elements are fostering. So in heaven's spot and hour Springs the little native flower, Downward root and upward eye, Shapen by the earth and sky. It happened to be on a Saturday evening that Will Ladislaw had that little discussion with Lydgate. Its effect when he went to his own rooms was to make him sit up half the night, thinking over again, under a new irritation, all that he had before thought of his having settled in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Brooke. Hesitations before he had taken the step had since turned into susceptibility to every hint that he would have been wiser not to take it; and hence came his heat towards Lydgate--a heat which still kept him restless. Was he not making a fool of himself?--and at a time when he was more than ever conscious of being something better than a fool? And for what end? Well, for no definite end. True, he had dreamy visions of possibilities: there is no human being who having both passions and thoughts does not think in consequence of his passions--does not find images rising in his mind which soothe the passion with hope or sting it with dread. But this, which happens to us all, happens to some with a wide difference; and Will was not one of those whose wit "keeps the roadway:" he had his bypaths where there were little joys of his own choosing, such as gentlemen cantering on the highroad might have thought rather idiotic. The way in which he made a sort of happiness for himself out of his feeling for Dorothea was an example of this. It may seem strange, but it is the fact, that the ordinary vulgar vision of which Mr. Casaubon suspected him--namely, that Dorothea might become a widow, and that the interest he had established in her mind might turn into acceptance of him as a husband--had no tempting, arresting power over him; he did not live in the scenery of such an event, and follow it out, as we all do with that imagined "otherwise" which is our practical heaven. It was not only that he was unwilling to entertain thoughts which could be accused of baseness, and was already uneasy in the sense that he had to justify himself from the charge of ingratitude--the latent consciousness of many other barriers between himself and Dorothea besides the existence of her husband, had helped to turn away his imagination from speculating on what might befall Mr. Casaubon. And there were yet other reasons. Will, we know, could not bear the thought of any flaw appearing in his crystal: he was at once exasperated and delighted by the calm freedom with which Dorothea looked at him and spoke to him, and there was something so exquisite in thinking of her just as she was, that he could not long for a change which must somehow change her. Do we not shun the street version of a fine melody?--or shrink from the news that the rarity--some bit of chiselling or engraving perhaps--which we have dwelt on even with exultation in the trouble it has cost us to snatch glimpses of it, is really not an uncommon thing, and may be obtained as an every-day possession? Our good depends on the quality and breadth of our emotion; and to Will, a creature who cared little for what are called the solid things of life and greatly for its subtler influences, to have within him such a feeling as he had towards Dorothea, was like the inheritance of a fortune. What others might have called the futility of his passion, made an additional delight for his imagination: he was conscious of a generous movement, and of verifying in his own experience that higher love-poetry which had charmed his fancy. Dorothea, he said to himself, was forever enthroned in his soul: no other woman could sit higher than her footstool; and if he could have written out in immortal syllables the effect she wrought within him, he might have boasted after the example of old Drayton, that,-- "Queens hereafter might be glad to live Upon the alms of her superfluous praise." But this result was questionable. And what else could he do for Dorothea? What was his devotion worth to her? It was impossible to tell. He would not go out of her reach. He saw no creature among her friends to whom he could believe that she spoke with the same simple confidence as to him. She had once said that she would like him to stay; and stay he would, whatever fire-breathing dragons might hiss around her. This had always been the conclusion of Will's hesitations. But he was not without contradictoriness and rebellion even towards his own resolve. He had often got irritated, as he was on this particular night, by some outside demonstration that his public exertions with Mr. Brooke as a chief could not seem as heroic as he would like them to be, and this was always associated with the other ground of irritation--that notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's sake, he could hardly ever see her. Whereupon, not being able to contradict these unpleasant facts, he contradicted his own strongest bias and said, "I am a fool." Nevertheless, since the inward debate necessarily turned on Dorothea, he ended, as he had done before, only by getting a livelier sense of what her presence would be to him; and suddenly reflecting that the morrow would be Sunday, he determined to go to Lowick Church and see her. He slept upon that idea, but when he was dressing in the rational morning light, Objection said-- "That will be a virtual defiance of Mr. Casaubon's prohibition to visit Lowick, and Dorothea will be displeased." "Nonsense!" argued Inclination, "it would be too monstrous for him to hinder me from going out to a pretty country church on a spring morning. And Dorothea will be glad." "It will be clear to Mr. Casaubon that you have come either to annoy him or to see Dorothea." "It is not true that I go to annoy him, and why should I not go to see Dorothea? Is he to have everything to himself and be always comfortable? Let him smart a little, as other people are obliged to do. I have always liked the quaintness of the church and congregation; besides, I know the Tuckers: I shall go into their pew." Having silenced Objection by force of unreason, Will walked to Lowick as if he had been on the way to Paradise, crossing Halsell Common and skirting the wood, where the sunlight fell broadly under the budding boughs, bringing out the beauties of moss and lichen, and fresh green growths piercing the brown. Everything seemed to know that it was Sunday, and to approve of his going to Lowick Church. Will easily felt happy when nothing crossed his humor, and by this time the thought of vexing Mr. Casaubon had become rather amusing to him, making his face break into its merry smile, pleasant to see as the breaking of sunshine on the water--though the occasion was not exemplary. But most of us are apt to settle within ourselves that the man who blocks our way is odious, and not to mind causing him a little of the disgust which his personality excites in ourselves. Will went along with a small book under his arm and a hand in each side-pocket, never reading, but chanting a little, as he made scenes of what would happen in church and coming out. He was experimenting in tunes to suit some words of his own, sometimes trying a ready-made melody, sometimes improvising. The words were not exactly a hymn, but they certainly fitted his Sunday experience:-- "O me, O me, what frugal cheer My love doth feed upon! A touch, a ray, that is not here, A shadow that is gone: "A dream of breath that might be near, An inly-echoed tone, The thought that one may think me dear, The place where one was known, "The tremor of a banished fear, An ill that was not done-- O me, O me, what frugal cheer My love doth feed upon!" Sometimes, when he took off his hat, shaking his head backward, and showing his delicate throat as he sang, he looked like an incarnation of the spring whose spirit filled the air--a bright creature, abundant in uncertain promises. The bells were still ringing when he got to Lowick, and he went into the curate's pew before any one else arrived there. But he was still left alone in it when the congregation had assembled. The curate's pew was opposite the rector's at the entrance of the small chancel, and Will had time to fear that Dorothea might not come while he looked round at the group of rural faces which made the congregation from year to year within the white-washed walls and dark old pews, hardly with more change than we see in the boughs of a tree which breaks here and there with age, but yet has young shoots. Mr. Rigg's frog-face was something alien and unaccountable, but notwithstanding this shock to the order of things, there were still the Waules and the rural stock of the Powderells in their pews side by side; brother Samuel's cheek had the same purple round as ever, and the three generations of decent cottagers came as of old with a sense of duty to their betters generally--the smaller children regarding Mr. Casaubon, who wore the black gown and mounted to the highest box, as probably the chief of all betters, and the one most awful if offended. Even in 1831 Lowick was at peace, not more agitated by Reform than by the solemn tenor of the Sunday sermon. The congregation had been used to seeing Will at church in former days, and no one took much note of him except the choir, who expected him to make a figure in the singing. Dorothea did at last appear on this quaint background, walking up the short aisle in her white beaver bonnet and gray cloak--the same she had worn in the Vatican. Her face being, from her entrance, towards the chancel, even her shortsighted eyes soon discerned Will, but there was no outward show of her feeling except a slight paleness and a grave bow as she passed him. To his own surprise Will felt suddenly uncomfortable, and dared not look at her after they had bowed to each other. Two minutes later, when Mr. Casaubon came out of the vestry, and, entering the pew, seated himself in face of Dorothea, Will felt his paralysis more complete. He could look nowhere except at the choir in the little gallery over the vestry-door: Dorothea was perhaps pained, and he had made a wretched blunder. It was no longer amusing to vex Mr. Casaubon, who had the advantage probably of watching him and seeing that he dared not turn his head. Why had he not imagined this beforehand?--but he could not expect that he should sit in that square pew alone, unrelieved by any Tuckers, who had apparently departed from Lowick altogether, for a new clergyman was in the desk. Still he called himself stupid now for not foreseeing that it would be impossible for him to look towards Dorothea--nay, that she might feel his coming an impertinence. There was no delivering himself from his cage, however; and Will found his places and looked at his book as if he had been a school-mistress, feeling that the morning service had never been so immeasurably long before, that he was utterly ridiculous, out of temper, and miserable. This was what a man got by worshipping the sight of a woman! The clerk observed with surprise that Mr. Ladislaw did not join in the tune of Hanover, and reflected that he might have a cold. Mr. Casaubon did not preach that morning, and there was no change in Will's situation until the blessing had been pronounced and every one rose. It was the fashion at Lowick for "the betters" to go out first. With a sudden determination to break the spell that was upon him, Will looked straight at Mr. Casaubon. But that gentleman's eyes were on the button of the pew-door, which he opened, allowing Dorothea to pass, and following her immediately without raising his eyelids. Will's glance had caught Dorothea's as she turned out of the pew, and again she bowed, but this time with a look of agitation, as if she were repressing tears. Will walked out after them, but they went on towards the little gate leading out of the churchyard into the shrubbery, never looking round. It was impossible for him to follow them, and he could only walk back sadly at mid-day along the same road which he had trodden hopefully in the morning. The lights were all changed for him both without and within. ----------BOOK 5, CHAPTER 49--------- A task too strong for wizard spells This squire had brought about; 'T is easy dropping stones in wells, But who shall get them out?" "I wish to God we could hinder Dorothea from knowing this," said Sir James Chettam, with a little frown on his brow, and an expression of intense disgust about his mouth. He was standing on the hearth-rug in the library at Lowick Grange, and speaking to Mr. Brooke. It was the day after Mr. Casaubon had been buried, and Dorothea was not yet able to leave her room. "That would be difficult, you know, Chettam, as she is an executrix, and she likes to go into these things--property, land, that kind of thing. She has her notions, you know," said Mr. Brooke, sticking his eye-glasses on nervously, and exploring the edges of a folded paper which he held in his hand; "and she would like to act--depend upon it, as an executrix Dorothea would want to act. And she was twenty-one last December, you know. I can hinder nothing." Sir James looked at the carpet for a minute in silence, and then lifting his eyes suddenly fixed them on Mr. Brooke, saying, "I will tell you what we can do. Until Dorothea is well, all business must be kept from her, and as soon as she is able to be moved she must come to us. Being with Celia and the baby will be the best thing in the world for her, and will pass away the time. And meanwhile you must get rid of Ladislaw: you must send him out of the country." Here Sir James's look of disgust returned in all its intensity. Mr. Brooke put his hands behind him, walked to the window and straightened his back with a little shake before he replied. "That is easily said, Chettam, easily said, you know." "My dear sir," persisted Sir James, restraining his indignation within respectful forms, "it was you who brought him here, and you who keep him here--I mean by the occupation you give him." "Yes, but I can't dismiss him in an instant without assigning reasons, my dear Chettam. Ladislaw has been invaluable, most satisfactory. I consider that I have done this part of the country a service by bringing him--by bringing him, you know." Mr. Brooke ended with a nod, turning round to give it. "It's a pity this part of the country didn't do without him, that's all I have to say about it. At any rate, as Dorothea's brother-in-law, I feel warranted in objecting strongly to his being kept here by any action on the part of her friends. You admit, I hope, that I have a right to speak about what concerns the dignity of my wife's sister?" Sir James was getting warm. "Of course, my dear Chettam, of course. But you and I have different ideas--different--" "Not about this action of Casaubon's, I should hope," interrupted Sir James. "I say that he has most unfairly compromised Dorothea. I say that there never was a meaner, more ungentlemanly action than this--a codicil of this sort to a will which he made at the time of his marriage with the knowledge and reliance of her family--a positive insult to Dorothea!" "Well, you know, Casaubon was a little twisted about Ladislaw. Ladislaw has told me the reason--dislike of the bent he took, you know--Ladislaw didn't think much of Casaubon's notions, Thoth and Dagon--that sort of thing: and I fancy that Casaubon didn't like the independent position Ladislaw had taken up. I saw the letters between them, you know. Poor Casaubon was a little buried in books--he didn't know the world." "It's all very well for Ladislaw to put that color on it," said Sir James. "But I believe Casaubon was only jealous of him on Dorothea's account, and the world will suppose that she gave him some reason; and that is what makes it so abominable--coupling her name with this young fellow's." "My dear Chettam, it won't lead to anything, you know," said Mr. Brooke, seating himself and sticking on his eye-glass again. "It's all of a piece with Casaubon's oddity. This paper, now, 'Synoptical Tabulation' and so on, 'for the use of Mrs. Casaubon,' it was locked up in the desk with the will. I suppose he meant Dorothea to publish his researches, eh? and she'll do it, you know; she has gone into his studies uncommonly." "My dear sir," said Sir James, impatiently, "that is neither here nor there. The question is, whether you don't see with me the propriety of sending young Ladislaw away?" "Well, no, not the urgency of the thing. By-and-by, perhaps, it may come round. As to gossip, you know, sending him away won't hinder gossip. People say what they like to say, not what they have chapter and verse for," said Mr Brooke, becoming acute about the truths that lay on the side of his own wishes. "I might get rid of Ladislaw up to a certain point--take away the 'Pioneer' from him, and that sort of thing; but I couldn't send him out of the country if he didn't choose to go--didn't choose, you know." Mr. Brooke, persisting as quietly as if he were only discussing the nature of last year's weather, and nodding at the end with his usual amenity, was an exasperating form of obstinacy. "Good God!" said Sir James, with as much passion as he ever showed, "let us get him a post; let us spend money on him. If he could go in the suite of some Colonial Governor! Grampus might take him--and I could write to Fulke about it." "But Ladislaw won't be shipped off like a head of cattle, my dear fellow; Ladislaw has his ideas. It's my opinion that if he were to part from me to-morrow, you'd only hear the more of him in the country. With his talent for speaking and drawing up documents, there are few men who could come up to him as an agitator--an agitator, you know." "Agitator!" said Sir James, with bitter emphasis, feeling that the syllables of this word properly repeated were a sufficient exposure of its hatefulness. "But be reasonable, Chettam. Dorothea, now. As you say, she had better go to Celia as soon as possible. She can stay under your roof, and in the mean time things may come round quietly. Don't let us be firing off our guns in a hurry, you know. Standish will keep our counsel, and the news will be old before it's known. Twenty things may happen to carry off Ladislaw--without my doing anything, you know." "Then I am to conclude that you decline to do anything?" "Decline, Chettam?--no--I didn't say decline. But I really don't see what I could do. Ladislaw is a gentleman." "I am glad to hear it!" said Sir James, his irritation making him forget himself a little. "I am sure Casaubon was not." "Well, it would have been worse if he had made the codicil to hinder her from marrying again at all, you know." "I don't know that," said Sir James. "It would have been less indelicate." "One of poor Casaubon's freaks! That attack upset his brain a little. It all goes for nothing. She doesn't _want_ to marry Ladislaw." "But this codicil is framed so as to make everybody believe that she did. I don't believe anything of the sort about Dorothea," said Sir James--then frowningly, "but I suspect Ladislaw. I tell you frankly, I suspect Ladislaw." "I couldn't take any immediate action on that ground, Chettam. In fact, if it were possible to pack him off--send him to Norfolk Island--that sort of thing--it would look all the worse for Dorothea to those who knew about it. It would seem as if we distrusted her--distrusted her, you know." That Mr. Brooke had hit on an undeniable argument, did not tend to soothe Sir James. He put out his hand to reach his hat, implying that he did not mean to contend further, and said, still with some heat-- "Well, I can only say that I think Dorothea was sacrificed once, because her friends were too careless. I shall do what I can, as her brother, to protect her now." "You can't do better than get her to Freshitt as soon as possible, Chettam. I approve that plan altogether," said Mr. Brooke, well pleased that he had won the argument. It would have been highly inconvenient to him to part with Ladislaw at that time, when a dissolution might happen any day, and electors were to be convinced of the course by which the interests of the country would be best served. Mr. Brooke sincerely believed that this end could be secured by his own return to Parliament: he offered the forces of his mind honestly to the nation.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 43 with the given context.

chapter 43|chapter 44

Dorothea is certain that her husband has gone through a crisis. How much he knows about his illness is not clear to her. She decides to meet Lydgate and find out she drives to Lydgates new house in Lowick Gate to meet him away from her husband. There, Rosamond is occupying herself by learning some songs from Will Ladislaw, in her husbands absence. Rosamond is excited at seeing one of those "county divinities not mixing with Middlemarch mortality" for the first time. Will is dismayed at being seen alone with another woman. Dorothea greets them with her usual warmth and asks for Lydgate. She agrees he should be sent for. Then suddenly changes her mind and hastily departs for the new hospital herself. Will is left feeling deprived and uneasy. He too leaves in a sulky mood. In fact, Dorothea has left on becoming conscious that this is a meeting with Will, she dare not mention to Casaubon. She is also uneasy about Wills presence, alone with Lydgates new bride, both apparently singing together. When Lydgate returns, Rosamond is curious to know his opinion of Dorothea, especially of her appearance. She also complains about his preoccupation with work in the hospital and at home. Lydgate affectionately tries to convince her of the need to be "something better than a Middlemarch doctor does. " Their marriage is still too new for the discussion to be very heated. Lydgate is happy at Dorotheas interest in the hospital and feels that she will give a handsome donation towards its work.

----------CHAPTER 43--------- This figure hath high price: 't was wrought with love Ages ago in finest ivory; Nought modish in it, pure and noble lines Of generous womanhood that fits all time That too is costly ware; majolica Of deft design, to please a lordly eye: The smile, you see, is perfect--wonderful As mere Faience! a table ornament To suit the richest mounting." Dorothea seldom left home without her husband, but she did occasionally drive into Middlemarch alone, on little errands of shopping or charity such as occur to every lady of any wealth when she lives within three miles of a town. Two days after that scene in the Yew-tree Walk, she determined to use such an opportunity in order if possible to see Lydgate, and learn from him whether her husband had really felt any depressing change of symptoms which he was concealing from her, and whether he had insisted on knowing the utmost about himself. She felt almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from another, but the dread of being without it--the dread of that ignorance which would make her unjust or hard--overcame every scruple. That there had been some crisis in her husband's mind she was certain: he had the very next day begun a new method of arranging his notes, and had associated her quite newly in carrying out his plan. Poor Dorothea needed to lay up stores of patience. It was about four o'clock when she drove to Lydgate's house in Lowick Gate, wishing, in her immediate doubt of finding him at home, that she had written beforehand. And he was not at home. "Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?" said Dorothea, who had never, that she knew of, seen Rosamond, but now remembered the fact of the marriage. Yes, Mrs. Lydgate was at home. "I will go in and speak to her, if she will allow me. Will you ask her if she can see me--see Mrs. Casaubon, for a few minutes?" When the servant had gone to deliver that message, Dorothea could hear sounds of music through an open window--a few notes from a man's voice and then a piano bursting into roulades. But the roulades broke off suddenly, and then the servant came back saying that Mrs. Lydgate would be happy to see Mrs. Casaubon. When the drawing-room door opened and Dorothea entered, there was a sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the habits of the different ranks were less blent than now. Let those who know, tell us exactly what stuff it was that Dorothea wore in those days of mild autumn--that thin white woollen stuff soft to the touch and soft to the eye. It always seemed to have been lately washed, and to smell of the sweet hedges--was always in the shape of a pelisse with sleeves hanging all out of the fashion. Yet if she had entered before a still audience as Imogene or Cato's daughter, the dress might have seemed right enough: the grace and dignity were in her limbs and neck; and about her simply parted hair and candid eyes the large round poke which was then in the fate of women, seemed no more odd as a head-dress than the gold trencher we call a halo. By the present audience of two persons, no dramatic heroine could have been expected with more interest than Mrs. Casaubon. To Rosamond she was one of those county divinities not mixing with Middlemarch mortality, whose slightest marks of manner or appearance were worthy of her study; moreover, Rosamond was not without satisfaction that Mrs. Casaubon should have an opportunity of studying _her_. What is the use of being exquisite if you are not seen by the best judges? and since Rosamond had received the highest compliments at Sir Godwin Lydgate's, she felt quite confident of the impression she must make on people of good birth. Dorothea put out her hand with her usual simple kindness, and looked admiringly at Lydgate's lovely bride--aware that there was a gentleman standing at a distance, but seeing him merely as a coated figure at a wide angle. The gentleman was too much occupied with the presence of the one woman to reflect on the contrast between the two--a contrast that would certainly have been striking to a calm observer. They were both tall, and their eyes were on a level; but imagine Rosamond's infantine blondness and wondrous crown of hair-plaits, with her pale-blue dress of a fit and fashion so perfect that no dressmaker could look at it without emotion, a large embroidered collar which it was to be hoped all beholders would know the price of, her small hands duly set off with rings, and that controlled self-consciousness of manner which is the expensive substitute for simplicity. "Thank you very much for allowing me to interrupt you," said Dorothea, immediately. "I am anxious to see Mr. Lydgate, if possible, before I go home, and I hoped that you might possibly tell me where I could find him, or even allow me to wait for him, if you expect him soon." "He is at the New Hospital," said Rosamond; "I am not sure how soon he will come home. But I can send for him." "Will you let me go and fetch him?" said Will Ladislaw, coming forward. He had already taken up his hat before Dorothea entered. She colored with surprise, but put out her hand with a smile of unmistakable pleasure, saying-- "I did not know it was you: I had no thought of seeing you here." "May I go to the Hospital and tell Mr. Lydgate that you wish to see him?" said Will. "It would be quicker to send the carriage for him," said Dorothea, "if you will be kind enough to give the message to the coachman." Will was moving to the door when Dorothea, whose mind had flashed in an instant over many connected memories, turned quickly and said, "I will go myself, thank you. I wish to lose no time before getting home again. I will drive to the Hospital and see Mr. Lydgate there. Pray excuse me, Mrs. Lydgate. I am very much obliged to you." Her mind was evidently arrested by some sudden thought, and she left the room hardly conscious of what was immediately around her--hardly conscious that Will opened the door for her and offered her his arm to lead her to the carriage. She took the arm but said nothing. Will was feeling rather vexed and miserable, and found nothing to say on his side. He handed her into the carriage in silence, they said good-by, and Dorothea drove away. In the five minutes' drive to the Hospital she had time for some reflections that were quite new to her. Her decision to go, and her preoccupation in leaving the room, had come from the sudden sense that there would be a sort of deception in her voluntarily allowing any further intercourse between herself and Will which she was unable to mention to her husband, and already her errand in seeking Lydgate was a matter of concealment. That was all that had been explicitly in her mind; but she had been urged also by a vague discomfort. Now that she was alone in her drive, she heard the notes of the man's voice and the accompanying piano, which she had not noted much at the time, returning on her inward sense; and she found herself thinking with some wonder that Will Ladislaw was passing his time with Mrs. Lydgate in her husband's absence. And then she could not help remembering that he had passed some time with her under like circumstances, so why should there be any unfitness in the fact? But Will was Mr. Casaubon's relative, and one towards whom she was bound to show kindness. Still there had been signs which perhaps she ought to have understood as implying that Mr. Casaubon did not like his cousin's visits during his own absence. "Perhaps I have been mistaken in many things," said poor Dorothea to herself, while the tears came rolling and she had to dry them quickly. She felt confusedly unhappy, and the image of Will which had been so clear to her before was mysteriously spoiled. But the carriage stopped at the gate of the Hospital. She was soon walking round the grass plots with Lydgate, and her feelings recovered the strong bent which had made her seek for this interview. Will Ladislaw, meanwhile, was mortified, and knew the reason of it clearly enough. His chances of meeting Dorothea were rare; and here for the first time there had come a chance which had set him at a disadvantage. It was not only, as it had been hitherto, that she was not supremely occupied with him, but that she had seen him under circumstances in which he might appear not to be supremely occupied with her. He felt thrust to a new distance from her, amongst the circles of Middlemarchers who made no part of her life. But that was not his fault: of course, since he had taken his lodgings in the town, he had been making as many acquaintances as he could, his position requiring that he should know everybody and everything. Lydgate was really better worth knowing than any one else in the neighborhood, and he happened to have a wife who was musical and altogether worth calling upon. Here was the whole history of the situation in which Diana had descended too unexpectedly on her worshipper. It was mortifying. Will was conscious that he should not have been at Middlemarch but for Dorothea; and yet his position there was threatening to divide him from her with those barriers of habitual sentiment which are more fatal to the persistence of mutual interest than all the distance between Rome and Britain. Prejudices about rank and status were easy enough to defy in the form of a tyrannical letter from Mr. Casaubon; but prejudices, like odorous bodies, have a double existence both solid and subtle--solid as the pyramids, subtle as the twentieth echo of an echo, or as the memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness. And Will was of a temperament to feel keenly the presence of subtleties: a man of clumsier perceptions would not have felt, as he did, that for the first time some sense of unfitness in perfect freedom with him had sprung up in Dorothea's mind, and that their silence, as he conducted her to the carriage, had had a chill in it. Perhaps Casaubon, in his hatred and jealousy, had been insisting to Dorothea that Will had slid below her socially. Confound Casaubon! Will re-entered the drawing-room, took up his hat, and looking irritated as he advanced towards Mrs. Lydgate, who had seated herself at her work-table, said-- "It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted. May I come another day and just finish about the rendering of 'Lungi dal caro bene'?" "I shall be happy to be taught," said Rosamond. "But I am sure you admit that the interruption was a very beautiful one. I quite envy your acquaintance with Mrs. Casaubon. Is she very clever? She looks as if she were." "Really, I never thought about it," said Will, sulkily. "That is just the answer Tertius gave me, when I first asked him if she were handsome. What is it that you gentlemen are thinking of when you are with Mrs. Casaubon?" "Herself," said Will, not indisposed to provoke the charming Mrs. Lydgate. "When one sees a perfect woman, one never thinks of her attributes--one is conscious of her presence." "I shall be jealous when Tertius goes to Lowick," said Rosamond, dimpling, and speaking with aery lightness. "He will come back and think nothing of me." "That does not seem to have been the effect on Lydgate hitherto. Mrs. Casaubon is too unlike other women for them to be compared with her." "You are a devout worshipper, I perceive. You often see her, I suppose." "No," said Will, almost pettishly. "Worship is usually a matter of theory rather than of practice. But I am practising it to excess just at this moment--I must really tear myself away." "Pray come again some evening: Mr. Lydgate will like to hear the music, and I cannot enjoy it so well without him." When her husband was at home again, Rosamond said, standing in front of him and holding his coat-collar with both her hands, "Mr. Ladislaw was here singing with me when Mrs. Casaubon came in. He seemed vexed. Do you think he disliked her seeing him at our house? Surely your position is more than equal to his--whatever may be his relation to the Casaubons." "No, no; it must be something else if he were really vexed, Ladislaw is a sort of gypsy; he thinks nothing of leather and prunella." "Music apart, he is not always very agreeable. Do you like him?" "Yes: I think he is a good fellow: rather miscellaneous and bric-a-brac, but likable." "Do you know, I think he adores Mrs. Casaubon." "Poor devil!" said Lydgate, smiling and pinching his wife's ears. Rosamond felt herself beginning to know a great deal of the world, especially in discovering what when she was in her unmarried girlhood had been inconceivable to her except as a dim tragedy in by-gone costumes--that women, even after marriage, might make conquests and enslave men. At that time young ladies in the country, even when educated at Mrs. Lemon's, read little French literature later than Racine, and public prints had not cast their present magnificent illumination over the scandals of life. Still, vanity, with a woman's whole mind and day to work in, can construct abundantly on slight hints, especially on such a hint as the possibility of indefinite conquests. How delightful to make captives from the throne of marriage with a husband as crown-prince by your side--himself in fact a subject--while the captives look up forever hopeless, losing their rest probably, and if their appetite too, so much the better! But Rosamond's romance turned at present chiefly on her crown-prince, and it was enough to enjoy his assured subjection. When he said, "Poor devil!" she asked, with playful curiosity-- "Why so?" "Why, what can a man do when he takes to adoring one of you mermaids? He only neglects his work and runs up bills." "I am sure you do not neglect your work. You are always at the Hospital, or seeing poor patients, or thinking about some doctor's quarrel; and then at home you always want to pore over your microscope and phials. Confess you like those things better than me." "Haven't you ambition enough to wish that your husband should be something better than a Middlemarch doctor?" said Lydgate, letting his hands fall on to his wife's shoulders, and looking at her with affectionate gravity. "I shall make you learn my favorite bit from an old poet-- 'Why should our pride make such a stir to be And be forgot? What good is like to this, To do worthy the writing, and to write Worthy the reading and the worlds delight?' What I want, Rosy, is to do worthy the writing,--and to write out myself what I have done. A man must work, to do that, my pet." "Of course, I wish you to make discoveries: no one could more wish you to attain a high position in some better place than Middlemarch. You cannot say that I have ever tried to hinder you from working. But we cannot live like hermits. You are not discontented with me, Tertius?" "No, dear, no. I am too entirely contented." "But what did Mrs. Casaubon want to say to you?" "Merely to ask about her husband's health. But I think she is going to be splendid to our New Hospital: I think she will give us two hundred a-year." ----------CHAPTER 44--------- I would not creep along the coast but steer Out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars. When Dorothea, walking round the laurel-planted plots of the New Hospital with Lydgate, had learned from him that there were no signs of change in Mr. Casaubon's bodily condition beyond the mental sign of anxiety to know the truth about his illness, she was silent for a few moments, wondering whether she had said or done anything to rouse this new anxiety. Lydgate, not willing to let slip an opportunity of furthering a favorite purpose, ventured to say-- "I don't know whether your or Mr.--Casaubon's attention has been drawn to the needs of our New Hospital. Circumstances have made it seem rather egotistic in me to urge the subject; but that is not my fault: it is because there is a fight being made against it by the other medical men. I think you are generally interested in such things, for I remember that when I first had the pleasure of seeing you at Tipton Grange before your marriage, you were asking me some questions about the way in which the health of the poor was affected by their miserable housing." "Yes, indeed," said Dorothea, brightening. "I shall be quite grateful to you if you will tell me how I can help to make things a little better. Everything of that sort has slipped away from me since I have been married. I mean," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "that the people in our village are tolerably comfortable, and my mind has been too much taken up for me to inquire further. But here--in such a place as Middlemarch--there must be a great deal to be done." "There is everything to be done," said Lydgate, with abrupt energy. "And this Hospital is a capital piece of work, due entirely to Mr. Bulstrode's exertions, and in a great degree to his money. But one man can't do everything in a scheme of this sort. Of course he looked forward to help. And now there's a mean, petty feud set up against the thing in the town, by certain persons who want to make it a failure." "What can be their reasons?" said Dorothea, with naive surprise. "Chiefly Mr. Bulstrode's unpopularity, to begin with. Half the town would almost take trouble for the sake of thwarting him. In this stupid world most people never consider that a thing is good to be done unless it is done by their own set. I had no connection with Bulstrode before I came here. I look at him quite impartially, and I see that he has some notions--that he has set things on foot--which I can turn to good public purpose. If a fair number of the better educated men went to work with the belief that their observations might contribute to the reform of medical doctrine and practice, we should soon see a change for the better. That's my point of view. I hold that by refusing to work with Mr. Bulstrode I should be turning my back on an opportunity of making my profession more generally serviceable." "I quite agree with you," said Dorothea, at once fascinated by the situation sketched in Lydgate's words. "But what is there against Mr. Bulstrode? I know that my uncle is friendly with him." "People don't like his religious tone," said Lydgate, breaking off there. "That is all the stronger reason for despising such an opposition," said Dorothea, looking at the affairs of Middlemarch by the light of the great persecutions. "To put the matter quite fairly, they have other objections to him:--he is masterful and rather unsociable, and he is concerned with trade, which has complaints of its own that I know nothing about. But what has that to do with the question whether it would not be a fine thing to establish here a more valuable hospital than any they have in the county? The immediate motive to the opposition, however, is the fact that Bulstrode has put the medical direction into my hands. Of course I am glad of that. It gives me an opportunity of doing some good work,--and I am aware that I have to justify his choice of me. But the consequence is, that the whole profession in Middlemarch have set themselves tooth and nail against the Hospital, and not only refuse to cooperate themselves, but try to blacken the whole affair and hinder subscriptions." "How very petty!" exclaimed Dorothea, indignantly. "I suppose one must expect to fight one's way: there is hardly anything to be done without it. And the ignorance of people about here is stupendous. I don't lay claim to anything else than having used some opportunities which have not come within everybody's reach; but there is no stifling the offence of being young, and a new-comer, and happening to know something more than the old inhabitants. Still, if I believe that I can set going a better method of treatment--if I believe that I can pursue certain observations and inquiries which may be a lasting benefit to medical practice, I should be a base truckler if I allowed any consideration of personal comfort to hinder me. And the course is all the clearer from there being no salary in question to put my persistence in an equivocal light." "I am glad you have told me this, Mr. Lydgate," said Dorothea, cordially. "I feel sure I can help a little. I have some money, and don't know what to do with it--that is often an uncomfortable thought to me. I am sure I can spare two hundred a-year for a grand purpose like this. How happy you must be, to know things that you feel sure will do great good! I wish I could awake with that knowledge every morning. There seems to be so much trouble taken that one can hardly see the good of!" There was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as she spoke these last words. But she presently added, more cheerfully, "Pray come to Lowick and tell us more of this. I will mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon. I must hasten home now." She did mention it that evening, and said that she should like to subscribe two hundred a-year--she had seven hundred a-year as the equivalent of her own fortune, settled on her at her marriage. Mr. Casaubon made no objection beyond a passing remark that the sum might be disproportionate in relation to other good objects, but when Dorothea in her ignorance resisted that suggestion, he acquiesced. He did not care himself about spending money, and was not reluctant to give it. If he ever felt keenly any question of money it was through the medium of another passion than the love of material property. Dorothea told him that she had seen Lydgate, and recited the gist of her conversation with him about the Hospital. Mr. Casaubon did not question her further, but he felt sure that she had wished to know what had passed between Lydgate and himself "She knows that I know," said the ever-restless voice within; but that increase of tacit knowledge only thrust further off any confidence between them. He distrusted her affection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 47, utilizing the provided context.

So far Will has tried to content himself with friends and activities far away from Dorothea. Now he begins to chafe at the separation from her and the tyranny of her hated husband. As a result, he decides to attend Lowick Church on Sunday morning sure of seeing the Casaubons there. He has none of the dishonest intentions of which Casaubon suspects him, but longs just to see her. Believing that she lives like a prisoner at Lowick, he feels his sympathy and support was necessary to her. At the church, he finds himself alone in the pew of some friends who are absent. Dorothea sees him and bows formally. Casaubon presides over the prayers and ignores him throughout. They both leave for their home. Will is crushed.

----------CHAPTER 47--------- Was never true love loved in vain, For truest love is highest gain. No art can make it: it must spring Where elements are fostering. So in heaven's spot and hour Springs the little native flower, Downward root and upward eye, Shapen by the earth and sky. It happened to be on a Saturday evening that Will Ladislaw had that little discussion with Lydgate. Its effect when he went to his own rooms was to make him sit up half the night, thinking over again, under a new irritation, all that he had before thought of his having settled in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Brooke. Hesitations before he had taken the step had since turned into susceptibility to every hint that he would have been wiser not to take it; and hence came his heat towards Lydgate--a heat which still kept him restless. Was he not making a fool of himself?--and at a time when he was more than ever conscious of being something better than a fool? And for what end? Well, for no definite end. True, he had dreamy visions of possibilities: there is no human being who having both passions and thoughts does not think in consequence of his passions--does not find images rising in his mind which soothe the passion with hope or sting it with dread. But this, which happens to us all, happens to some with a wide difference; and Will was not one of those whose wit "keeps the roadway:" he had his bypaths where there were little joys of his own choosing, such as gentlemen cantering on the highroad might have thought rather idiotic. The way in which he made a sort of happiness for himself out of his feeling for Dorothea was an example of this. It may seem strange, but it is the fact, that the ordinary vulgar vision of which Mr. Casaubon suspected him--namely, that Dorothea might become a widow, and that the interest he had established in her mind might turn into acceptance of him as a husband--had no tempting, arresting power over him; he did not live in the scenery of such an event, and follow it out, as we all do with that imagined "otherwise" which is our practical heaven. It was not only that he was unwilling to entertain thoughts which could be accused of baseness, and was already uneasy in the sense that he had to justify himself from the charge of ingratitude--the latent consciousness of many other barriers between himself and Dorothea besides the existence of her husband, had helped to turn away his imagination from speculating on what might befall Mr. Casaubon. And there were yet other reasons. Will, we know, could not bear the thought of any flaw appearing in his crystal: he was at once exasperated and delighted by the calm freedom with which Dorothea looked at him and spoke to him, and there was something so exquisite in thinking of her just as she was, that he could not long for a change which must somehow change her. Do we not shun the street version of a fine melody?--or shrink from the news that the rarity--some bit of chiselling or engraving perhaps--which we have dwelt on even with exultation in the trouble it has cost us to snatch glimpses of it, is really not an uncommon thing, and may be obtained as an every-day possession? Our good depends on the quality and breadth of our emotion; and to Will, a creature who cared little for what are called the solid things of life and greatly for its subtler influences, to have within him such a feeling as he had towards Dorothea, was like the inheritance of a fortune. What others might have called the futility of his passion, made an additional delight for his imagination: he was conscious of a generous movement, and of verifying in his own experience that higher love-poetry which had charmed his fancy. Dorothea, he said to himself, was forever enthroned in his soul: no other woman could sit higher than her footstool; and if he could have written out in immortal syllables the effect she wrought within him, he might have boasted after the example of old Drayton, that,-- "Queens hereafter might be glad to live Upon the alms of her superfluous praise." But this result was questionable. And what else could he do for Dorothea? What was his devotion worth to her? It was impossible to tell. He would not go out of her reach. He saw no creature among her friends to whom he could believe that she spoke with the same simple confidence as to him. She had once said that she would like him to stay; and stay he would, whatever fire-breathing dragons might hiss around her. This had always been the conclusion of Will's hesitations. But he was not without contradictoriness and rebellion even towards his own resolve. He had often got irritated, as he was on this particular night, by some outside demonstration that his public exertions with Mr. Brooke as a chief could not seem as heroic as he would like them to be, and this was always associated with the other ground of irritation--that notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea's sake, he could hardly ever see her. Whereupon, not being able to contradict these unpleasant facts, he contradicted his own strongest bias and said, "I am a fool." Nevertheless, since the inward debate necessarily turned on Dorothea, he ended, as he had done before, only by getting a livelier sense of what her presence would be to him; and suddenly reflecting that the morrow would be Sunday, he determined to go to Lowick Church and see her. He slept upon that idea, but when he was dressing in the rational morning light, Objection said-- "That will be a virtual defiance of Mr. Casaubon's prohibition to visit Lowick, and Dorothea will be displeased." "Nonsense!" argued Inclination, "it would be too monstrous for him to hinder me from going out to a pretty country church on a spring morning. And Dorothea will be glad." "It will be clear to Mr. Casaubon that you have come either to annoy him or to see Dorothea." "It is not true that I go to annoy him, and why should I not go to see Dorothea? Is he to have everything to himself and be always comfortable? Let him smart a little, as other people are obliged to do. I have always liked the quaintness of the church and congregation; besides, I know the Tuckers: I shall go into their pew." Having silenced Objection by force of unreason, Will walked to Lowick as if he had been on the way to Paradise, crossing Halsell Common and skirting the wood, where the sunlight fell broadly under the budding boughs, bringing out the beauties of moss and lichen, and fresh green growths piercing the brown. Everything seemed to know that it was Sunday, and to approve of his going to Lowick Church. Will easily felt happy when nothing crossed his humor, and by this time the thought of vexing Mr. Casaubon had become rather amusing to him, making his face break into its merry smile, pleasant to see as the breaking of sunshine on the water--though the occasion was not exemplary. But most of us are apt to settle within ourselves that the man who blocks our way is odious, and not to mind causing him a little of the disgust which his personality excites in ourselves. Will went along with a small book under his arm and a hand in each side-pocket, never reading, but chanting a little, as he made scenes of what would happen in church and coming out. He was experimenting in tunes to suit some words of his own, sometimes trying a ready-made melody, sometimes improvising. The words were not exactly a hymn, but they certainly fitted his Sunday experience:-- "O me, O me, what frugal cheer My love doth feed upon! A touch, a ray, that is not here, A shadow that is gone: "A dream of breath that might be near, An inly-echoed tone, The thought that one may think me dear, The place where one was known, "The tremor of a banished fear, An ill that was not done-- O me, O me, what frugal cheer My love doth feed upon!" Sometimes, when he took off his hat, shaking his head backward, and showing his delicate throat as he sang, he looked like an incarnation of the spring whose spirit filled the air--a bright creature, abundant in uncertain promises. The bells were still ringing when he got to Lowick, and he went into the curate's pew before any one else arrived there. But he was still left alone in it when the congregation had assembled. The curate's pew was opposite the rector's at the entrance of the small chancel, and Will had time to fear that Dorothea might not come while he looked round at the group of rural faces which made the congregation from year to year within the white-washed walls and dark old pews, hardly with more change than we see in the boughs of a tree which breaks here and there with age, but yet has young shoots. Mr. Rigg's frog-face was something alien and unaccountable, but notwithstanding this shock to the order of things, there were still the Waules and the rural stock of the Powderells in their pews side by side; brother Samuel's cheek had the same purple round as ever, and the three generations of decent cottagers came as of old with a sense of duty to their betters generally--the smaller children regarding Mr. Casaubon, who wore the black gown and mounted to the highest box, as probably the chief of all betters, and the one most awful if offended. Even in 1831 Lowick was at peace, not more agitated by Reform than by the solemn tenor of the Sunday sermon. The congregation had been used to seeing Will at church in former days, and no one took much note of him except the choir, who expected him to make a figure in the singing. Dorothea did at last appear on this quaint background, walking up the short aisle in her white beaver bonnet and gray cloak--the same she had worn in the Vatican. Her face being, from her entrance, towards the chancel, even her shortsighted eyes soon discerned Will, but there was no outward show of her feeling except a slight paleness and a grave bow as she passed him. To his own surprise Will felt suddenly uncomfortable, and dared not look at her after they had bowed to each other. Two minutes later, when Mr. Casaubon came out of the vestry, and, entering the pew, seated himself in face of Dorothea, Will felt his paralysis more complete. He could look nowhere except at the choir in the little gallery over the vestry-door: Dorothea was perhaps pained, and he had made a wretched blunder. It was no longer amusing to vex Mr. Casaubon, who had the advantage probably of watching him and seeing that he dared not turn his head. Why had he not imagined this beforehand?--but he could not expect that he should sit in that square pew alone, unrelieved by any Tuckers, who had apparently departed from Lowick altogether, for a new clergyman was in the desk. Still he called himself stupid now for not foreseeing that it would be impossible for him to look towards Dorothea--nay, that she might feel his coming an impertinence. There was no delivering himself from his cage, however; and Will found his places and looked at his book as if he had been a school-mistress, feeling that the morning service had never been so immeasurably long before, that he was utterly ridiculous, out of temper, and miserable. This was what a man got by worshipping the sight of a woman! The clerk observed with surprise that Mr. Ladislaw did not join in the tune of Hanover, and reflected that he might have a cold. Mr. Casaubon did not preach that morning, and there was no change in Will's situation until the blessing had been pronounced and every one rose. It was the fashion at Lowick for "the betters" to go out first. With a sudden determination to break the spell that was upon him, Will looked straight at Mr. Casaubon. But that gentleman's eyes were on the button of the pew-door, which he opened, allowing Dorothea to pass, and following her immediately without raising his eyelids. Will's glance had caught Dorothea's as she turned out of the pew, and again she bowed, but this time with a look of agitation, as if she were repressing tears. Will walked out after them, but they went on towards the little gate leading out of the churchyard into the shrubbery, never looking round. It was impossible for him to follow them, and he could only walk back sadly at mid-day along the same road which he had trodden hopefully in the morning. The lights were all changed for him both without and within. ----------CHAPTER 49--------- A task too strong for wizard spells This squire had brought about; 'T is easy dropping stones in wells, But who shall get them out?" "I wish to God we could hinder Dorothea from knowing this," said Sir James Chettam, with a little frown on his brow, and an expression of intense disgust about his mouth. He was standing on the hearth-rug in the library at Lowick Grange, and speaking to Mr. Brooke. It was the day after Mr. Casaubon had been buried, and Dorothea was not yet able to leave her room. "That would be difficult, you know, Chettam, as she is an executrix, and she likes to go into these things--property, land, that kind of thing. She has her notions, you know," said Mr. Brooke, sticking his eye-glasses on nervously, and exploring the edges of a folded paper which he held in his hand; "and she would like to act--depend upon it, as an executrix Dorothea would want to act. And she was twenty-one last December, you know. I can hinder nothing." Sir James looked at the carpet for a minute in silence, and then lifting his eyes suddenly fixed them on Mr. Brooke, saying, "I will tell you what we can do. Until Dorothea is well, all business must be kept from her, and as soon as she is able to be moved she must come to us. Being with Celia and the baby will be the best thing in the world for her, and will pass away the time. And meanwhile you must get rid of Ladislaw: you must send him out of the country." Here Sir James's look of disgust returned in all its intensity. Mr. Brooke put his hands behind him, walked to the window and straightened his back with a little shake before he replied. "That is easily said, Chettam, easily said, you know." "My dear sir," persisted Sir James, restraining his indignation within respectful forms, "it was you who brought him here, and you who keep him here--I mean by the occupation you give him." "Yes, but I can't dismiss him in an instant without assigning reasons, my dear Chettam. Ladislaw has been invaluable, most satisfactory. I consider that I have done this part of the country a service by bringing him--by bringing him, you know." Mr. Brooke ended with a nod, turning round to give it. "It's a pity this part of the country didn't do without him, that's all I have to say about it. At any rate, as Dorothea's brother-in-law, I feel warranted in objecting strongly to his being kept here by any action on the part of her friends. You admit, I hope, that I have a right to speak about what concerns the dignity of my wife's sister?" Sir James was getting warm. "Of course, my dear Chettam, of course. But you and I have different ideas--different--" "Not about this action of Casaubon's, I should hope," interrupted Sir James. "I say that he has most unfairly compromised Dorothea. I say that there never was a meaner, more ungentlemanly action than this--a codicil of this sort to a will which he made at the time of his marriage with the knowledge and reliance of her family--a positive insult to Dorothea!" "Well, you know, Casaubon was a little twisted about Ladislaw. Ladislaw has told me the reason--dislike of the bent he took, you know--Ladislaw didn't think much of Casaubon's notions, Thoth and Dagon--that sort of thing: and I fancy that Casaubon didn't like the independent position Ladislaw had taken up. I saw the letters between them, you know. Poor Casaubon was a little buried in books--he didn't know the world." "It's all very well for Ladislaw to put that color on it," said Sir James. "But I believe Casaubon was only jealous of him on Dorothea's account, and the world will suppose that she gave him some reason; and that is what makes it so abominable--coupling her name with this young fellow's." "My dear Chettam, it won't lead to anything, you know," said Mr. Brooke, seating himself and sticking on his eye-glass again. "It's all of a piece with Casaubon's oddity. This paper, now, 'Synoptical Tabulation' and so on, 'for the use of Mrs. Casaubon,' it was locked up in the desk with the will. I suppose he meant Dorothea to publish his researches, eh? and she'll do it, you know; she has gone into his studies uncommonly." "My dear sir," said Sir James, impatiently, "that is neither here nor there. The question is, whether you don't see with me the propriety of sending young Ladislaw away?" "Well, no, not the urgency of the thing. By-and-by, perhaps, it may come round. As to gossip, you know, sending him away won't hinder gossip. People say what they like to say, not what they have chapter and verse for," said Mr Brooke, becoming acute about the truths that lay on the side of his own wishes. "I might get rid of Ladislaw up to a certain point--take away the 'Pioneer' from him, and that sort of thing; but I couldn't send him out of the country if he didn't choose to go--didn't choose, you know." Mr. Brooke, persisting as quietly as if he were only discussing the nature of last year's weather, and nodding at the end with his usual amenity, was an exasperating form of obstinacy. "Good God!" said Sir James, with as much passion as he ever showed, "let us get him a post; let us spend money on him. If he could go in the suite of some Colonial Governor! Grampus might take him--and I could write to Fulke about it." "But Ladislaw won't be shipped off like a head of cattle, my dear fellow; Ladislaw has his ideas. It's my opinion that if he were to part from me to-morrow, you'd only hear the more of him in the country. With his talent for speaking and drawing up documents, there are few men who could come up to him as an agitator--an agitator, you know." "Agitator!" said Sir James, with bitter emphasis, feeling that the syllables of this word properly repeated were a sufficient exposure of its hatefulness. "But be reasonable, Chettam. Dorothea, now. As you say, she had better go to Celia as soon as possible. She can stay under your roof, and in the mean time things may come round quietly. Don't let us be firing off our guns in a hurry, you know. Standish will keep our counsel, and the news will be old before it's known. Twenty things may happen to carry off Ladislaw--without my doing anything, you know." "Then I am to conclude that you decline to do anything?" "Decline, Chettam?--no--I didn't say decline. But I really don't see what I could do. Ladislaw is a gentleman." "I am glad to hear it!" said Sir James, his irritation making him forget himself a little. "I am sure Casaubon was not." "Well, it would have been worse if he had made the codicil to hinder her from marrying again at all, you know." "I don't know that," said Sir James. "It would have been less indelicate." "One of poor Casaubon's freaks! That attack upset his brain a little. It all goes for nothing. She doesn't _want_ to marry Ladislaw." "But this codicil is framed so as to make everybody believe that she did. I don't believe anything of the sort about Dorothea," said Sir James--then frowningly, "but I suspect Ladislaw. I tell you frankly, I suspect Ladislaw." "I couldn't take any immediate action on that ground, Chettam. In fact, if it were possible to pack him off--send him to Norfolk Island--that sort of thing--it would look all the worse for Dorothea to those who knew about it. It would seem as if we distrusted her--distrusted her, you know." That Mr. Brooke had hit on an undeniable argument, did not tend to soothe Sir James. He put out his hand to reach his hat, implying that he did not mean to contend further, and said, still with some heat-- "Well, I can only say that I think Dorothea was sacrificed once, because her friends were too careless. I shall do what I can, as her brother, to protect her now." "You can't do better than get her to Freshitt as soon as possible, Chettam. I approve that plan altogether," said Mr. Brooke, well pleased that he had won the argument. It would have been highly inconvenient to him to part with Ladislaw at that time, when a dissolution might happen any day, and electors were to be convinced of the course by which the interests of the country would be best served. Mr. Brooke sincerely believed that this end could be secured by his own return to Parliament: he offered the forces of his mind honestly to the nation.

Middlemarch.book 6.chapte

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for book 6, chapter 59 based on the provided context.

book 6, chapter 55|book 6, chapter 59

The gossip about how Mr. Casaubon's will made it impossible for Dorothea to marry Will Ladislaw without giving up her property eventually makes its way to Rosamond. Lydgate warns her never to mention it to Will, but she ignores his advice as usual. She flirtingly mentions it to Will the next time they're alone. He's immediately angry and upset, especially because of her careless flirtatiousness. He grabs his hat and leaves. Rosamond feels vaguely jealous. She wants everyone to be in love with her, and doesn't like that she's not the center of Will's universe. It wasn't the first time she'd gone against her husband's wishes that day - she had gone to her father to ask for money that morning, and he'd said no way. She's also depressed that Lydgate's rich relatives haven't written to her.

----------BOOK 6, CHAPTER 55--------- Hath she her faults? I would you had them too. They are the fruity must of soundest wine; Or say, they are regenerating fire Such as hath turned the dense black element Into a crystal pathway for the sun. If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that our elders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to think its emotions, partings, and resolves are the last of their kind. Each crisis seems final, simply because it is new. We are told that the oldest inhabitants in Peru do not cease to be agitated by the earthquakes, but they probably see beyond each shock, and reflect that there are plenty more to come. To Dorothea, still in that time of youth when the eyes with their long full lashes look out after their rain of tears unsoiled and unwearied as a freshly opened passion-flower, that morning's parting with Will Ladislaw seemed to be the close of their personal relations. He was going away into the distance of unknown years, and if ever he came back he would be another man. The actual state of his mind--his proud resolve to give the lie beforehand to any suspicion that he would play the needy adventurer seeking a rich woman--lay quite out of her imagination, and she had interpreted all his behavior easily enough by her supposition that Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to him, as it did to her, a gross and cruel interdict on any active friendship between them. Their young delight in speaking to each other, and saying what no one else would care to hear, was forever ended, and become a treasure of the past. For this very reason she dwelt on it without inward check. That unique happiness too was dead, and in its shadowed silent chamber she might vent the passionate grief which she herself wondered at. For the first time she took down the miniature from the wall and kept it before her, liking to blend the woman who had been too hardly judged with the grandson whom her own heart and judgment defended. Can any one who has rejoiced in woman's tenderness think it a reproach to her that she took the little oval picture in her palm and made a bed for it there, and leaned her cheek upon it, as if that would soothe the creatures who had suffered unjust condemnation? She did not know then that it was Love who had come to her briefly, as in a dream before awaking, with the hues of morning on his wings--that it was Love to whom she was sobbing her farewell as his image was banished by the blameless rigor of irresistible day. She only felt that there was something irrevocably amiss and lost in her lot, and her thoughts about the future were the more readily shapen into resolve. Ardent souls, ready to construct their coming lives, are apt to commit themselves to the fulfilment of their own visions. One day that she went to Freshitt to fulfil her promise of staying all night and seeing baby washed, Mrs. Cadwallader came to dine, the Rector being gone on a fishing excursion. It was a warm evening, and even in the delightful drawing-room, where the fine old turf sloped from the open window towards a lilied pool and well-planted mounds, the heat was enough to make Celia in her white muslin and light curls reflect with pity on what Dodo must feel in her black dress and close cap. But this was not until some episodes with baby were over, and had left her mind at leisure. She had seated herself and taken up a fan for some time before she said, in her quiet guttural-- "Dear Dodo, do throw off that cap. I am sure your dress must make you feel ill." "I am so used to the cap--it has become a sort of shell," said Dorothea, smiling. "I feel rather bare and exposed when it is off." "I must see you without it; it makes us all warm," said Celia, throwing down her fan, and going to Dorothea. It was a pretty picture to see this little lady in white muslin unfastening the widow's cap from her more majestic sister, and tossing it on to a chair. Just as the coils and braids of dark-brown hair had been set free, Sir James entered the room. He looked at the released head, and said, "Ah!" in a tone of satisfaction. "It was I who did it, James," said Celia. "Dodo need not make such a slavery of her mourning; she need not wear that cap any more among her friends." "My dear Celia," said Lady Chettam, "a widow must wear her mourning at least a year." "Not if she marries again before the end of it," said Mrs. Cadwallader, who had some pleasure in startling her good friend the Dowager. Sir James was annoyed, and leaned forward to play with Celia's Maltese dog. "That is very rare, I hope," said Lady Chettam, in a tone intended to guard against such events. "No friend of ours ever committed herself in that way except Mrs. Beevor, and it was very painful to Lord Grinsell when she did so. Her first husband was objectionable, which made it the greater wonder. And severely she was punished for it. They said Captain Beevor dragged her about by the hair, and held up loaded pistols at her." "Oh, if she took the wrong man!" said Mrs. Cadwallader, who was in a decidedly wicked mood. "Marriage is always bad then, first or second. Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other. I would rather have a good second husband than an indifferent first." "My dear, your clever tongue runs away with you," said Lady Chettam. "I am sure you would be the last woman to marry again prematurely, if our dear Rector were taken away." "Oh, I make no vows; it might be a necessary economy. It is lawful to marry again, I suppose; else we might as well be Hindoos instead of Christians. Of course if a woman accepts the wrong man, she must take the consequences, and one who does it twice over deserves her fate. But if she can marry blood, beauty, and bravery--the sooner the better." "I think the subject of our conversation is very ill-chosen," said Sir James, with a look of disgust. "Suppose we change it." "Not on my account, Sir James," said Dorothea, determined not to lose the opportunity of freeing herself from certain oblique references to excellent matches. "If you are speaking on my behalf, I can assure you that no question can be more indifferent and impersonal to me than second marriage. It is no more to me than if you talked of women going fox-hunting: whether it is admirable in them or not, I shall not follow them. Pray let Mrs. Cadwallader amuse herself on that subject as much as on any other." "My dear Mrs. Casaubon," said Lady Chettam, in her stateliest way, "you do not, I hope, think there was any allusion to you in my mentioning Mrs. Beevor. It was only an instance that occurred to me. She was step-daughter to Lord Grinsell: he married Mrs. Teveroy for his second wife. There could be no possible allusion to you." "Oh no," said Celia. "Nobody chose the subject; it all came out of Dodo's cap. Mrs. Cadwallader only said what was quite true. A woman could not be married in a widow's cap, James." "Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "I will not offend again. I will not even refer to Dido or Zenobia. Only what are we to talk about? I, for my part, object to the discussion of Human Nature, because that is the nature of rectors' wives." Later in the evening, after Mrs. Cadwallader was gone, Celia said privately to Dorothea, "Really, Dodo, taking your cap off made you like yourself again in more ways than one. You spoke up just as you used to do, when anything was said to displease you. But I could hardly make out whether it was James that you thought wrong, or Mrs. Cadwallader." "Neither," said Dorothea. "James spoke out of delicacy to me, but he was mistaken in supposing that I minded what Mrs. Cadwallader said. I should only mind if there were a law obliging me to take any piece of blood and beauty that she or anybody else recommended." "But you know, Dodo, if you ever did marry, it would be all the better to have blood and beauty," said Celia, reflecting that Mr. Casaubon had not been richly endowed with those gifts, and that it would be well to caution Dorothea in time. "Don't be anxious, Kitty; I have quite other thoughts about my life. I shall never marry again," said Dorothea, touching her sister's chin, and looking at her with indulgent affection. Celia was nursing her baby, and Dorothea had come to say good-night to her. "Really--quite?" said Celia. "Not anybody at all--if he were very wonderful indeed?" Dorothea shook her head slowly. "Not anybody at all. I have delightful plans. I should like to take a great deal of land, and drain it, and make a little colony, where everybody should work, and all the work should be done well. I should know every one of the people and be their friend. I am going to have great consultations with Mr. Garth: he can tell me almost everything I want to know." "Then you _will_ be happy, if you have a plan, Dodo?" said Celia. "Perhaps little Arthur will like plans when he grows up, and then he can help you." Sir James was informed that same night that Dorothea was really quite set against marrying anybody at all, and was going to take to "all sorts of plans," just like what she used to have. Sir James made no remark. To his secret feeling there was something repulsive in a woman's second marriage, and no match would prevent him from feeling it a sort of desecration for Dorothea. He was aware that the world would regard such a sentiment as preposterous, especially in relation to a woman of one-and-twenty; the practice of "the world" being to treat of a young widow's second marriage as certain and probably near, and to smile with meaning if the widow acts accordingly. But if Dorothea did choose to espouse her solitude, he felt that the resolution would well become her. ----------BOOK 6, CHAPTER 55--------- Hath she her faults? I would you had them too. They are the fruity must of soundest wine; Or say, they are regenerating fire Such as hath turned the dense black element Into a crystal pathway for the sun. If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that our elders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to think its emotions, partings, and resolves are the last of their kind. Each crisis seems final, simply because it is new. We are told that the oldest inhabitants in Peru do not cease to be agitated by the earthquakes, but they probably see beyond each shock, and reflect that there are plenty more to come. To Dorothea, still in that time of youth when the eyes with their long full lashes look out after their rain of tears unsoiled and unwearied as a freshly opened passion-flower, that morning's parting with Will Ladislaw seemed to be the close of their personal relations. He was going away into the distance of unknown years, and if ever he came back he would be another man. The actual state of his mind--his proud resolve to give the lie beforehand to any suspicion that he would play the needy adventurer seeking a rich woman--lay quite out of her imagination, and she had interpreted all his behavior easily enough by her supposition that Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to him, as it did to her, a gross and cruel interdict on any active friendship between them. Their young delight in speaking to each other, and saying what no one else would care to hear, was forever ended, and become a treasure of the past. For this very reason she dwelt on it without inward check. That unique happiness too was dead, and in its shadowed silent chamber she might vent the passionate grief which she herself wondered at. For the first time she took down the miniature from the wall and kept it before her, liking to blend the woman who had been too hardly judged with the grandson whom her own heart and judgment defended. Can any one who has rejoiced in woman's tenderness think it a reproach to her that she took the little oval picture in her palm and made a bed for it there, and leaned her cheek upon it, as if that would soothe the creatures who had suffered unjust condemnation? She did not know then that it was Love who had come to her briefly, as in a dream before awaking, with the hues of morning on his wings--that it was Love to whom she was sobbing her farewell as his image was banished by the blameless rigor of irresistible day. She only felt that there was something irrevocably amiss and lost in her lot, and her thoughts about the future were the more readily shapen into resolve. Ardent souls, ready to construct their coming lives, are apt to commit themselves to the fulfilment of their own visions. One day that she went to Freshitt to fulfil her promise of staying all night and seeing baby washed, Mrs. Cadwallader came to dine, the Rector being gone on a fishing excursion. It was a warm evening, and even in the delightful drawing-room, where the fine old turf sloped from the open window towards a lilied pool and well-planted mounds, the heat was enough to make Celia in her white muslin and light curls reflect with pity on what Dodo must feel in her black dress and close cap. But this was not until some episodes with baby were over, and had left her mind at leisure. She had seated herself and taken up a fan for some time before she said, in her quiet guttural-- "Dear Dodo, do throw off that cap. I am sure your dress must make you feel ill." "I am so used to the cap--it has become a sort of shell," said Dorothea, smiling. "I feel rather bare and exposed when it is off." "I must see you without it; it makes us all warm," said Celia, throwing down her fan, and going to Dorothea. It was a pretty picture to see this little lady in white muslin unfastening the widow's cap from her more majestic sister, and tossing it on to a chair. Just as the coils and braids of dark-brown hair had been set free, Sir James entered the room. He looked at the released head, and said, "Ah!" in a tone of satisfaction. "It was I who did it, James," said Celia. "Dodo need not make such a slavery of her mourning; she need not wear that cap any more among her friends." "My dear Celia," said Lady Chettam, "a widow must wear her mourning at least a year." "Not if she marries again before the end of it," said Mrs. Cadwallader, who had some pleasure in startling her good friend the Dowager. Sir James was annoyed, and leaned forward to play with Celia's Maltese dog. "That is very rare, I hope," said Lady Chettam, in a tone intended to guard against such events. "No friend of ours ever committed herself in that way except Mrs. Beevor, and it was very painful to Lord Grinsell when she did so. Her first husband was objectionable, which made it the greater wonder. And severely she was punished for it. They said Captain Beevor dragged her about by the hair, and held up loaded pistols at her." "Oh, if she took the wrong man!" said Mrs. Cadwallader, who was in a decidedly wicked mood. "Marriage is always bad then, first or second. Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other. I would rather have a good second husband than an indifferent first." "My dear, your clever tongue runs away with you," said Lady Chettam. "I am sure you would be the last woman to marry again prematurely, if our dear Rector were taken away." "Oh, I make no vows; it might be a necessary economy. It is lawful to marry again, I suppose; else we might as well be Hindoos instead of Christians. Of course if a woman accepts the wrong man, she must take the consequences, and one who does it twice over deserves her fate. But if she can marry blood, beauty, and bravery--the sooner the better." "I think the subject of our conversation is very ill-chosen," said Sir James, with a look of disgust. "Suppose we change it." "Not on my account, Sir James," said Dorothea, determined not to lose the opportunity of freeing herself from certain oblique references to excellent matches. "If you are speaking on my behalf, I can assure you that no question can be more indifferent and impersonal to me than second marriage. It is no more to me than if you talked of women going fox-hunting: whether it is admirable in them or not, I shall not follow them. Pray let Mrs. Cadwallader amuse herself on that subject as much as on any other." "My dear Mrs. Casaubon," said Lady Chettam, in her stateliest way, "you do not, I hope, think there was any allusion to you in my mentioning Mrs. Beevor. It was only an instance that occurred to me. She was step-daughter to Lord Grinsell: he married Mrs. Teveroy for his second wife. There could be no possible allusion to you." "Oh no," said Celia. "Nobody chose the subject; it all came out of Dodo's cap. Mrs. Cadwallader only said what was quite true. A woman could not be married in a widow's cap, James." "Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "I will not offend again. I will not even refer to Dido or Zenobia. Only what are we to talk about? I, for my part, object to the discussion of Human Nature, because that is the nature of rectors' wives." Later in the evening, after Mrs. Cadwallader was gone, Celia said privately to Dorothea, "Really, Dodo, taking your cap off made you like yourself again in more ways than one. You spoke up just as you used to do, when anything was said to displease you. But I could hardly make out whether it was James that you thought wrong, or Mrs. Cadwallader." "Neither," said Dorothea. "James spoke out of delicacy to me, but he was mistaken in supposing that I minded what Mrs. Cadwallader said. I should only mind if there were a law obliging me to take any piece of blood and beauty that she or anybody else recommended." "But you know, Dodo, if you ever did marry, it would be all the better to have blood and beauty," said Celia, reflecting that Mr. Casaubon had not been richly endowed with those gifts, and that it would be well to caution Dorothea in time. "Don't be anxious, Kitty; I have quite other thoughts about my life. I shall never marry again," said Dorothea, touching her sister's chin, and looking at her with indulgent affection. Celia was nursing her baby, and Dorothea had come to say good-night to her. "Really--quite?" said Celia. "Not anybody at all--if he were very wonderful indeed?" Dorothea shook her head slowly. "Not anybody at all. I have delightful plans. I should like to take a great deal of land, and drain it, and make a little colony, where everybody should work, and all the work should be done well. I should know every one of the people and be their friend. I am going to have great consultations with Mr. Garth: he can tell me almost everything I want to know." "Then you _will_ be happy, if you have a plan, Dodo?" said Celia. "Perhaps little Arthur will like plans when he grows up, and then he can help you." Sir James was informed that same night that Dorothea was really quite set against marrying anybody at all, and was going to take to "all sorts of plans," just like what she used to have. Sir James made no remark. To his secret feeling there was something repulsive in a woman's second marriage, and no match would prevent him from feeling it a sort of desecration for Dorothea. He was aware that the world would regard such a sentiment as preposterous, especially in relation to a woman of one-and-twenty; the practice of "the world" being to treat of a young widow's second marriage as certain and probably near, and to smile with meaning if the widow acts accordingly. But if Dorothea did choose to espouse her solitude, he felt that the resolution would well become her. ----------BOOK 6, CHAPTER 59--------- They said of old the Soul had human shape, But smaller, subtler than the fleshly self, So wandered forth for airing when it pleased. And see! beside her cherub-face there floats A pale-lipped form aerial whispering Its promptings in that little shell her ear." News is often dispersed as thoughtlessly and effectively as that pollen which the bees carry off (having no idea how powdery they are) when they are buzzing in search of their particular nectar. This fine comparison has reference to Fred Vincy, who on that evening at Lowick Parsonage heard a lively discussion among the ladies on the news which their old servant had got from Tantripp concerning Mr. Casaubon's strange mention of Mr. Ladislaw in a codicil to his will made not long before his death. Miss Winifred was astounded to find that her brother had known the fact before, and observed that Camden was the most wonderful man for knowing things and not telling them; whereupon Mary Garth said that the codicil had perhaps got mixed up with the habits of spiders, which Miss Winifred never would listen to. Mrs. Farebrother considered that the news had something to do with their having only once seen Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick, and Miss Noble made many small compassionate mewings. Fred knew little and cared less about Ladislaw and the Casaubons, and his mind never recurred to that discussion till one day calling on Rosamond at his mother's request to deliver a message as he passed, he happened to see Ladislaw going away. Fred and Rosamond had little to say to each other now that marriage had removed her from collision with the unpleasantness of brothers, and especially now that he had taken what she held the stupid and even reprehensible step of giving up the Church to take to such a business as Mr. Garth's. Hence Fred talked by preference of what he considered indifferent news, and "a propos of that young Ladislaw" mentioned what he had heard at Lowick Parsonage. Now Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, knew a great deal more than he told, and when he had once been set thinking about the relation between Will and Dorothea his conjectures had gone beyond the fact. He imagined that there was a passionate attachment on both sides, and this struck him as much too serious to gossip about. He remembered Will's irritability when he had mentioned Mrs. Casaubon, and was the more circumspect. On the whole his surmises, in addition to what he knew of the fact, increased his friendliness and tolerance towards Ladislaw, and made him understand the vacillation which kept him at Middlemarch after he had said that he should go away. It was significant of the separateness between Lydgate's mind and Rosamond's that he had no impulse to speak to her on the subject; indeed, he did not quite trust her reticence towards Will. And he was right there; though he had no vision of the way in which her mind would act in urging her to speak. When she repeated Fred's news to Lydgate, he said, "Take care you don't drop the faintest hint to Ladislaw, Rosy. He is likely to fly out as if you insulted him. Of course it is a painful affair." Rosamond turned her neck and patted her hair, looking the image of placid indifference. But the next time Will came when Lydgate was away, she spoke archly about his not going to London as he had threatened. "I know all about it. I have a confidential little bird," said she, showing very pretty airs of her head over the bit of work held high between her active fingers. "There is a powerful magnet in this neighborhood." "To be sure there is. Nobody knows that better than you," said Will, with light gallantry, but inwardly prepared to be angry. "It is really the most charming romance: Mr. Casaubon jealous, and foreseeing that there was no one else whom Mrs. Casaubon would so much like to marry, and no one who would so much like to marry her as a certain gentleman; and then laying a plan to spoil all by making her forfeit her property if she did marry that gentleman--and then--and then--and then--oh, I have no doubt the end will be thoroughly romantic." "Great God! what do you mean?" said Will, flushing over face and ears, his features seeming to change as if he had had a violent shake. "Don't joke; tell me what you mean." "You don't really know?" said Rosamond, no longer playful, and desiring nothing better than to tell in order that she might evoke effects. "No!" he returned, impatiently. "Don't know that Mr. Casaubon has left it in his will that if Mrs. Casaubon marries you she is to forfeit all her property?" "How do you know that it is true?" said Will, eagerly. "My brother Fred heard it from the Farebrothers." Will started up from his chair and reached his hat. "I dare say she likes you better than the property," said Rosamond, looking at him from a distance. "Pray don't say any more about it," said Will, in a hoarse undertone extremely unlike his usual light voice. "It is a foul insult to her and to me." Then he sat down absently, looking before him, but seeing nothing. "Now you are angry with _me_," said Rosamond. "It is too bad to bear _me_ malice. You ought to be obliged to me for telling you." "So I am," said Will, abruptly, speaking with that kind of double soul which belongs to dreamers who answer questions. "I expect to hear of the marriage," said Rosamond, playfully. "Never! You will never hear of the marriage!" With those words uttered impetuously, Will rose, put out his hand to Rosamond, still with the air of a somnambulist, and went away. When he was gone, Rosamond left her chair and walked to the other end of the room, leaning when she got there against a chiffonniere, and looking out of the window wearily. She was oppressed by ennui, and by that dissatisfaction which in women's minds is continually turning into a trivial jealousy, referring to no real claims, springing from no deeper passion than the vague exactingness of egoism, and yet capable of impelling action as well as speech. "There really is nothing to care for much," said poor Rosamond inwardly, thinking of the family at Quallingham, who did not write to her; and that perhaps Tertius when he came home would tease her about expenses. She had already secretly disobeyed him by asking her father to help them, and he had ended decisively by saying, "I am more likely to want help myself."

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 59, utilizing the provided context.

Fred Vincy hears about the notorious will of Casaubon from the old ladies at Lowick parsonage. He carries the news to Rosamond. Although Lydgate has known about the will, he has kept silent so far. Now, he warns Rosamond against repeating the story to Ladislaw. But she cant resist the temptation to tease Will. Thus, he hears the momentous news for the first time as a frivolous piece of gossip from Rosamond. Will is stupefied and then furious. To Rosamonds comment, "I daresay she likes you better than the property," he replies with anger that it is a foul insult to both parties. He walks out in a temper, leaving Rosamond rather dejected.

----------CHAPTER 55--------- Hath she her faults? I would you had them too. They are the fruity must of soundest wine; Or say, they are regenerating fire Such as hath turned the dense black element Into a crystal pathway for the sun. If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that our elders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to think its emotions, partings, and resolves are the last of their kind. Each crisis seems final, simply because it is new. We are told that the oldest inhabitants in Peru do not cease to be agitated by the earthquakes, but they probably see beyond each shock, and reflect that there are plenty more to come. To Dorothea, still in that time of youth when the eyes with their long full lashes look out after their rain of tears unsoiled and unwearied as a freshly opened passion-flower, that morning's parting with Will Ladislaw seemed to be the close of their personal relations. He was going away into the distance of unknown years, and if ever he came back he would be another man. The actual state of his mind--his proud resolve to give the lie beforehand to any suspicion that he would play the needy adventurer seeking a rich woman--lay quite out of her imagination, and she had interpreted all his behavior easily enough by her supposition that Mr. Casaubon's codicil seemed to him, as it did to her, a gross and cruel interdict on any active friendship between them. Their young delight in speaking to each other, and saying what no one else would care to hear, was forever ended, and become a treasure of the past. For this very reason she dwelt on it without inward check. That unique happiness too was dead, and in its shadowed silent chamber she might vent the passionate grief which she herself wondered at. For the first time she took down the miniature from the wall and kept it before her, liking to blend the woman who had been too hardly judged with the grandson whom her own heart and judgment defended. Can any one who has rejoiced in woman's tenderness think it a reproach to her that she took the little oval picture in her palm and made a bed for it there, and leaned her cheek upon it, as if that would soothe the creatures who had suffered unjust condemnation? She did not know then that it was Love who had come to her briefly, as in a dream before awaking, with the hues of morning on his wings--that it was Love to whom she was sobbing her farewell as his image was banished by the blameless rigor of irresistible day. She only felt that there was something irrevocably amiss and lost in her lot, and her thoughts about the future were the more readily shapen into resolve. Ardent souls, ready to construct their coming lives, are apt to commit themselves to the fulfilment of their own visions. One day that she went to Freshitt to fulfil her promise of staying all night and seeing baby washed, Mrs. Cadwallader came to dine, the Rector being gone on a fishing excursion. It was a warm evening, and even in the delightful drawing-room, where the fine old turf sloped from the open window towards a lilied pool and well-planted mounds, the heat was enough to make Celia in her white muslin and light curls reflect with pity on what Dodo must feel in her black dress and close cap. But this was not until some episodes with baby were over, and had left her mind at leisure. She had seated herself and taken up a fan for some time before she said, in her quiet guttural-- "Dear Dodo, do throw off that cap. I am sure your dress must make you feel ill." "I am so used to the cap--it has become a sort of shell," said Dorothea, smiling. "I feel rather bare and exposed when it is off." "I must see you without it; it makes us all warm," said Celia, throwing down her fan, and going to Dorothea. It was a pretty picture to see this little lady in white muslin unfastening the widow's cap from her more majestic sister, and tossing it on to a chair. Just as the coils and braids of dark-brown hair had been set free, Sir James entered the room. He looked at the released head, and said, "Ah!" in a tone of satisfaction. "It was I who did it, James," said Celia. "Dodo need not make such a slavery of her mourning; she need not wear that cap any more among her friends." "My dear Celia," said Lady Chettam, "a widow must wear her mourning at least a year." "Not if she marries again before the end of it," said Mrs. Cadwallader, who had some pleasure in startling her good friend the Dowager. Sir James was annoyed, and leaned forward to play with Celia's Maltese dog. "That is very rare, I hope," said Lady Chettam, in a tone intended to guard against such events. "No friend of ours ever committed herself in that way except Mrs. Beevor, and it was very painful to Lord Grinsell when she did so. Her first husband was objectionable, which made it the greater wonder. And severely she was punished for it. They said Captain Beevor dragged her about by the hair, and held up loaded pistols at her." "Oh, if she took the wrong man!" said Mrs. Cadwallader, who was in a decidedly wicked mood. "Marriage is always bad then, first or second. Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other. I would rather have a good second husband than an indifferent first." "My dear, your clever tongue runs away with you," said Lady Chettam. "I am sure you would be the last woman to marry again prematurely, if our dear Rector were taken away." "Oh, I make no vows; it might be a necessary economy. It is lawful to marry again, I suppose; else we might as well be Hindoos instead of Christians. Of course if a woman accepts the wrong man, she must take the consequences, and one who does it twice over deserves her fate. But if she can marry blood, beauty, and bravery--the sooner the better." "I think the subject of our conversation is very ill-chosen," said Sir James, with a look of disgust. "Suppose we change it." "Not on my account, Sir James," said Dorothea, determined not to lose the opportunity of freeing herself from certain oblique references to excellent matches. "If you are speaking on my behalf, I can assure you that no question can be more indifferent and impersonal to me than second marriage. It is no more to me than if you talked of women going fox-hunting: whether it is admirable in them or not, I shall not follow them. Pray let Mrs. Cadwallader amuse herself on that subject as much as on any other." "My dear Mrs. Casaubon," said Lady Chettam, in her stateliest way, "you do not, I hope, think there was any allusion to you in my mentioning Mrs. Beevor. It was only an instance that occurred to me. She was step-daughter to Lord Grinsell: he married Mrs. Teveroy for his second wife. There could be no possible allusion to you." "Oh no," said Celia. "Nobody chose the subject; it all came out of Dodo's cap. Mrs. Cadwallader only said what was quite true. A woman could not be married in a widow's cap, James." "Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Cadwallader. "I will not offend again. I will not even refer to Dido or Zenobia. Only what are we to talk about? I, for my part, object to the discussion of Human Nature, because that is the nature of rectors' wives." Later in the evening, after Mrs. Cadwallader was gone, Celia said privately to Dorothea, "Really, Dodo, taking your cap off made you like yourself again in more ways than one. You spoke up just as you used to do, when anything was said to displease you. But I could hardly make out whether it was James that you thought wrong, or Mrs. Cadwallader." "Neither," said Dorothea. "James spoke out of delicacy to me, but he was mistaken in supposing that I minded what Mrs. Cadwallader said. I should only mind if there were a law obliging me to take any piece of blood and beauty that she or anybody else recommended." "But you know, Dodo, if you ever did marry, it would be all the better to have blood and beauty," said Celia, reflecting that Mr. Casaubon had not been richly endowed with those gifts, and that it would be well to caution Dorothea in time. "Don't be anxious, Kitty; I have quite other thoughts about my life. I shall never marry again," said Dorothea, touching her sister's chin, and looking at her with indulgent affection. Celia was nursing her baby, and Dorothea had come to say good-night to her. "Really--quite?" said Celia. "Not anybody at all--if he were very wonderful indeed?" Dorothea shook her head slowly. "Not anybody at all. I have delightful plans. I should like to take a great deal of land, and drain it, and make a little colony, where everybody should work, and all the work should be done well. I should know every one of the people and be their friend. I am going to have great consultations with Mr. Garth: he can tell me almost everything I want to know." "Then you _will_ be happy, if you have a plan, Dodo?" said Celia. "Perhaps little Arthur will like plans when he grows up, and then he can help you." Sir James was informed that same night that Dorothea was really quite set against marrying anybody at all, and was going to take to "all sorts of plans," just like what she used to have. Sir James made no remark. To his secret feeling there was something repulsive in a woman's second marriage, and no match would prevent him from feeling it a sort of desecration for Dorothea. He was aware that the world would regard such a sentiment as preposterous, especially in relation to a woman of one-and-twenty; the practice of "the world" being to treat of a young widow's second marriage as certain and probably near, and to smile with meaning if the widow acts accordingly. But if Dorothea did choose to espouse her solitude, he felt that the resolution would well become her. ----------CHAPTER 59--------- They said of old the Soul had human shape, But smaller, subtler than the fleshly self, So wandered forth for airing when it pleased. And see! beside her cherub-face there floats A pale-lipped form aerial whispering Its promptings in that little shell her ear." News is often dispersed as thoughtlessly and effectively as that pollen which the bees carry off (having no idea how powdery they are) when they are buzzing in search of their particular nectar. This fine comparison has reference to Fred Vincy, who on that evening at Lowick Parsonage heard a lively discussion among the ladies on the news which their old servant had got from Tantripp concerning Mr. Casaubon's strange mention of Mr. Ladislaw in a codicil to his will made not long before his death. Miss Winifred was astounded to find that her brother had known the fact before, and observed that Camden was the most wonderful man for knowing things and not telling them; whereupon Mary Garth said that the codicil had perhaps got mixed up with the habits of spiders, which Miss Winifred never would listen to. Mrs. Farebrother considered that the news had something to do with their having only once seen Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick, and Miss Noble made many small compassionate mewings. Fred knew little and cared less about Ladislaw and the Casaubons, and his mind never recurred to that discussion till one day calling on Rosamond at his mother's request to deliver a message as he passed, he happened to see Ladislaw going away. Fred and Rosamond had little to say to each other now that marriage had removed her from collision with the unpleasantness of brothers, and especially now that he had taken what she held the stupid and even reprehensible step of giving up the Church to take to such a business as Mr. Garth's. Hence Fred talked by preference of what he considered indifferent news, and "a propos of that young Ladislaw" mentioned what he had heard at Lowick Parsonage. Now Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, knew a great deal more than he told, and when he had once been set thinking about the relation between Will and Dorothea his conjectures had gone beyond the fact. He imagined that there was a passionate attachment on both sides, and this struck him as much too serious to gossip about. He remembered Will's irritability when he had mentioned Mrs. Casaubon, and was the more circumspect. On the whole his surmises, in addition to what he knew of the fact, increased his friendliness and tolerance towards Ladislaw, and made him understand the vacillation which kept him at Middlemarch after he had said that he should go away. It was significant of the separateness between Lydgate's mind and Rosamond's that he had no impulse to speak to her on the subject; indeed, he did not quite trust her reticence towards Will. And he was right there; though he had no vision of the way in which her mind would act in urging her to speak. When she repeated Fred's news to Lydgate, he said, "Take care you don't drop the faintest hint to Ladislaw, Rosy. He is likely to fly out as if you insulted him. Of course it is a painful affair." Rosamond turned her neck and patted her hair, looking the image of placid indifference. But the next time Will came when Lydgate was away, she spoke archly about his not going to London as he had threatened. "I know all about it. I have a confidential little bird," said she, showing very pretty airs of her head over the bit of work held high between her active fingers. "There is a powerful magnet in this neighborhood." "To be sure there is. Nobody knows that better than you," said Will, with light gallantry, but inwardly prepared to be angry. "It is really the most charming romance: Mr. Casaubon jealous, and foreseeing that there was no one else whom Mrs. Casaubon would so much like to marry, and no one who would so much like to marry her as a certain gentleman; and then laying a plan to spoil all by making her forfeit her property if she did marry that gentleman--and then--and then--and then--oh, I have no doubt the end will be thoroughly romantic." "Great God! what do you mean?" said Will, flushing over face and ears, his features seeming to change as if he had had a violent shake. "Don't joke; tell me what you mean." "You don't really know?" said Rosamond, no longer playful, and desiring nothing better than to tell in order that she might evoke effects. "No!" he returned, impatiently. "Don't know that Mr. Casaubon has left it in his will that if Mrs. Casaubon marries you she is to forfeit all her property?" "How do you know that it is true?" said Will, eagerly. "My brother Fred heard it from the Farebrothers." Will started up from his chair and reached his hat. "I dare say she likes you better than the property," said Rosamond, looking at him from a distance. "Pray don't say any more about it," said Will, in a hoarse undertone extremely unlike his usual light voice. "It is a foul insult to her and to me." Then he sat down absently, looking before him, but seeing nothing. "Now you are angry with _me_," said Rosamond. "It is too bad to bear _me_ malice. You ought to be obliged to me for telling you." "So I am," said Will, abruptly, speaking with that kind of double soul which belongs to dreamers who answer questions. "I expect to hear of the marriage," said Rosamond, playfully. "Never! You will never hear of the marriage!" With those words uttered impetuously, Will rose, put out his hand to Rosamond, still with the air of a somnambulist, and went away. When he was gone, Rosamond left her chair and walked to the other end of the room, leaning when she got there against a chiffonniere, and looking out of the window wearily. She was oppressed by ennui, and by that dissatisfaction which in women's minds is continually turning into a trivial jealousy, referring to no real claims, springing from no deeper passion than the vague exactingness of egoism, and yet capable of impelling action as well as speech. "There really is nothing to care for much," said poor Rosamond inwardly, thinking of the family at Quallingham, who did not write to her; and that perhaps Tertius when he came home would tease her about expenses. She had already secretly disobeyed him by asking her father to help them, and he had ended decisively by saying, "I am more likely to want help myself."

Middlemarch.book 8.chapte

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for book 8, chapter 73 with the given context.

book 8, chapter 72|book 8, chapter 73

Lydgate is now faced with the heavy task of exonerating himself, for he stands accused among everyone in Middlemarch. He wants to be able to stand up and say that he did not take a bribe from Bulstrode, and had no complicity in Raffles' death. However, his conscience troubles him, since he wonders if he would have acted differently in the situation had Bulstrode not given him the money. Lydgate determines not to run from the town's opinion, but to bear it with all possible strength; nothing he can do can clear his name now that public opinion is set against him, so he will have to weather it as best he can.

----------BOOK 8, CHAPTER 72--------- Full souls are double mirrors, making still An endless vista of fair things before, Repeating things behind. Dorothea's impetuous generosity, which would have leaped at once to the vindication of Lydgate from the suspicion of having accepted money as a bribe, underwent a melancholy check when she came to consider all the circumstances of the case by the light of Mr. Farebrother's experience. "It is a delicate matter to touch," he said. "How can we begin to inquire into it? It must be either publicly by setting the magistrate and coroner to work, or privately by questioning Lydgate. As to the first proceeding there is no solid ground to go upon, else Hawley would have adopted it; and as to opening the subject with Lydgate, I confess I should shrink from it. He would probably take it as a deadly insult. I have more than once experienced the difficulty of speaking to him on personal matters. And--one should know the truth about his conduct beforehand, to feel very confident of a good result." "I feel convinced that his conduct has not been guilty: I believe that people are almost always better than their neighbors think they are," said Dorothea. Some of her intensest experience in the last two years had set her mind strongly in opposition to any unfavorable construction of others; and for the first time she felt rather discontented with Mr. Farebrother. She disliked this cautious weighing of consequences, instead of an ardent faith in efforts of justice and mercy, which would conquer by their emotional force. Two days afterwards, he was dining at the Manor with her uncle and the Chettams, and when the dessert was standing uneaten, the servants were out of the room, and Mr. Brooke was nodding in a nap, she returned to the subject with renewed vivacity. "Mr. Lydgate would understand that if his friends hear a calumny about him their first wish must be to justify him. What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult to each other? I cannot be indifferent to the troubles of a man who advised me in _my_ trouble, and attended me in my illness." Dorothea's tone and manner were not more energetic than they had been when she was at the head of her uncle's table nearly three years before, and her experience since had given her more right to express a decided opinion. But Sir James Chettam was no longer the diffident and acquiescent suitor: he was the anxious brother-in-law, with a devout admiration for his sister, but with a constant alarm lest she should fall under some new illusion almost as bad as marrying Casaubon. He smiled much less; when he said "Exactly" it was more often an introduction to a dissentient opinion than in those submissive bachelor days; and Dorothea found to her surprise that she had to resolve not to be afraid of him--all the more because he was really her best friend. He disagreed with her now. "But, Dorothea," he said, remonstrantly, "you can't undertake to manage a man's life for him in that way. Lydgate must know--at least he will soon come to know how he stands. If he can clear himself, he will. He must act for himself." "I think his friends must wait till they find an opportunity," added Mr. Farebrother. "It is possible--I have often felt so much weakness in myself that I can conceive even a man of honorable disposition, such as I have always believed Lydgate to be, succumbing to such a temptation as that of accepting money which was offered more or less indirectly as a bribe to insure his silence about scandalous facts long gone by. I say, I can conceive this, if he were under the pressure of hard circumstances--if he had been harassed as I feel sure Lydgate has been. I would not believe anything worse of him except under stringent proof. But there is the terrible Nemesis following on some errors, that it is always possible for those who like it to interpret them into a crime: there is no proof in favor of the man outside his own consciousness and assertion." "Oh, how cruel!" said Dorothea, clasping her hands. "And would you not like to be the one person who believed in that man's innocence, if the rest of the world belied him? Besides, there is a man's character beforehand to speak for him." "But, my dear Mrs. Casaubon," said Mr. Farebrother, smiling gently at her ardor, "character is not cut in marble--it is not something solid and unalterable. It is something living and changing, and may become diseased as our bodies do." "Then it may be rescued and healed," said Dorothea "I should not be afraid of asking Mr. Lydgate to tell me the truth, that I might help him. Why should I be afraid? Now that I am not to have the land, James, I might do as Mr. Bulstrode proposed, and take his place in providing for the Hospital; and I have to consult Mr. Lydgate, to know thoroughly what are the prospects of doing good by keeping up the present plans. There is the best opportunity in the world for me to ask for his confidence; and he would be able to tell me things which might make all the circumstances clear. Then we would all stand by him and bring him out of his trouble. People glorify all sorts of bravery except the bravery they might show on behalf of their nearest neighbors." Dorothea's eyes had a moist brightness in them, and the changed tones of her voice roused her uncle, who began to listen. "It is true that a woman may venture on some efforts of sympathy which would hardly succeed if we men undertook them," said Mr. Farebrother, almost converted by Dorothea's ardor. "Surely, a woman is bound to be cautious and listen to those who know the world better than she does." said Sir James, with his little frown. "Whatever you do in the end, Dorothea, you should really keep back at present, and not volunteer any meddling with this Bulstrode business. We don't know yet what may turn up. You must agree with me?" he ended, looking at Mr. Farebrother. "I do think it would be better to wait," said the latter. "Yes, yes, my dear," said Mr. Brooke, not quite knowing at what point the discussion had arrived, but coming up to it with a contribution which was generally appropriate. "It is easy to go too far, you know. You must not let your ideas run away with you. And as to being in a hurry to put money into schemes--it won't do, you know. Garth has drawn me in uncommonly with repairs, draining, that sort of thing: I'm uncommonly out of pocket with one thing or another. I must pull up. As for you, Chettam, you are spending a fortune on those oak fences round your demesne." Dorothea, submitting uneasily to this discouragement, went with Celia into the library, which was her usual drawing-room. "Now, Dodo, do listen to what James says," said Celia, "else you will be getting into a scrape. You always did, and you always will, when you set about doing as you please. And I think it is a mercy now after all that you have got James to think for you. He lets you have your plans, only he hinders you from being taken in. And that is the good of having a brother instead of a husband. A husband would not let you have your plans." "As if I wanted a husband!" said Dorothea. "I only want not to have my feelings checked at every turn." Mrs. Casaubon was still undisciplined enough to burst into angry tears. "Now, really, Dodo," said Celia, with rather a deeper guttural than usual, "you _are_ contradictory: first one thing and then another. You used to submit to Mr. Casaubon quite shamefully: I think you would have given up ever coming to see me if he had asked you." "Of course I submitted to him, because it was my duty; it was my feeling for him," said Dorothea, looking through the prism of her tears. "Then why can't you think it your duty to submit a little to what James wishes?" said Celia, with a sense of stringency in her argument. "Because he only wishes what is for your own good. And, of course, men know best about everything, except what women know better." Dorothea laughed and forgot her tears. "Well, I mean about babies and those things," explained Celia. "I should not give up to James when I knew he was wrong, as you used to do to Mr. Casaubon." ----------BOOK 8, CHAPTER 73--------- Pity the laden one; this wandering woe May visit you and me. When Lydgate had allayed Mrs. Bulstrode's anxiety by telling her that her husband had been seized with faintness at the meeting, but that he trusted soon to see him better and would call again the next day, unless she sent for him earlier, he went directly home, got on his horse, and rode three miles out of the town for the sake of being out of reach. He felt himself becoming violent and unreasonable as if raging under the pain of stings: he was ready to curse the day on which he had come to Middlemarch. Everything that bad happened to him there seemed a mere preparation for this hateful fatality, which had come as a blight on his honorable ambition, and must make even people who had only vulgar standards regard his reputation as irrevocably damaged. In such moments a man can hardly escape being unloving. Lydgate thought of himself as the sufferer, and of others as the agents who had injured his lot. He had meant everything to turn out differently; and others had thrust themselves into his life and thwarted his purposes. His marriage seemed an unmitigated calamity; and he was afraid of going to Rosamond before he had vented himself in this solitary rage, lest the mere sight of her should exasperate him and make him behave unwarrantably. There are episodes in most men's lives in which their highest qualities can only cast a deterring shadow over the objects that fill their inward vision: Lydgate's tenderheartedness was present just then only as a dread lest he should offend against it, not as an emotion that swayed him to tenderness. For he was very miserable. Only those who know the supremacy of the intellectual life--the life which has a seed of ennobling thought and purpose within it--can understand the grief of one who falls from that serene activity into the absorbing soul-wasting struggle with worldly annoyances. How was he to live on without vindicating himself among people who suspected him of baseness? How could he go silently away from Middlemarch as if he were retreating before a just condemnation? And yet how was he to set about vindicating himself? For that scene at the meeting, which he had just witnessed, although it had told him no particulars, had been enough to make his own situation thoroughly clear to him. Bulstrode had been in dread of scandalous disclosures on the part of Raffles. Lydgate could now construct all the probabilities of the case. "He was afraid of some betrayal in my hearing: all he wanted was to bind me to him by a strong obligation: that was why he passed on a sudden from hardness to liberality. And he may have tampered with the patient--he may have disobeyed my orders. I fear he did. But whether he did or not, the world believes that he somehow or other poisoned the man and that I winked at the crime, if I didn't help in it. And yet--and yet he may not be guilty of the last offence; and it is just possible that the change towards me may have been a genuine relenting--the effect of second thoughts such as he alleged. What we call the 'just possible' is sometimes true and the thing we find it easier to believe is grossly false. In his last dealings with this man Bulstrode may have kept his hands pure, in spite of my suspicion to the contrary." There was a benumbing cruelty in his position. Even if he renounced every other consideration than that of justifying himself--if he met shrugs, cold glances, and avoidance as an accusation, and made a public statement of all the facts as he knew them, who would be convinced? It would be playing the part of a fool to offer his own testimony on behalf of himself, and say, "I did not take the money as a bribe." The circumstances would always be stronger than his assertion. And besides, to come forward and tell everything about himself must include declarations about Bulstrode which would darken the suspicions of others against him. He must tell that he had not known of Raffles's existence when he first mentioned his pressing need of money to Bulstrode, and that he took the money innocently as a result of that communication, not knowing that a new motive for the loan might have arisen on his being called in to this man. And after all, the suspicion of Bulstrode's motives might be unjust. But then came the question whether he should have acted in precisely the same way if he had not taken the money? Certainly, if Raffles had continued alive and susceptible of further treatment when he arrived, and he had then imagined any disobedience to his orders on the part of Bulstrode, he would have made a strict inquiry, and if his conjecture had been verified he would have thrown up the case, in spite of his recent heavy obligation. But if he had not received any money--if Bulstrode had never revoked his cold recommendation of bankruptcy--would he, Lydgate, have abstained from all inquiry even on finding the man dead?--would the shrinking from an insult to Bulstrode--would the dubiousness of all medical treatment and the argument that his own treatment would pass for the wrong with most members of his profession--have had just the same force or significance with him? That was the uneasy corner of Lydgate's consciousness while he was reviewing the facts and resisting all reproach. If he had been independent, this matter of a patient's treatment and the distinct rule that he must do or see done that which he believed best for the life committed to him, would have been the point on which he would have been the sturdiest. As it was, he had rested in the consideration that disobedience to his orders, however it might have arisen, could not be considered a crime, that in the dominant opinion obedience to his orders was just as likely to be fatal, and that the affair was simply one of etiquette. Whereas, again and again, in his time of freedom, he had denounced the perversion of pathological doubt into moral doubt and had said--"the purest experiment in treatment may still be conscientious: my business is to take care of life, and to do the best I can think of for it. Science is properly more scrupulous than dogma. Dogma gives a charter to mistake, but the very breath of science is a contest with mistake, and must keep the conscience alive." Alas! the scientific conscience had got into the debasing company of money obligation and selfish respects. "Is there a medical man of them all in Middlemarch who would question himself as I do?" said poor Lydgate, with a renewed outburst of rebellion against the oppression of his lot. "And yet they will all feel warranted in making a wide space between me and them, as if I were a leper! My practice and my reputation are utterly damned--I can see that. Even if I could be cleared by valid evidence, it would make little difference to the blessed world here. I have been set down as tainted and should be cheapened to them all the same." Already there had been abundant signs which had hitherto puzzled him, that just when he had been paying off his debts and getting cheerfully on his feet, the townsmen were avoiding him or looking strangely at him, and in two instances it came to his knowledge that patients of his had called in another practitioner. The reasons were too plain now. The general black-balling had begun. No wonder that in Lydgate's energetic nature the sense of a hopeless misconstruction easily turned into a dogged resistance. The scowl which occasionally showed itself on his square brow was not a meaningless accident. Already when he was re-entering the town after that ride taken in the first hours of stinging pain, he was setting his mind on remaining in Middlemarch in spite of the worst that could be done against him. He would not retreat before calumny, as if he submitted to it. He would face it to the utmost, and no act of his should show that he was afraid. It belonged to the generosity as well as defiant force of his nature that he resolved not to shrink from showing to the full his sense of obligation to Bulstrode. It was true that the association with this man had been fatal to him--true that if he had had the thousand pounds still in his hands with all his debts unpaid he would have returned the money to Bulstrode, and taken beggary rather than the rescue which had been sullied with the suspicion of a bribe (for, remember, he was one of the proudest among the sons of men)--nevertheless, he would not turn away from this crushed fellow-mortal whose aid he had used, and make a pitiful effort to get acquittal for himself by howling against another. "I shall do as I think right, and explain to nobody. They will try to starve me out, but--" he was going on with an obstinate resolve, but he was getting near home, and the thought of Rosamond urged itself again into that chief place from which it had been thrust by the agonized struggles of wounded honor and pride. How would Rosamond take it all? Here was another weight of chain to drag, and poor Lydgate was in a bad mood for bearing her dumb mastery. He had no impulse to tell her the trouble which must soon be common to them both. He preferred waiting for the incidental disclosure which events must soon bring about.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of book 8, chapter 79, utilizing the provided context.

book 8, chapter 77|book 8, chapter 78|book 8, chapter 79

Lydgate puts Rosamond to bed, still not totally aware of what has caused her distress. Will comes over, but Rosamond has not mentioned Will's visit earlier in the day; Will makes no mention of it to Lydgate either. Lydgate tells Will a bit of what has been going on, and that his name has also been mixed up in the proceedings. Will is not surprised, and almost does not care, because he thinks that Dorothea has already given up on him. When Lydgate mentions Dorothea's name, he notices that Will has a very peculiar reaction; he suspects that there is something between the two, and in this, he is correct.

----------BOOK 8, CHAPTER 77--------- "And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot, To mark the full-fraught man and best indued With some suspicion." --Henry V. The next day Lydgate had to go to Brassing, and told Rosamond that he should be away until the evening. Of late she had never gone beyond her own house and garden, except to church, and once to see her papa, to whom she said, "If Tertius goes away, you will help us to move, will you not, papa? I suppose we shall have very little money. I am sure I hope some one will help us." And Mr. Vincy had said, "Yes, child, I don't mind a hundred or two. I can see the end of that." With these exceptions she had sat at home in languid melancholy and suspense, fixing her mind on Will Ladislaw's coming as the one point of hope and interest, and associating this with some new urgency on Lydgate to make immediate arrangements for leaving Middlemarch and going to London, till she felt assured that the coming would be a potent cause of the going, without at all seeing how. This way of establishing sequences is too common to be fairly regarded as a peculiar folly in Rosamond. And it is precisely this sort of sequence which causes the greatest shock when it is sundered: for to see how an effect may be produced is often to see possible missings and checks; but to see nothing except the desirable cause, and close upon it the desirable effect, rids us of doubt and makes our minds strongly intuitive. That was the process going on in poor Rosamond, while she arranged all objects around her with the same nicety as ever, only with more slowness--or sat down to the piano, meaning to play, and then desisting, yet lingering on the music stool with her white fingers suspended on the wooden front, and looking before her in dreamy ennui. Her melancholy had become so marked that Lydgate felt a strange timidity before it, as a perpetual silent reproach, and the strong man, mastered by his keen sensibilities towards this fair fragile creature whose life he seemed somehow to have bruised, shrank from her look, and sometimes started at her approach, fear of her and fear for her rushing in only the more forcibly after it had been momentarily expelled by exasperation. But this morning Rosamond descended from her room upstairs--where she sometimes sat the whole day when Lydgate was out--equipped for a walk in the town. She had a letter to post--a letter addressed to Mr. Ladislaw and written with charming discretion, but intended to hasten his arrival by a hint of trouble. The servant-maid, their sole house-servant now, noticed her coming down-stairs in her walking dress, and thought "there never did anybody look so pretty in a bonnet poor thing." Meanwhile Dorothea's mind was filled with her project of going to Rosamond, and with the many thoughts, both of the past and the probable future, which gathered round the idea of that visit. Until yesterday when Lydgate had opened to her a glimpse of some trouble in his married life, the image of Mrs. Lydgate had always been associated for her with that of Will Ladislaw. Even in her most uneasy moments--even when she had been agitated by Mrs. Cadwallader's painfully graphic report of gossip--her effort, nay, her strongest impulsive prompting, had been towards the vindication of Will from any sullying surmises; and when, in her meeting with him afterwards, she had at first interpreted his words as a probable allusion to a feeling towards Mrs. Lydgate which he was determined to cut himself off from indulging, she had had a quick, sad, excusing vision of the charm there might be in his constant opportunities of companionship with that fair creature, who most likely shared his other tastes as she evidently did his delight in music. But there had followed his parting words--the few passionate words in which he had implied that she herself was the object of whom his love held him in dread, that it was his love for her only which he was resolved not to declare but to carry away into banishment. From the time of that parting, Dorothea, believing in Will's love for her, believing with a proud delight in his delicate sense of honor and his determination that no one should impeach him justly, felt her heart quite at rest as to the regard he might have for Mrs. Lydgate. She was sure that the regard was blameless. There are natures in which, if they love us, we are conscious of having a sort of baptism and consecration: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their pure belief about us; and our sins become that worst kind of sacrilege which tears down the invisible altar of trust. "If you are not good, none is good"--those little words may give a terrific meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse. Dorothea's nature was of that kind: her own passionate faults lay along the easily counted open channels of her ardent character; and while she was full of pity for the visible mistakes of others, she had not yet any material within her experience for subtle constructions and suspicions of hidden wrong. But that simplicity of hers, holding up an ideal for others in her believing conception of them, was one of the great powers of her womanhood. And it had from the first acted strongly on Will Ladislaw. He felt, when he parted from her, that the brief words by which he had tried to convey to her his feeling about herself and the division which her fortune made between them, would only profit by their brevity when Dorothea had to interpret them: he felt that in her mind he had found his highest estimate. And he was right there. In the months since their parting Dorothea had felt a delicious though sad repose in their relation to each other, as one which was inwardly whole and without blemish. She had an active force of antagonism within her, when the antagonism turned on the defence either of plans or persons that she believed in; and the wrongs which she felt that Will had received from her husband, and the external conditions which to others were grounds for slighting him, only gave the more tenacity to her affection and admiring judgment. And now with the disclosures about Bulstrode had come another fact affecting Will's social position, which roused afresh Dorothea's inward resistance to what was said about him in that part of her world which lay within park palings. "Young Ladislaw the grandson of a thieving Jew pawnbroker" was a phrase which had entered emphatically into the dialogues about the Bulstrode business, at Lowick, Tipton, and Freshitt, and was a worse kind of placard on poor Will's back than the "Italian with white mice." Upright Sir James Chettam was convinced that his own satisfaction was righteous when he thought with some complacency that here was an added league to that mountainous distance between Ladislaw and Dorothea, which enabled him to dismiss any anxiety in that direction as too absurd. And perhaps there had been some pleasure in pointing Mr. Brooke's attention to this ugly bit of Ladislaw's genealogy, as a fresh candle for him to see his own folly by. Dorothea had observed the animus with which Will's part in the painful story had been recalled more than once; but she had uttered no word, being checked now, as she had not been formerly in speaking of Will, by the consciousness of a deeper relation between them which must always remain in consecrated secrecy. But her silence shrouded her resistant emotion into a more thorough glow; and this misfortune in Will's lot which, it seemed, others were wishing to fling at his back as an opprobrium, only gave something more of enthusiasm to her clinging thought. She entertained no visions of their ever coming into nearer union, and yet she had taken no posture of renunciation. She had accepted her whole relation to Will very simply as part of her marriage sorrows, and would have thought it very sinful in her to keep up an inward wail because she was not completely happy, being rather disposed to dwell on the superfluities of her lot. She could bear that the chief pleasures of her tenderness should lie in memory, and the idea of marriage came to her solely as a repulsive proposition from some suitor of whom she at present knew nothing, but whose merits, as seen by her friends, would be a source of torment to her:--"somebody who will manage your property for you, my dear," was Mr. Brooke's attractive suggestion of suitable characteristics. "I should like to manage it myself, if I knew what to do with it," said Dorothea. No--she adhered to her declaration that she would never be married again, and in the long valley of her life which looked so flat and empty of waymarks, guidance would come as she walked along the road, and saw her fellow-passengers by the way. This habitual state of feeling about Will Ladislaw had been strong in all her waking hours since she had proposed to pay a visit to Mrs. Lydgate, making a sort of background against which she saw Rosamond's figure presented to her without hindrances to her interest and compassion. There was evidently some mental separation, some barrier to complete confidence which had arisen between this wife and the husband who had yet made her happiness a law to him. That was a trouble which no third person must directly touch. But Dorothea thought with deep pity of the loneliness which must have come upon Rosamond from the suspicions cast on her husband; and there would surely be help in the manifestation of respect for Lydgate and sympathy with her. "I shall talk to her about her husband," thought Dorothea, as she was being driven towards the town. The clear spring morning, the scent of the moist earth, the fresh leaves just showing their creased-up wealth of greenery from out their half-opened sheaths, seemed part of the cheerfulness she was feeling from a long conversation with Mr. Farebrother, who had joyfully accepted the justifying explanation of Lydgate's conduct. "I shall take Mrs. Lydgate good news, and perhaps she will like to talk to me and make a friend of me." Dorothea had another errand in Lowick Gate: it was about a new fine-toned bell for the school-house, and as she had to get out of her carriage very near to Lydgate's, she walked thither across the street, having told the coachman to wait for some packages. The street door was open, and the servant was taking the opportunity of looking out at the carriage which was pausing within sight when it became apparent to her that the lady who "belonged to it" was coming towards her. "Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?" said Dorothea. "I'm not sure, my lady; I'll see, if you'll please to walk in," said Martha, a little confused on the score of her kitchen apron, but collected enough to be sure that "mum" was not the right title for this queenly young widow with a carriage and pair. "Will you please to walk in, and I'll go and see." "Say that I am Mrs. Casaubon," said Dorothea, as Martha moved forward intending to show her into the drawing-room and then to go up-stairs to see if Rosamond had returned from her walk. They crossed the broader part of the entrance-hall, and turned up the passage which led to the garden. The drawing-room door was unlatched, and Martha, pushing it without looking into the room, waited for Mrs. Casaubon to enter and then turned away, the door having swung open and swung back again without noise. Dorothea had less of outward vision than usual this morning, being filled with images of things as they had been and were going to be. She found herself on the other side of the door without seeing anything remarkable, but immediately she heard a voice speaking in low tones which startled her as with a sense of dreaming in daylight, and advancing unconsciously a step or two beyond the projecting slab of a bookcase, she saw, in the terrible illumination of a certainty which filled up all outlines, something which made her pause, motionless, without self-possession enough to speak. Seated with his back towards her on a sofa which stood against the wall on a line with the door by which she had entered, she saw Will Ladislaw: close by him and turned towards him with a flushed tearfulness which gave a new brilliancy to her face sat Rosamond, her bonnet hanging back, while Will leaning towards her clasped both her upraised hands in his and spoke with low-toned fervor. Rosamond in her agitated absorption had not noticed the silently advancing figure; but when Dorothea, after the first immeasurable instant of this vision, moved confusedly backward and found herself impeded by some piece of furniture, Rosamond was suddenly aware of her presence, and with a spasmodic movement snatched away her hands and rose, looking at Dorothea who was necessarily arrested. Will Ladislaw, starting up, looked round also, and meeting Dorothea's eyes with a new lightning in them, seemed changing to marble: But she immediately turned them away from him to Rosamond and said in a firm voice-- "Excuse me, Mrs. Lydgate, the servant did not know that you were here. I called to deliver an important letter for Mr. Lydgate, which I wished to put into your own hands." She laid down the letter on the small table which had checked her retreat, and then including Rosamond and Will in one distant glance and bow, she went quickly out of the room, meeting in the passage the surprised Martha, who said she was sorry the mistress was not at home, and then showed the strange lady out with an inward reflection that grand people were probably more impatient than others. Dorothea walked across the street with her most elastic step and was quickly in her carriage again. "Drive on to Freshitt Hall," she said to the coachman, and any one looking at her might have thought that though she was paler than usual she was never animated by a more self-possessed energy. And that was really her experience. It was as if she had drunk a great draught of scorn that stimulated her beyond the susceptibility to other feelings. She had seen something so far below her belief, that her emotions rushed back from it and made an excited throng without an object. She needed something active to turn her excitement out upon. She felt power to walk and work for a day, without meat or drink. And she would carry out the purpose with which she had started in the morning, of going to Freshitt and Tipton to tell Sir James and her uncle all that she wished them to know about Lydgate, whose married loneliness under his trial now presented itself to her with new significance, and made her more ardent in readiness to be his champion. She had never felt anything like this triumphant power of indignation in the struggle of her married life, in which there had always been a quickly subduing pang; and she took it as a sign of new strength. "Dodo, how very bright your eyes are!" said Celia, when Sir James was gone out of the room. "And you don't see anything you look at, Arthur or anything. You are going to do something uncomfortable, I know. Is it all about Mr. Lydgate, or has something else happened?" Celia had been used to watch her sister with expectation. "Yes, dear, a great many things have happened," said Dodo, in her full tones. "I wonder what," said Celia, folding her arms cozily and leaning forward upon them. "Oh, all the troubles of all people on the face of the earth," said Dorothea, lifting her arms to the back of her head. "Dear me, Dodo, are you going to have a scheme for them?" said Celia, a little uneasy at this Hamlet-like raving. But Sir James came in again, ready to accompany Dorothea to the Grange, and she finished her expedition well, not swerving in her resolution until she descended at her own door. ----------BOOK 8, CHAPTER 78--------- "Would it were yesterday and I i' the grave, With her sweet faith above for monument" Rosamond and Will stood motionless--they did not know how long--he looking towards the spot where Dorothea had stood, and she looking towards him with doubt. It seemed an endless time to Rosamond, in whose inmost soul there was hardly so much annoyance as gratification from what had just happened. Shallow natures dream of an easy sway over the emotions of others, trusting implicitly in their own petty magic to turn the deepest streams, and confident, by pretty gestures and remarks, of making the thing that is not as though it were. She knew that Will had received a severe blow, but she had been little used to imagining other people's states of mind except as a material cut into shape by her own wishes; and she believed in her own power to soothe or subdue. Even Tertius, that most perverse of men, was always subdued in the long-run: events had been obstinate, but still Rosamond would have said now, as she did before her marriage, that she never gave up what she had set her mind on. She put out her arm and laid the tips of her fingers on Will's coat-sleeve. "Don't touch me!" he said, with an utterance like the cut of a lash, darting from her, and changing from pink to white and back again, as if his whole frame were tingling with the pain of the sting. He wheeled round to the other side of the room and stood opposite to her, with the tips of his fingers in his pockets and his head thrown back, looking fiercely not at Rosamond but at a point a few inches away from her. She was keenly offended, but the Signs she made of this were such as only Lydgate was used to interpret. She became suddenly quiet and seated herself, untying her hanging bonnet and laying it down with her shawl. Her little hands which she folded before her were very cold. It would have been safer for Will in the first instance to have taken up his hat and gone away; but he had felt no impulse to do this; on the contrary, he had a horrible inclination to stay and shatter Rosamond with his anger. It seemed as impossible to bear the fatality she had drawn down on him without venting his fury as it would be to a panther to bear the javelin-wound without springing and biting. And yet--how could he tell a woman that he was ready to curse her? He was fuming under a repressive law which he was forced to acknowledge: he was dangerously poised, and Rosamond's voice now brought the decisive vibration. In flute-like tones of sarcasm she said-- "You can easily go after Mrs. Casaubon and explain your preference." "Go after her!" he burst out, with a sharp edge in his voice. "Do you think she would turn to look at me, or value any word I ever uttered to her again at more than a dirty feather?--Explain! How can a man explain at the expense of a woman?" "You can tell her what you please," said Rosamond with more tremor. "Do you suppose she would like me better for sacrificing you? She is not a woman to be flattered because I made myself despicable--to believe that I must be true to her because I was a dastard to you." He began to move about with the restlessness of a wild animal that sees prey but cannot reach it. Presently he burst out again-- "I had no hope before--not much--of anything better to come. But I had one certainty--that she believed in me. Whatever people had said or done about me, she believed in me.--That's gone! She'll never again think me anything but a paltry pretence--too nice to take heaven except upon flattering conditions, and yet selling myself for any devil's change by the sly. She'll think of me as an incarnate insult to her, from the first moment we--" Will stopped as if he had found himself grasping something that must not be thrown and shattered. He found another vent for his rage by snatching up Rosamond's words again, as if they were reptiles to be throttled and flung off. "Explain! Tell a man to explain how he dropped into hell! Explain my preference! I never had a _preference_ for her, any more than I have a preference for breathing. No other woman exists by the side of her. I would rather touch her hand if it were dead, than I would touch any other woman's living." Rosamond, while these poisoned weapons were being hurled at her, was almost losing the sense of her identity, and seemed to be waking into some new terrible existence. She had no sense of chill resolute repulsion, of reticent self-justification such as she had known under Lydgate's most stormy displeasure: all her sensibility was turned into a bewildering novelty of pain; she felt a new terrified recoil under a lash never experienced before. What another nature felt in opposition to her own was being burnt and bitten into her consciousness. When Will had ceased to speak she had become an image of sickened misery: her lips were pale, and her eyes had a tearless dismay in them. If it had been Tertius who stood opposite to her, that look of misery would have been a pang to him, and he would have sunk by her side to comfort her, with that strong-armed comfort which, she had often held very cheap. Let it be forgiven to Will that he had no such movement of pity. He had felt no bond beforehand to this woman who had spoiled the ideal treasure of his life, and he held himself blameless. He knew that he was cruel, but he had no relenting in him yet. After he had done speaking, he still moved about, half in absence of mind, and Rosamond sat perfectly still. At length Will, seeming to bethink himself, took up his hat, yet stood some moments irresolute. He had spoken to her in a way that made a phrase of common politeness difficult to utter; and yet, now that he had come to the point of going away from her without further speech, he shrank from it as a brutality; he felt checked and stultified in his anger. He walked towards the mantel-piece and leaned his arm on it, and waited in silence for--he hardly knew what. The vindictive fire was still burning in him, and he could utter no word of retractation; but it was nevertheless in his mind that having come back to this hearth where he had enjoyed a caressing friendship he had found calamity seated there--he had had suddenly revealed to him a trouble that lay outside the home as well as within it. And what seemed a foreboding was pressing upon him as with slow pincers:--that his life might come to be enslaved by this helpless woman who had thrown herself upon him in the dreary sadness of her heart. But he was in gloomy rebellion against the fact that his quick apprehensiveness foreshadowed to him, and when his eyes fell on Rosamond's blighted face it seemed to him that he was the more pitiable of the two; for pain must enter into its glorified life of memory before it can turn into compassion. And so they remained for many minutes, opposite each other, far apart, in silence; Will's face still possessed by a mute rage, and Rosamond's by a mute misery. The poor thing had no force to fling out any passion in return; the terrible collapse of the illusion towards which all her hope had been strained was a stroke which had too thoroughly shaken her: her little world was in ruins, and she felt herself tottering in the midst as a lonely bewildered consciousness. Will wished that she would speak and bring some mitigating shadow across his own cruel speech, which seemed to stand staring at them both in mockery of any attempt at revived fellowship. But she said nothing, and at last with a desperate effort over himself, he asked, "Shall I come in and see Lydgate this evening?" "If you like," Rosamond answered, just audibly. And then Will went out of the house, Martha never knowing that he had been in. After he was gone, Rosamond tried to get up from her seat, but fell back fainting. When she came to herself again, she felt too ill to make the exertion of rising to ring the bell, and she remained helpless until the girl, surprised at her long absence, thought for the first time of looking for her in all the down-stairs rooms. Rosamond said that she had felt suddenly sick and faint, and wanted to be helped up-stairs. When there she threw herself on the bed with her clothes on, and lay in apparent torpor, as she had done once before on a memorable day of grief. Lydgate came home earlier than he had expected, about half-past five, and found her there. The perception that she was ill threw every other thought into the background. When he felt her pulse, her eyes rested on him with more persistence than they had done for a long while, as if she felt some content that he was there. He perceived the difference in a moment, and seating himself by her put his arm gently under her, and bending over her said, "My poor Rosamond! has something agitated you?" Clinging to him she fell into hysterical sobbings and cries, and for the next hour he did nothing but soothe and tend her. He imagined that Dorothea had been to see her, and that all this effect on her nervous system, which evidently involved some new turning towards himself, was due to the excitement of the new impressions which that visit had raised. ----------BOOK 8, CHAPTER 79--------- "Now, I saw in my dream, that just as they had ended their talk, they drew nigh to a very miry slough, that was in the midst of the plain; and they, being heedless, did both fall suddenly into the bog. The name of the slough was Despond."--BUNYAN. When Rosamond was quiet, and Lydgate had left her, hoping that she might soon sleep under the effect of an anodyne, he went into the drawing-room to fetch a book which he had left there, meaning to spend the evening in his work-room, and he saw on the table Dorothea's letter addressed to him. He had not ventured to ask Rosamond if Mrs. Casaubon had called, but the reading of this letter assured him of the fact, for Dorothea mentioned that it was to be carried by herself. When Will Ladislaw came in a little later Lydgate met him with a surprise which made it clear that he had not been told of the earlier visit, and Will could not say, "Did not Mrs. Lydgate tell you that I came this morning?" "Poor Rosamond is ill," Lydgate added immediately on his greeting. "Not seriously, I hope," said Will. "No--only a slight nervous shock--the effect of some agitation. She has been overwrought lately. The truth is, Ladislaw, I am an unlucky devil. We have gone through several rounds of purgatory since you left, and I have lately got on to a worse ledge of it than ever. I suppose you are only just come down--you look rather battered--you have not been long enough in the town to hear anything?" "I travelled all night and got to the White Hart at eight o'clock this morning. I have been shutting myself up and resting," said Will, feeling himself a sneak, but seeing no alternative to this evasion. And then he heard Lydgate's account of the troubles which Rosamond had already depicted to him in her way. She had not mentioned the fact of Will's name being connected with the public story--this detail not immediately affecting her--and he now heard it for the first time. "I thought it better to tell you that your name is mixed up with the disclosures," said Lydgate, who could understand better than most men how Ladislaw might be stung by the revelation. "You will be sure to hear it as soon as you turn out into the town. I suppose it is true that Raffles spoke to you." "Yes," said Will, sardonically. "I shall be fortunate if gossip does not make me the most disreputable person in the whole affair. I should think the latest version must be, that I plotted with Raffles to murder Bulstrode, and ran away from Middlemarch for the purpose." He was thinking "Here is a new ring in the sound of my name to recommend it in her hearing; however--what does it signify now?" But he said nothing of Bulstrode's offer to him. Will was very open and careless about his personal affairs, but it was among the more exquisite touches in nature's modelling of him that he had a delicate generosity which warned him into reticence here. He shrank from saying that he had rejected Bulstrode's money, in the moment when he was learning that it was Lydgate's misfortune to have accepted it. Lydgate too was reticent in the midst of his confidence. He made no allusion to Rosamond's feeling under their trouble, and of Dorothea he only said, "Mrs. Casaubon has been the one person to come forward and say that she had no belief in any of the suspicions against me." Observing a change in Will's face, he avoided any further mention of her, feeling himself too ignorant of their relation to each other not to fear that his words might have some hidden painful bearing on it. And it occurred to him that Dorothea was the real cause of the present visit to Middlemarch. The two men were pitying each other, but it was only Will who guessed the extent of his companion's trouble. When Lydgate spoke with desperate resignation of going to settle in London, and said with a faint smile, "We shall have you again, old fellow." Will felt inexpressibly mournful, and said nothing. Rosamond had that morning entreated him to urge this step on Lydgate; and it seemed to him as if he were beholding in a magic panorama a future where he himself was sliding into that pleasureless yielding to the small solicitations of circumstance, which is a commoner history of perdition than any single momentous bargain. We are on a perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our future selves, and see our own figures led with dull consent into insipid misdoing and shabby achievement. Poor Lydgate was inwardly groaning on that margin, and Will was arriving at it. It seemed to him this evening as if the cruelty of his outburst to Rosamond had made an obligation for him, and he dreaded the obligation: he dreaded Lydgate's unsuspecting good-will: he dreaded his own distaste for his spoiled life, which would leave him in motiveless levity.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of book 8, chapter 80 using the context provided.

book 8, chapter 80|book 8, chapter 82|book 8, chapter 85

Dorothea goes over to the Farebrothers' house, which she does very often; her visits keep her from being lonely, and also keep her from criticisms that she needs a companion. But, when Will comes up, she suddenly feels that she must leave; that evening, she finally realizes that she loved Will, although she fears that this love has been lost. By the morning, she has put aside all the remorse and anger of the previous evening; she also begins to wear new clothes, symbolic of lesser mourning, since it has been a year since Casaubon died. She resolves to go and see Rosamond again, and to offer help as she meant to do the day before.

----------BOOK 8, CHAPTER 80--------- "Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face; Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. --WORDSWORTH: Ode to Duty. When Dorothea had seen Mr. Farebrother in the morning, she had promised to go and dine at the parsonage on her return from Freshitt. There was a frequent interchange of visits between her and the Farebrother family, which enabled her to say that she was not at all lonely at the Manor, and to resist for the present the severe prescription of a lady companion. When she reached home and remembered her engagement, she was glad of it; and finding that she had still an hour before she could dress for dinner, she walked straight to the schoolhouse and entered into a conversation with the master and mistress about the new bell, giving eager attention to their small details and repetitions, and getting up a dramatic sense that her life was very busy. She paused on her way back to talk to old Master Bunney who was putting in some garden-seeds, and discoursed wisely with that rural sage about the crops that would make the most return on a perch of ground, and the result of sixty years' experience as to soils--namely, that if your soil was pretty mellow it would do, but if there came wet, wet, wet to make it all of a mummy, why then-- Finding that the social spirit had beguiled her into being rather late, she dressed hastily and went over to the parsonage rather earlier than was necessary. That house was never dull, Mr. Farebrother, like another White of Selborne, having continually something new to tell of his inarticulate guests and proteges, whom he was teaching the boys not to torment; and he had just set up a pair of beautiful goats to be pets of the village in general, and to walk at large as sacred animals. The evening went by cheerfully till after tea, Dorothea talking more than usual and dilating with Mr. Farebrother on the possible histories of creatures that converse compendiously with their antennae, and for aught we know may hold reformed parliaments; when suddenly some inarticulate little sounds were heard which called everybody's attention. "Henrietta Noble," said Mrs. Farebrother, seeing her small sister moving about the furniture-legs distressfully, "what is the matter?" "I have lost my tortoise-shell lozenge-box. I fear the kitten has rolled it away," said the tiny old lady, involuntarily continuing her beaver-like notes. "Is it a great treasure, aunt?" said Mr. Farebrother, putting up his glasses and looking at the carpet. "Mr. Ladislaw gave it me," said Miss Noble. "A German box--very pretty, but if it falls it always spins away as far as it can." "Oh, if it is Ladislaw's present," said Mr. Farebrother, in a deep tone of comprehension, getting up and hunting. The box was found at last under a chiffonier, and Miss Noble grasped it with delight, saying, "it was under a fender the last time." "That is an affair of the heart with my aunt," said Mr. Farebrother, smiling at Dorothea, as he reseated himself. "If Henrietta Noble forms an attachment to any one, Mrs. Casaubon," said his mother, emphatically,--"she is like a dog--she would take their shoes for a pillow and sleep the better." "Mr. Ladislaw's shoes, I would," said Henrietta Noble. Dorothea made an attempt at smiling in return. She was surprised and annoyed to find that her heart was palpitating violently, and that it was quite useless to try after a recovery of her former animation. Alarmed at herself--fearing some further betrayal of a change so marked in its occasion, she rose and said in a low voice with undisguised anxiety, "I must go; I have overtired myself." Mr. Farebrother, quick in perception, rose and said, "It is true; you must have half-exhausted yourself in talking about Lydgate. That sort of work tells upon one after the excitement is over." He gave her his arm back to the Manor, but Dorothea did not attempt to speak, even when he said good-night. The limit of resistance was reached, and she had sunk back helpless within the clutch of inescapable anguish. Dismissing Tantripp with a few faint words, she locked her door, and turning away from it towards the vacant room she pressed her hands hard on the top of her head, and moaned out-- "Oh, I did love him!" Then came the hour in which the waves of suffering shook her too thoroughly to leave any power of thought. She could only cry in loud whispers, between her sobs, after her lost belief which she had planted and kept alive from a very little seed since the days in Rome--after her lost joy of clinging with silent love and faith to one who, misprized by others, was worthy in her thought--after her lost woman's pride of reigning in his memory--after her sweet dim perspective of hope, that along some pathway they should meet with unchanged recognition and take up the backward years as a yesterday. In that hour she repeated what the merciful eyes of solitude have looked on for ages in the spiritual struggles of man--she besought hardness and coldness and aching weariness to bring her relief from the mysterious incorporeal might of her anguish: she lay on the bare floor and let the night grow cold around her; while her grand woman's frame was shaken by sobs as if she had been a despairing child. There were two images--two living forms that tore her heart in two, as if it had been the heart of a mother who seems to see her child divided by the sword, and presses one bleeding half to her breast while her gaze goes forth in agony towards the half which is carried away by the lying woman that has never known the mother's pang. Here, with the nearness of an answering smile, here within the vibrating bond of mutual speech, was the bright creature whom she had trusted--who had come to her like the spirit of morning visiting the dim vault where she sat as the bride of a worn-out life; and now, with a full consciousness which had never awakened before, she stretched out her arms towards him and cried with bitter cries that their nearness was a parting vision: she discovered her passion to herself in the unshrinking utterance of despair. And there, aloof, yet persistently with her, moving wherever she moved, was the Will Ladislaw who was a changed belief exhausted of hope, a detected illusion--no, a living man towards whom there could not yet struggle any wail of regretful pity, from the midst of scorn and indignation and jealous offended pride. The fire of Dorothea's anger was not easily spent, and it flamed out in fitful returns of spurning reproach. Why had he come obtruding his life into hers, hers that might have been whole enough without him? Why had he brought his cheap regard and his lip-born words to her who had nothing paltry to give in exchange? He knew that he was deluding her--wished, in the very moment of farewell, to make her believe that he gave her the whole price of her heart, and knew that he had spent it half before. Why had he not stayed among the crowd of whom she asked nothing--but only prayed that they might be less contemptible? But she lost energy at last even for her loud-whispered cries and moans: she subsided into helpless sobs, and on the cold floor she sobbed herself to sleep. In the chill hours of the morning twilight, when all was dim around her, she awoke--not with any amazed wondering where she was or what had happened, but with the clearest consciousness that she was looking into the eyes of sorrow. She rose, and wrapped warm things around her, and seated herself in a great chair where she had often watched before. She was vigorous enough to have borne that hard night without feeling ill in body, beyond some aching and fatigue; but she had waked to a new condition: she felt as if her soul had been liberated from its terrible conflict; she was no longer wrestling with her grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts. For now the thoughts came thickly. It was not in Dorothea's nature, for longer than the duration of a paroxysm, to sit in the narrow cell of her calamity, in the besotted misery of a consciousness that only sees another's lot as an accident of its own. She began now to live through that yesterday morning deliberately again, forcing herself to dwell on every detail and its possible meaning. Was she alone in that scene? Was it her event only? She forced herself to think of it as bound up with another woman's life--a woman towards whom she had set out with a longing to carry some clearness and comfort into her beclouded youth. In her first outleap of jealous indignation and disgust, when quitting the hateful room, she had flung away all the mercy with which she had undertaken that visit. She had enveloped both Will and Rosamond in her burning scorn, and it seemed to her as if Rosamond were burned out of her sight forever. But that base prompting which makes a women more cruel to a rival than to a faithless lover, could have no strength of recurrence in Dorothea when the dominant spirit of justice within her had once overcome the tumult and had once shown her the truer measure of things. All the active thought with which she had before been representing to herself the trials of Lydgate's lot, and this young marriage union which, like her own, seemed to have its hidden as well as evident troubles--all this vivid sympathetic experience returned to her now as a power: it asserted itself as acquired knowledge asserts itself and will not let us see as we saw in the day of our ignorance. She said to her own irremediable grief, that it should make her more helpful, instead of driving her back from effort. And what sort of crisis might not this be in three lives whose contact with hers laid an obligation on her as if they had been suppliants bearing the sacred branch? The objects of her rescue were not to be sought out by her fancy: they were chosen for her. She yearned towards the perfect Right, that it might make a throne within her, and rule her errant will. "What should I do--how should I act now, this very day, if I could clutch my own pain, and compel it to silence, and think of those three?" It had taken long for her to come to that question, and there was light piercing into the room. She opened her curtains, and looked out towards the bit of road that lay in view, with fields beyond outside the entrance-gates. On the road there was a man with a bundle on his back and a woman carrying her baby; in the field she could see figures moving--perhaps the shepherd with his dog. Far off in the bending sky was the pearly light; and she felt the largeness of the world and the manifold wakings of men to labor and endurance. She was a part of that involuntary, palpitating life, and could neither look out on it from her luxurious shelter as a mere spectator, nor hide her eyes in selfish complaining. What she would resolve to do that day did not yet seem quite clear, but something that she could achieve stirred her as with an approaching murmur which would soon gather distinctness. She took off the clothes which seemed to have some of the weariness of a hard watching in them, and began to make her toilet. Presently she rang for Tantripp, who came in her dressing-gown. "Why, madam, you've never been in bed this blessed night," burst out Tantripp, looking first at the bed and then at Dorothea's face, which in spite of bathing had the pale cheeks and pink eyelids of a mater dolorosa. "You'll kill yourself, you _will_. Anybody might think now you had a right to give yourself a little comfort." "Don't be alarmed, Tantripp," said Dorothea, smiling. "I have slept; I am not ill. I shall be glad of a cup of coffee as soon as possible. And I want you to bring me my new dress; and most likely I shall want my new bonnet to-day." "They've lain there a month and more ready for you, madam, and most thankful I shall be to see you with a couple o' pounds' worth less of crape," said Tantripp, stooping to light the fire. "There's a reason in mourning, as I've always said; and three folds at the bottom of your skirt and a plain quilling in your bonnet--and if ever anybody looked like an angel, it's you in a net quilling--is what's consistent for a second year. At least, that's _my_ thinking," ended Tantripp, looking anxiously at the fire; "and if anybody was to marry me flattering himself I should wear those hijeous weepers two years for him, he'd be deceived by his own vanity, that's all." "The fire will do, my good Tan," said Dorothea, speaking as she used to do in the old Lausanne days, only with a very low voice; "get me the coffee." She folded herself in the large chair, and leaned her head against it in fatigued quiescence, while Tantripp went away wondering at this strange contrariness in her young mistress--that just the morning when she had more of a widow's face than ever, she should have asked for her lighter mourning which she had waived before. Tantripp would never have found the clew to this mystery. Dorothea wished to acknowledge that she had not the less an active life before her because she had buried a private joy; and the tradition that fresh garments belonged to all initiation, haunting her mind, made her grasp after even that slight outward help towards calm resolve. For the resolve was not easy. Nevertheless at eleven o'clock she was walking towards Middlemarch, having made up her mind that she would make as quietly and unnoticeably as possible her second attempt to see and save Rosamond. ----------BOOK 8, CHAPTER 82--------- "My grief lies onward and my joy behind." --SHAKESPEARE: Sonnets. Exiles notoriously feed much on hopes, and are unlikely to stay in banishment unless they are obliged. When Will Ladislaw exiled himself from Middlemarch he had placed no stronger obstacle to his return than his own resolve, which was by no means an iron barrier, but simply a state of mind liable to melt into a minuet with other states of mind, and to find itself bowing, smiling, and giving place with polite facility. As the months went on, it had seemed more and more difficult to him to say why he should not run down to Middlemarch--merely for the sake of hearing something about Dorothea; and if on such a flying visit he should chance by some strange coincidence to meet with her, there was no reason for him to be ashamed of having taken an innocent journey which he had beforehand supposed that he should not take. Since he was hopelessly divided from her, he might surely venture into her neighborhood; and as to the suspicious friends who kept a dragon watch over her--their opinions seemed less and less important with time and change of air. And there had come a reason quite irrespective of Dorothea, which seemed to make a journey to Middlemarch a sort of philanthropic duty. Will had given a disinterested attention to an intended settlement on a new plan in the Far West, and the need for funds in order to carry out a good design had set him on debating with himself whether it would not be a laudable use to make of his claim on Bulstrode, to urge the application of that money which had been offered to himself as a means of carrying out a scheme likely to be largely beneficial. The question seemed a very dubious one to Will, and his repugnance to again entering into any relation with the banker might have made him dismiss it quickly, if there had not arisen in his imagination the probability that his judgment might be more safely determined by a visit to Middlemarch. That was the object which Will stated to himself as a reason for coming down. He had meant to confide in Lydgate, and discuss the money question with him, and he had meant to amuse himself for the few evenings of his stay by having a great deal of music and badinage with fair Rosamond, without neglecting his friends at Lowick Parsonage:--if the Parsonage was close to the Manor, that was no fault of his. He had neglected the Farebrothers before his departure, from a proud resistance to the possible accusation of indirectly seeking interviews with Dorothea; but hunger tames us, and Will had become very hungry for the vision of a certain form and the sound of a certain voice. Nothing, had done instead--not the opera, or the converse of zealous politicians, or the flattering reception (in dim corners) of his new hand in leading articles. Thus he had come down, foreseeing with confidence how almost everything would be in his familiar little world; fearing, indeed, that there would be no surprises in his visit. But he had found that humdrum world in a terribly dynamic condition, in which even badinage and lyrism had turned explosive; and the first day of this visit had become the most fatal epoch of his life. The next morning he felt so harassed with the nightmare of consequences--he dreaded so much the immediate issues before him--that seeing while he breakfasted the arrival of the Riverston coach, he went out hurriedly and took his place on it, that he might be relieved, at least for a day, from the necessity of doing or saying anything in Middlemarch. Will Ladislaw was in one of those tangled crises which are commoner in experience than one might imagine, from the shallow absoluteness of men's judgments. He had found Lydgate, for whom he had the sincerest respect, under circumstances which claimed his thorough and frankly declared sympathy; and the reason why, in spite of that claim, it would have been better for Will to have avoided all further intimacy, or even contact, with Lydgate, was precisely of the kind to make such a course appear impossible. To a creature of Will's susceptible temperament--without any neutral region of indifference in his nature, ready to turn everything that befell him into the collisions of a passionate drama--the revelation that Rosamond had made her happiness in any way dependent on him was a difficulty which his outburst of rage towards her had immeasurably increased for him. He hated his own cruelty, and yet he dreaded to show the fulness of his relenting: he must go to her again; the friendship could not be put to a sudden end; and her unhappiness was a power which he dreaded. And all the while there was no more foretaste of enjoyment in the life before him than if his limbs had been lopped off and he was making his fresh start on crutches. In the night he had debated whether he should not get on the coach, not for Riverston, but for London, leaving a note to Lydgate which would give a makeshift reason for his retreat. But there were strong cords pulling him back from that abrupt departure: the blight on his happiness in thinking of Dorothea, the crushing of that chief hope which had remained in spite of the acknowledged necessity for renunciation, was too fresh a misery for him to resign himself to it and go straightway into a distance which was also despair. Thus he did nothing more decided than taking the Riverston coach. He came back again by it while it was still daylight, having made up his mind that he must go to Lydgate's that evening. The Rubicon, we know, was a very insignificant stream to look at; its significance lay entirely in certain invisible conditions. Will felt as if he were forced to cross his small boundary ditch, and what he saw beyond it was not empire, but discontented subjection. But it is given to us sometimes even in our every-day life to witness the saving influence of a noble nature, the divine efficacy of rescue that may lie in a self-subduing act of fellowship. If Dorothea, after her night's anguish, had not taken that walk to Rosamond--why, she perhaps would have been a woman who gained a higher character for discretion, but it would certainly not have been as well for those three who were on one hearth in Lydgate's house at half-past seven that evening. Rosamond had been prepared for Will's visit, and she received him with a languid coldness which Lydgate accounted for by her nervous exhaustion, of which he could not suppose that it had any relation to Will. And when she sat in silence bending over a bit of work, he innocently apologized for her in an indirect way by begging her to lean backward and rest. Will was miserable in the necessity for playing the part of a friend who was making his first appearance and greeting to Rosamond, while his thoughts were busy about her feeling since that scene of yesterday, which seemed still inexorably to enclose them both, like the painful vision of a double madness. It happened that nothing called Lydgate out of the room; but when Rosamond poured out the tea, and Will came near to fetch it, she placed a tiny bit of folded paper in his saucer. He saw it and secured it quickly, but as he went back to his inn he had no eagerness to unfold the paper. What Rosamond had written to him would probably deepen the painful impressions of the evening. Still, he opened and read it by his bed-candle. There were only these few words in her neatly flowing hand:-- "I have told Mrs. Casaubon. She is not under any mistake about you. I told her because she came to see me and was very kind. You will have nothing to reproach me with now. I shall not have made any difference to you." The effect of these words was not quite all gladness. As Will dwelt on them with excited imagination, he felt his cheeks and ears burning at the thought of what had occurred between Dorothea and Rosamond--at the uncertainty how far Dorothea might still feel her dignity wounded in having an explanation of his conduct offered to her. There might still remain in her mind a changed association with him which made an irremediable difference--a lasting flaw. With active fancy he wrought himself into a state of doubt little more easy than that of the man who has escaped from wreck by night and stands on unknown ground in the darkness. Until that wretched yesterday--except the moment of vexation long ago in the very same room and in the very same presence--all their vision, all their thought of each other, had been as in a world apart, where the sunshine fell on tall white lilies, where no evil lurked, and no other soul entered. But now--would Dorothea meet him in that world again? ----------BOOK 8, CHAPTER 85--------- "Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr. No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, Mr. Implacable, who every one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves, and afterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the judge. And first among themselves, Mr. Blindman, the foreman, said, I see clearly that this man is a heretic. Then said Mr. No-good, Away with such a fellow from the earth! Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the very look of him. Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him. Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose; for he would be always condemning my way. Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind. My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Hanging is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch him out of the way said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might I have all the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him; therefore let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death." --Pilgrim's Progress. When immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passions bringing in their verdict of guilty, who pities Faithful? That is a rare and blessed lot which some greatest men have not attained, to know ourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd--to be sure that what we are denounced for is solely the good in us. The pitiable lot is that of the man who could not call himself a martyr even though he were to persuade himself that the men who stoned him were but ugly passions incarnate--who knows that he is stoned, not for professing the Right, but for not being the man he professed to be. This was the consciousness that Bulstrode was withering under while he made his preparations for departing from Middlemarch, and going to end his stricken life in that sad refuge, the indifference of new faces. The duteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from one dread, but it could not hinder her presence from being still a tribunal before which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy. His equivocations with himself about the death of Raffles had sustained the conception of an Omniscience whom he prayed to, yet he had a terror upon him which would not let him expose them to judgment by a full confession to his wife: the acts which he had washed and diluted with inward argument and motive, and for which it seemed comparatively easy to win invisible pardon--what name would she call them by? That she should ever silently call his acts Murder was what he could not bear. He felt shrouded by her doubt: he got strength to face her from the sense that she could not yet feel warranted in pronouncing that worst condemnation on him. Some time, perhaps--when he was dying--he would tell her all: in the deep shadow of that time, when she held his hand in the gathering darkness, she might listen without recoiling from his touch. Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his life, and the impulse to confession had no power against the dread of a deeper humiliation. He was full of timid care for his wife, not only because he deprecated any harshness of judgment from her, but because he felt a deep distress at the sight of her suffering. She had sent her daughters away to board at a school on the coast, that this crisis might be hidden from them as far as possible. Set free by their absence from the intolerable necessity of accounting for her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, she could live unconstrainedly with the sorrow that was every day streaking her hair with whiteness and making her eyelids languid. "Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Harriet," Bulstrode had said to her; "I mean with regard to arrangements of property. It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in this neighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision. If you have any wish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me." A few days afterwards, when she had returned from a visit to her brother's, she began to speak to her husband on a subject which had for some time been in her mind. "I _should_ like to do something for my brother's family, Nicholas; and I think we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and her husband. Walter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the town, and his practice is almost good for nothing, and they have very little left to settle anywhere with. I would rather do without something for ourselves, to make some amends to my poor brother's family." Mrs. Bulstrode did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in the phrase "make some amends;" knowing that her husband must understand her. He had a particular reason, which she was not aware of, for wincing under her suggestion. He hesitated before he said-- "It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, my dear. Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further service from me. He has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him. Mrs. Casaubon advanced him the sum for that purpose. Here is his letter." The letter seemed to cut Mrs. Bulstrode severely. The mention of Mrs. Casaubon's loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling which held it a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection with her husband. She was silent for some time; and the tears fell one after the other, her chin trembling as she wiped them away. Bulstrode, sitting opposite to her, ached at the sight of that grief-worn face, which two months before had been bright and blooming. It had aged to keep sad company with his own withered features. Urged into some effort at comforting her, he said-- "There is another means, Harriet, by which I might do a service to your brother's family, if you like to act in it. And it would, I think, be beneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the land which I mean to be yours." She looked attentive. "Garth once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in order to place your nephew Fred there. The stock was to remain as it is, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of an ordinary rent. That would be a desirable beginning for the young man, in conjunction with his employment under Garth. Would it be a satisfaction to you?" "Yes, it would," said Mrs. Bulstrode, with some return of energy. "Poor Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to do him some good before I go away. We have always been brother and sister." "You must make the proposal to Garth yourself, Harriet," said Mr. Bulstrode, not liking what he had to say, but desiring the end he had in view, for other reasons besides the consolation of his wife. "You must state to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need have no transactions with me. Communications can be made through Standish. I mention this, because Garth gave up being my agent. I can put into your hands a paper which he himself drew up, stating conditions; and you can propose his renewed acceptance of them. I think it is not unlikely that he will accept when you propose the thing for the sake of your nephew."