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all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/34.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_33_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 34

chapter 34

{"name": "Phase IV: \"The Consequence,\" Chapter Thirty-Four", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-34", "summary": "Angel has rented an old manor house that used to belong to the D'Urbervilles for their wedding night. The house is pretty dilapidated, and an old woman from a neighboring cottage has been hired to come over and bring them meals, and make sure there's a fire going when they get there so that they won't freeze. The woman has left them what they need, and they're happy to have the house to themselves. The house is full of old portraits of the D'Urbervilles, and Angel can see the family resemblance to Tess. As they eat their supper together, Angel reflects on how dependent she is on him, and swears to himself that he'll never betray her trust. After a while it starts to rain. Their luggage had been sent separately, and they're surprised that it hasn't arrived yet. When they hear a knock on the door, they assume it's old Jonathan with their luggage, but it's not--it's someone delivering a package. Turns out Angel's godmother had left some jewelry in his mother's keeping, to be given to Angel's wife if he should ever marry. So the package contains a set of diamonds. She tries them on, and looks totally gorgeous. Then, finally, Jonathan arrives with their luggage. Angel asks why he's so late, and he explains: It's because Retty Priddle tried to drown herself that afternoon. She was found in time, though, and will be okay. And Marian was found dead drunk in a gutter somewhere in the next town. Izz is okay, but very depressed. After Jonathan leaves, Angel says that he's sorry that Tess should have heard the bad news about the girls on what was supposed to be the happiest night of her life. Then, suddenly, Angel reminds her that they had promised to tell each other their faults after they were married. He says that he has something to confess, and wants her to forgive him, and not be angry that he hadn't told her before. She's shocked--he's saying exactly what she wanted to say. He tells her that although he has a problem with the way the church is organized, he's a stickler for good morals. So he's been beating himself up for this for a long time. But the long and short of it is, he was really depressed this one time, and went to London, and had a brief fling with some strange woman. But he never did it again. He realized that it was wrong, and went home, and never talked to her again. Of course Tess forgives him, and says she's actually kind of glad about it, because she wants to confess something, too. He says that it can't be more serious than his offense, and she gets hopeful: maybe it isn't, and he'll be able to forgive her, after all. So she sits next to him, and holds his hand, and tells him all about it.", "analysis": ""}

They drove by the level road along the valley to a distance of a few miles, and, reaching Wellbridge, turned away from the village to the left, and over the great Elizabethan bridge which gives the place half its name. Immediately behind it stood the house wherein they had engaged lodgings, whose exterior features are so well known to all travellers through the Froom Valley; once portion of a fine manorial residence, and the property and seat of a d'Urberville, but since its partial demolition a farmhouse. "Welcome to one of your ancestral mansions!" said Clare as he handed her down. But he regretted the pleasantry; it was too near a satire. On entering they found that, though they had only engaged a couple of rooms, the farmer had taken advantage of their proposed presence during the coming days to pay a New Year's visit to some friends, leaving a woman from a neighbouring cottage to minister to their few wants. The absoluteness of possession pleased them, and they realized it as the first moment of their experience under their own exclusive roof-tree. But he found that the mouldy old habitation somewhat depressed his bride. When the carriage was gone they ascended the stairs to wash their hands, the charwoman showing the way. On the landing Tess stopped and started. "What's the matter?" said he. "Those horrid women!" she answered with a smile. "How they frightened me." He looked up, and perceived two life-size portraits on panels built into the masonry. As all visitors to the mansion are aware, these paintings represent women of middle age, of a date some two hundred years ago, whose lineaments once seen can never be forgotten. The long pointed features, narrow eye, and smirk of the one, so suggestive of merciless treachery; the bill-hook nose, large teeth, and bold eye of the other suggesting arrogance to the point of ferocity, haunt the beholder afterwards in his dreams. "Whose portraits are those?" asked Clare of the charwoman. "I have been told by old folk that they were ladies of the d'Urberville family, the ancient lords of this manor," she said, "Owing to their being builded into the wall they can't be moved away." The unpleasantness of the matter was that, in addition to their effect upon Tess, her fine features were unquestionably traceable in these exaggerated forms. He said nothing of this, however, and, regretting that he had gone out of his way to choose the house for their bridal time, went on into the adjoining room. The place having been rather hastily prepared for them, they washed their hands in one basin. Clare touched hers under the water. "Which are my fingers and which are yours?" he said, looking up. "They are very much mixed." "They are all yours," said she, very prettily, and endeavoured to be gayer than she was. He had not been displeased with her thoughtfulness on such an occasion; it was what every sensible woman would show: but Tess knew that she had been thoughtful to excess, and struggled against it. The sun was so low on that short last afternoon of the year that it shone in through a small opening and formed a golden staff which stretched across to her skirt, where it made a spot like a paint-mark set upon her. They went into the ancient parlour to tea, and here they shared their first common meal alone. Such was their childishness, or rather his, that he found it interesting to use the same bread-and-butter plate as herself, and to brush crumbs from her lips with his own. He wondered a little that she did not enter into these frivolities with his own zest. Looking at her silently for a long time; "She is a dear dear Tess," he thought to himself, as one deciding on the true construction of a difficult passage. "Do I realize solemnly enough how utterly and irretrievably this little womanly thing is the creature of my good or bad faith and fortune? I think not. I think I could not, unless I were a woman myself. What I am in worldly estate, she is. What I become, she must become. What I cannot be, she cannot be. And shall I ever neglect her, or hurt her, or even forget to consider her? God forbid such a crime!" They sat on over the tea-table waiting for their luggage, which the dairyman had promised to send before it grew dark. But evening began to close in, and the luggage did not arrive, and they had brought nothing more than they stood in. With the departure of the sun the calm mood of the winter day changed. Out of doors there began noises as of silk smartly rubbed; the restful dead leaves of the preceding autumn were stirred to irritated resurrection, and whirled about unwillingly, and tapped against the shutters. It soon began to rain. "That cock knew the weather was going to change," said Clare. The woman who had attended upon them had gone home for the night, but she had placed candles upon the table, and now they lit them. Each candle-flame drew towards the fireplace. "These old houses are so draughty," continued Angel, looking at the flames, and at the grease guttering down the sides. "I wonder where that luggage is. We haven't even a brush and comb." "I don't know," she answered, absent-minded. "Tess, you are not a bit cheerful this evening--not at all as you used to be. Those harridans on the panels upstairs have unsettled you. I am sorry I brought you here. I wonder if you really love me, after all?" He knew that she did, and the words had no serious intent; but she was surcharged with emotion, and winced like a wounded animal. Though she tried not to shed tears, she could not help showing one or two. "I did not mean it!" said he, sorry. "You are worried at not having your things, I know. I cannot think why old Jonathan has not come with them. Why, it is seven o'clock? Ah, there he is!" A knock had come to the door, and, there being nobody else to answer it, Clare went out. He returned to the room with a small package in his hand. "It is not Jonathan, after all," he said. "How vexing!" said Tess. The packet had been brought by a special messenger, who had arrived at Talbothays from Emminster Vicarage immediately after the departure of the married couple, and had followed them hither, being under injunction to deliver it into nobody's hands but theirs. Clare brought it to the light. It was less than a foot long, sewed up in canvas, sealed in red wax with his father's seal, and directed in his father's hand to "Mrs Angel Clare." "It is a little wedding-present for you, Tess," said he, handing it to her. "How thoughtful they are!" Tess looked a little flustered as she took it. "I think I would rather have you open it, dearest," said she, turning over the parcel. "I don't like to break those great seals; they look so serious. Please open it for me!" He undid the parcel. Inside was a case of morocco leather, on the top of which lay a note and a key. The note was for Clare, in the following words: MY DEAR SON-- Possibly you have forgotten that on the death of your godmother, Mrs Pitney, when you were a lad, she--vain, kind woman that she was--left to me a portion of the contents of her jewel-case in trust for your wife, if you should ever have one, as a mark of her affection for you and whomsoever you should choose. This trust I have fulfilled, and the diamonds have been locked up at my banker's ever since. Though I feel it to be a somewhat incongruous act in the circumstances, I am, as you will see, bound to hand over the articles to the woman to whom the use of them for her lifetime will now rightly belong, and they are therefore promptly sent. They become, I believe, heirlooms, strictly speaking, according to the terms of your godmother's will. The precise words of the clause that refers to this matter are enclosed. "I do remember," said Clare; "but I had quite forgotten." Unlocking the case, they found it to contain a necklace, with pendant, bracelets, and ear-rings; and also some other small ornaments. Tess seemed afraid to touch them at first, but her eyes sparkled for a moment as much as the stones when Clare spread out the set. "Are they mine?" she asked incredulously. "They are, certainly," said he. He looked into the fire. He remembered how, when he was a lad of fifteen, his godmother, the Squire's wife--the only rich person with whom he had ever come in contact--had pinned her faith to his success; had prophesied a wondrous career for him. There had seemed nothing at all out of keeping with such a conjectured career in the storing up of these showy ornaments for his wife and the wives of her descendants. They gleamed somewhat ironically now. "Yet why?" he asked himself. It was but a question of vanity throughout; and if that were admitted into one side of the equation it should be admitted into the other. His wife was a d'Urberville: whom could they become better than her? Suddenly he said with enthusiasm-- "Tess, put them on--put them on!" And he turned from the fire to help her. But as if by magic she had already donned them--necklace, ear-rings, bracelets, and all. "But the gown isn't right, Tess," said Clare. "It ought to be a low one for a set of brilliants like that." "Ought it?" said Tess. "Yes," said he. He suggested to her how to tuck in the upper edge of her bodice, so as to make it roughly approximate to the cut for evening wear; and when she had done this, and the pendant to the necklace hung isolated amid the whiteness of her throat, as it was designed to do, he stepped back to survey her. "My heavens," said Clare, "how beautiful you are!" As everybody knows, fine feathers make fine birds; a peasant girl but very moderately prepossessing to the casual observer in her simple condition and attire will bloom as an amazing beauty if clothed as a woman of fashion with the aids that Art can render; while the beauty of the midnight crush would often cut but a sorry figure if placed inside the field-woman's wrapper upon a monotonous acreage of turnips on a dull day. He had never till now estimated the artistic excellence of Tess's limbs and features. "If you were only to appear in a ball-room!" he said. "But no--no, dearest; I think I love you best in the wing-bonnet and cotton-frock--yes, better than in this, well as you support these dignities." Tess's sense of her striking appearance had given her a flush of excitement, which was yet not happiness. "I'll take them off," she said, "in case Jonathan should see me. They are not fit for me, are they? They must be sold, I suppose?" "Let them stay a few minutes longer. Sell them? Never. It would be a breach of faith." Influenced by a second thought she readily obeyed. She had something to tell, and there might be help in these. She sat down with the jewels upon her; and they again indulged in conjectures as to where Jonathan could possibly be with their baggage. The ale they had poured out for his consumption when he came had gone flat with long standing. Shortly after this they began supper, which was already laid on a side-table. Ere they had finished there was a jerk in the fire-smoke, the rising skein of which bulged out into the room, as if some giant had laid his hand on the chimney-top for a moment. It had been caused by the opening of the outer door. A heavy step was now heard in the passage, and Angel went out. "I couldn' make nobody hear at all by knocking," apologized Jonathan Kail, for it was he at last; "and as't was raining out I opened the door. I've brought the things, sir." "I am very glad to see them. But you are very late." "Well, yes, sir." There was something subdued in Jonathan Kail's tone which had not been there in the day, and lines of concern were ploughed upon his forehead in addition to the lines of years. He continued-- "We've all been gallied at the dairy at what might ha' been a most terrible affliction since you and your Mis'ess--so to name her now--left us this a'ternoon. Perhaps you ha'nt forgot the cock's afternoon crow?" "Dear me;--what--" "Well, some says it do mane one thing, and some another; but what's happened is that poor little Retty Priddle hev tried to drown herself." "No! Really! Why, she bade us goodbye with the rest--" "Yes. Well, sir, when you and your Mis'ess--so to name what she lawful is--when you two drove away, as I say, Retty and Marian put on their bonnets and went out; and as there is not much doing now, being New Year's Eve, and folks mops and brooms from what's inside 'em, nobody took much notice. They went on to Lew-Everard, where they had summut to drink, and then on they vamped to Dree-armed Cross, and there they seemed to have parted, Retty striking across the water-meads as if for home, and Marian going on to the next village, where there's another public-house. Nothing more was zeed or heard o' Retty till the waterman, on his way home, noticed something by the Great Pool; 'twas her bonnet and shawl packed up. In the water he found her. He and another man brought her home, thinking a' was dead; but she fetched round by degrees." Angel, suddenly recollecting that Tess was overhearing this gloomy tale, went to shut the door between the passage and the ante-room to the inner parlour where she was; but his wife, flinging a shawl round her, had come to the outer room and was listening to the man's narrative, her eyes resting absently on the luggage and the drops of rain glistening upon it. "And, more than this, there's Marian; she's been found dead drunk by the withy-bed--a girl who hev never been known to touch anything before except shilling ale; though, to be sure, 'a was always a good trencher-woman, as her face showed. It seems as if the maids had all gone out o' their minds!" "And Izz?" asked Tess. "Izz is about house as usual; but 'a do say 'a can guess how it happened; and she seems to be very low in mind about it, poor maid, as well she mid be. And so you see, sir, as all this happened just when we was packing your few traps and your Mis'ess's night-rail and dressing things into the cart, why, it belated me." "Yes. Well, Jonathan, will you get the trunks upstairs, and drink a cup of ale, and hasten back as soon as you can, in case you should be wanted?" Tess had gone back to the inner parlour, and sat down by the fire, looking wistfully into it. She heard Jonathan Kail's heavy footsteps up and down the stairs till he had done placing the luggage, and heard him express his thanks for the ale her husband took out to him, and for the gratuity he received. Jonathan's footsteps then died from the door, and his cart creaked away. Angel slid forward the massive oak bar which secured the door, and coming in to where she sat over the hearth, pressed her cheeks between his hands from behind. He expected her to jump up gaily and unpack the toilet-gear that she had been so anxious about, but as she did not rise he sat down with her in the firelight, the candles on the supper-table being too thin and glimmering to interfere with its glow. "I am so sorry you should have heard this sad story about the girls," he said. "Still, don't let it depress you. Retty was naturally morbid, you know." "Without the least cause," said Tess. "While they who have cause to be, hide it, and pretend they are not." This incident had turned the scale for her. They were simple and innocent girls on whom the unhappiness of unrequited love had fallen; they had deserved better at the hands of Fate. She had deserved worse--yet she was the chosen one. It was wicked of her to take all without paying. She would pay to the uttermost farthing; she would tell, there and then. This final determination she came to when she looked into the fire, he holding her hand. A steady glare from the now flameless embers painted the sides and back of the fireplace with its colour, and the well-polished andirons, and the old brass tongs that would not meet. The underside of the mantel-shelf was flushed with the high-coloured light, and the legs of the table nearest the fire. Tess's face and neck reflected the same warmth, which each gem turned into an Aldebaran or a Sirius--a constellation of white, red, and green flashes, that interchanged their hues with her every pulsation. "Do you remember what we said to each other this morning about telling our faults?" he asked abruptly, finding that she still remained immovable. "We spoke lightly perhaps, and you may well have done so. But for me it was no light promise. I want to make a confession to you, Love." This, from him, so unexpectedly apposite, had the effect upon her of a Providential interposition. "You have to confess something?" she said quickly, and even with gladness and relief. "You did not expect it? Ah--you thought too highly of me. Now listen. Put your head there, because I want you to forgive me, and not to be indignant with me for not telling you before, as perhaps I ought to have done." How strange it was! He seemed to be her double. She did not speak, and Clare went on-- "I did not mention it because I was afraid of endangering my chance of you, darling, the great prize of my life--my Fellowship I call you. My brother's Fellowship was won at his college, mine at Talbothays Dairy. Well, I would not risk it. I was going to tell you a month ago--at the time you agreed to be mine, but I could not; I thought it might frighten you away from me. I put it off; then I thought I would tell you yesterday, to give you a chance at least of escaping me. But I did not. And I did not this morning, when you proposed our confessing our faults on the landing--the sinner that I was! But I must, now I see you sitting there so solemnly. I wonder if you will forgive me?" "O yes! I am sure that--" "Well, I hope so. But wait a minute. You don't know. To begin at the beginning. Though I imagine my poor father fears that I am one of the eternally lost for my doctrines, I am of course, a believer in good morals, Tess, as much as you. I used to wish to be a teacher of men, and it was a great disappointment to me when I found I could not enter the Church. I admired spotlessness, even though I could lay no claim to it, and hated impurity, as I hope I do now. Whatever one may think of plenary inspiration, one must heartily subscribe to these words of Paul: 'Be thou an example--in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.' It is the only safeguard for us poor human beings. '_Integer vitae_,' says a Roman poet, who is strange company for St Paul-- "The man of upright life, from frailties free, Stands not in need of Moorish spear or bow. "Well, a certain place is paved with good intentions, and having felt all that so strongly, you will see what a terrible remorse it bred in me when, in the midst of my fine aims for other people, I myself fell." He then told her of that time of his life to which allusion has been made when, tossed about by doubts and difficulties in London, like a cork on the waves, he plunged into eight-and-forty hours' dissipation with a stranger. "Happily I awoke almost immediately to a sense of my folly," he continued. "I would have no more to say to her, and I came home. I have never repeated the offence. But I felt I should like to treat you with perfect frankness and honour, and I could not do so without telling this. Do you forgive me?" She pressed his hand tightly for an answer. "Then we will dismiss it at once and for ever!--too painful as it is for the occasion--and talk of something lighter." "O, Angel--I am almost glad--because now YOU can forgive ME! I have not made my confession. I have a confession, too--remember, I said so." "Ah, to be sure! Now then for it, wicked little one." "Perhaps, although you smile, it is as serious as yours, or more so." "It can hardly be more serious, dearest." "It cannot--O no, it cannot!" She jumped up joyfully at the hope. "No, it cannot be more serious, certainly," she cried, "because 'tis just the same! I will tell you now." She sat down again. Their hands were still joined. The ashes under the grate were lit by the fire vertically, like a torrid waste. Imagination might have beheld a Last Day luridness in this red-coaled glow, which fell on his face and hand, and on hers, peering into the loose hair about her brow, and firing the delicate skin underneath. A large shadow of her shape rose upon the wall and ceiling. She bent forward, at which each diamond on her neck gave a sinister wink like a toad's; and pressing her forehead against his temple she entered on her story of her acquaintance with Alec d'Urberville and its results, murmuring the words without flinching, and with her eyelids drooping down. END OF PHASE THE FOURTH Phase the Fifth: The Woman Pays

Phase IV: "The Consequence," Chapter Thirty-Four

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-34

Angel has rented an old manor house that used to belong to the D'Urbervilles for their wedding night. The house is pretty dilapidated, and an old woman from a neighboring cottage has been hired to come over and bring them meals, and make sure there's a fire going when they get there so that they won't freeze. The woman has left them what they need, and they're happy to have the house to themselves. The house is full of old portraits of the D'Urbervilles, and Angel can see the family resemblance to Tess. As they eat their supper together, Angel reflects on how dependent she is on him, and swears to himself that he'll never betray her trust. After a while it starts to rain. Their luggage had been sent separately, and they're surprised that it hasn't arrived yet. When they hear a knock on the door, they assume it's old Jonathan with their luggage, but it's not--it's someone delivering a package. Turns out Angel's godmother had left some jewelry in his mother's keeping, to be given to Angel's wife if he should ever marry. So the package contains a set of diamonds. She tries them on, and looks totally gorgeous. Then, finally, Jonathan arrives with their luggage. Angel asks why he's so late, and he explains: It's because Retty Priddle tried to drown herself that afternoon. She was found in time, though, and will be okay. And Marian was found dead drunk in a gutter somewhere in the next town. Izz is okay, but very depressed. After Jonathan leaves, Angel says that he's sorry that Tess should have heard the bad news about the girls on what was supposed to be the happiest night of her life. Then, suddenly, Angel reminds her that they had promised to tell each other their faults after they were married. He says that he has something to confess, and wants her to forgive him, and not be angry that he hadn't told her before. She's shocked--he's saying exactly what she wanted to say. He tells her that although he has a problem with the way the church is organized, he's a stickler for good morals. So he's been beating himself up for this for a long time. But the long and short of it is, he was really depressed this one time, and went to London, and had a brief fling with some strange woman. But he never did it again. He realized that it was wrong, and went home, and never talked to her again. Of course Tess forgives him, and says she's actually kind of glad about it, because she wants to confess something, too. He says that it can't be more serious than his offense, and she gets hopeful: maybe it isn't, and he'll be able to forgive her, after all. So she sits next to him, and holds his hand, and tells him all about it.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/59.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_6_part_6.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 58

chapter 58

{"name": "Chapter 58", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-7-chapters-53-59", "summary": "That night, Tess tells Angel about how he carried her while sleepwalking, and he regrets that she did not tell him about this earlier, for it might have prevented much misunderstanding and woe. Tess is reluctant to leave their shelter and go toward Southampton or London, for she wonders why they must put an end to all that is sweet and lovely. She says that what must come will come. Angel decides that they must finally leave the mansion, but Tess wishes to stay, for she believes she will not last more than several weeks. Angel plans to take Tess north, where they can sail from Wessex. They travel northward and reach Stonehenge. Tess wishes to remain there, for Angel used to say that she was a heathen and thus Stonehenge is appropriate for her. Tess asks Angel to look after Liza-Lu if he loses her and to marry her. Tess falls asleep there, and as she sleeps a party of sixteen men surrounds Stonehenge to get Tess. Tess awakes, and asks Angel if they have come for her. Tess admits that she is almost glad, for her happiness could not have lasted. She tells them that she is ready.", "analysis": "For a brief period, Tess and Angel remain happily as husband and wife, yet this happiness is a nearly grotesque one, for the couple essentially has their honeymoon as they travel as fugitives. And, as both Tess and Angel realize, this period of happiness is short-lived. Tess knows that she will be caught, and thus plans for her husband and her family after her inevitable execution. This emphasizes the theme that Tess is unable to escape her fate; Hardy offers no possibility that Tess and Angel might escape England where Tess might go unpunished. Despite the tragic conclusion to Tess Durbeyfield life, both Tess and Angel accept her fate stoically, for this is a final end to her suffering. Having experienced pain and hardship almost entirely since leaving home for Trantridge, Tess can only expect more difficulties, even after reuniting with Angel. The only option that Angel has before Tess's demise is to ensure that her end is not protracted"}

The night was strangely solemn and still. In the small hours she whispered to him the whole story of how he had walked in his sleep with her in his arms across the Froom stream, at the imminent risk of both their lives, and laid her down in the stone coffin at the ruined abbey. He had never known of that till now. "Why didn't you tell me next day?" he said. "It might have prevented much misunderstanding and woe." "Don't think of what's past!" said she. "I am not going to think outside of now. Why should we! Who knows what to-morrow has in store?" But it apparently had no sorrow. The morning was wet and foggy, and Clare, rightly informed that the caretaker only opened the windows on fine days, ventured to creep out of their chamber and explore the house, leaving Tess asleep. There was no food on the premises, but there was water, and he took advantage of the fog to emerge from the mansion and fetch tea, bread, and butter from a shop in a little place two miles beyond, as also a small tin kettle and spirit-lamp, that they might get fire without smoke. His re-entry awoke her; and they breakfasted on what he had brought. They were indisposed to stir abroad, and the day passed, and the night following, and the next, and next; till, almost without their being aware, five days had slipped by in absolute seclusion, not a sight or sound of a human being disturbing their peacefulness, such as it was. The changes of the weather were their only events, the birds of the New Forest their only company. By tacit consent they hardly once spoke of any incident of the past subsequent to their wedding-day. The gloomy intervening time seemed to sink into chaos, over which the present and prior times closed as if it never had been. Whenever he suggested that they should leave their shelter, and go forwards towards Southampton or London, she showed a strange unwillingness to move. "Why should we put an end to all that's sweet and lovely!" she deprecated. "What must come will come." And, looking through the shutter-chink: "All is trouble outside there; inside here content." He peeped out also. It was quite true; within was affection, union, error forgiven: outside was the inexorable. "And--and," she said, pressing her cheek against his, "I fear that what you think of me now may not last. I do not wish to outlive your present feeling for me. I would rather not. I would rather be dead and buried when the time comes for you to despise me, so that it may never be known to me that you despised me." "I cannot ever despise you." "I also hope that. But considering what my life has been, I cannot see why any man should, sooner or later, be able to help despising me.... How wickedly mad I was! Yet formerly I never could bear to hurt a fly or a worm, and the sight of a bird in a cage used often to make me cry." They remained yet another day. In the night the dull sky cleared, and the result was that the old caretaker at the cottage awoke early. The brilliant sunrise made her unusually brisk; she decided to open the contiguous mansion immediately, and to air it thoroughly on such a day. Thus it occurred that, having arrived and opened the lower rooms before six o'clock, she ascended to the bedchambers, and was about to turn the handle of the one wherein they lay. At that moment she fancied she could hear the breathing of persons within. Her slippers and her antiquity had rendered her progress a noiseless one so far, and she made for instant retreat; then, deeming that her hearing might have deceived her, she turned anew to the door and softly tried the handle. The lock was out of order, but a piece of furniture had been moved forward on the inside, which prevented her opening the door more than an inch or two. A stream of morning light through the shutter-chink fell upon the faces of the pair, wrapped in profound slumber, Tess's lips being parted like a half-opened flower near his cheek. The caretaker was so struck with their innocent appearance, and with the elegance of Tess's gown hanging across a chair, her silk stockings beside it, the pretty parasol, and the other habits in which she had arrived because she had none else, that her first indignation at the effrontery of tramps and vagabonds gave way to a momentary sentimentality over this genteel elopement, as it seemed. She closed the door, and withdrew as softly as she had come, to go and consult with her neighbours on the odd discovery. Not more than a minute had elapsed after her withdrawal when Tess woke, and then Clare. Both had a sense that something had disturbed them, though they could not say what; and the uneasy feeling which it engendered grew stronger. As soon as he was dressed he narrowly scanned the lawn through the two or three inches of shutter-chink. "I think we will leave at once," said he. "It is a fine day. And I cannot help fancying somebody is about the house. At any rate, the woman will be sure to come to-day." She passively assented, and putting the room in order, they took up the few articles that belonged to them, and departed noiselessly. When they had got into the Forest she turned to take a last look at the house. "Ah, happy house--goodbye!" she said. "My life can only be a question of a few weeks. Why should we not have stayed there?" "Don't say it, Tess! We shall soon get out of this district altogether. We'll continue our course as we've begun it, and keep straight north. Nobody will think of looking for us there. We shall be looked for at the Wessex ports if we are sought at all. When we are in the north we will get to a port and away." Having thus persuaded her, the plan was pursued, and they kept a bee-line northward. Their long repose at the manor-house lent them walking power now; and towards mid-day they found that they were approaching the steepled city of Melchester, which lay directly in their way. He decided to rest her in a clump of trees during the afternoon, and push onward under cover of darkness. At dusk Clare purchased food as usual, and their night march began, the boundary between Upper and Mid-Wessex being crossed about eight o'clock. To walk across country without much regard to roads was not new to Tess, and she showed her old agility in the performance. The intercepting city, ancient Melchester, they were obliged to pass through in order to take advantage of the town bridge for crossing a large river that obstructed them. It was about midnight when they went along the deserted streets, lighted fitfully by the few lamps, keeping off the pavement that it might not echo their footsteps. The graceful pile of cathedral architecture rose dimly on their left hand, but it was lost upon them now. Once out of the town they followed the turnpike-road, which after a few miles plunged across an open plain. Though the sky was dense with cloud, a diffused light from some fragment of a moon had hitherto helped them a little. But the moon had now sunk, the clouds seemed to settle almost on their heads, and the night grew as dark as a cave. However, they found their way along, keeping as much on the turf as possible that their tread might not resound, which it was easy to do, there being no hedge or fence of any kind. All around was open loneliness and black solitude, over which a stiff breeze blew. They had proceeded thus gropingly two or three miles further when on a sudden Clare became conscious of some vast erection close in his front, rising sheer from the grass. They had almost struck themselves against it. "What monstrous place is this?" said Angel. "It hums," said she. "Hearken!" He listened. The wind, playing upon the edifice, produced a booming tune, like the note of some gigantic one-stringed harp. No other sound came from it, and lifting his hand and advancing a step or two, Clare felt the vertical surface of the structure. It seemed to be of solid stone, without joint or moulding. Carrying his fingers onward he found that what he had come in contact with was a colossal rectangular pillar; by stretching out his left hand he could feel a similar one adjoining. At an indefinite height overhead something made the black sky blacker, which had the semblance of a vast architrave uniting the pillars horizontally. They carefully entered beneath and between; the surfaces echoed their soft rustle; but they seemed to be still out of doors. The place was roofless. Tess drew her breath fearfully, and Angel, perplexed, said-- "What can it be?" Feeling sideways they encountered another tower-like pillar, square and uncompromising as the first; beyond it another and another. The place was all doors and pillars, some connected above by continuous architraves. "A very Temple of the Winds," he said. The next pillar was isolated; others composed a trilithon; others were prostrate, their flanks forming a causeway wide enough for a carriage; and it was soon obvious that they made up a forest of monoliths grouped upon the grassy expanse of the plain. The couple advanced further into this pavilion of the night till they stood in its midst. "It is Stonehenge!" said Clare. "The heathen temple, you mean?" "Yes. Older than the centuries; older than the d'Urbervilles! Well, what shall we do, darling? We may find shelter further on." But Tess, really tired by this time, flung herself upon an oblong slab that lay close at hand, and was sheltered from the wind by a pillar. Owing to the action of the sun during the preceding day, the stone was warm and dry, in comforting contrast to the rough and chill grass around, which had damped her skirts and shoes. "I don't want to go any further, Angel," she said, stretching out her hand for his. "Can't we bide here?" "I fear not. This spot is visible for miles by day, although it does not seem so now." "One of my mother's people was a shepherd hereabouts, now I think of it. And you used to say at Talbothays that I was a heathen. So now I am at home." He knelt down beside her outstretched form, and put his lips upon hers. "Sleepy are you, dear? I think you are lying on an altar." "I like very much to be here," she murmured. "It is so solemn and lonely--after my great happiness--with nothing but the sky above my face. It seems as if there were no folk in the world but we two; and I wish there were not--except 'Liza-Lu." Clare though she might as well rest here till it should get a little lighter, and he flung his overcoat upon her, and sat down by her side. "Angel, if anything happens to me, will you watch over 'Liza-Lu for my sake?" she asked, when they had listened a long time to the wind among the pillars. "I will." "She is so good and simple and pure. O, Angel--I wish you would marry her if you lose me, as you will do shortly. O, if you would!" "If I lose you I lose all! And she is my sister-in-law." "That's nothing, dearest. People marry sister-laws continually about Marlott; and 'Liza-Lu is so gentle and sweet, and she is growing so beautiful. O, I could share you with her willingly when we are spirits! If you would train her and teach her, Angel, and bring her up for your own self! ... She had all the best of me without the bad of me; and if she were to become yours it would almost seem as if death had not divided us... Well, I have said it. I won't mention it again." She ceased, and he fell into thought. In the far north-east sky he could see between the pillars a level streak of light. The uniform concavity of black cloud was lifting bodily like the lid of a pot, letting in at the earth's edge the coming day, against which the towering monoliths and trilithons began to be blackly defined. "Did they sacrifice to God here?" asked she. "No," said he. "Who to?" "I believe to the sun. That lofty stone set away by itself is in the direction of the sun, which will presently rise behind it." "This reminds me, dear," she said. "You remember you never would interfere with any belief of mine before we were married? But I knew your mind all the same, and I thought as you thought--not from any reasons of my own, but because you thought so. Tell me now, Angel, do you think we shall meet again after we are dead? I want to know." He kissed her to avoid a reply at such a time. "O, Angel--I fear that means no!" said she, with a suppressed sob. "And I wanted so to see you again--so much, so much! What--not even you and I, Angel, who love each other so well?" Like a greater than himself, to the critical question at the critical time he did not answer; and they were again silent. In a minute or two her breathing became more regular, her clasp of his hand relaxed, and she fell asleep. The band of silver paleness along the east horizon made even the distant parts of the Great Plain appear dark and near; and the whole enormous landscape bore that impress of reserve, taciturnity, and hesitation which is usual just before day. The eastward pillars and their architraves stood up blackly against the light, and the great flame-shaped Sun-stone beyond them; and the Stone of Sacrifice midway. Presently the night wind died out, and the quivering little pools in the cup-like hollows of the stones lay still. At the same time something seemed to move on the verge of the dip eastward--a mere dot. It was the head of a man approaching them from the hollow beyond the Sun-stone. Clare wished they had gone onward, but in the circumstances decided to remain quiet. The figure came straight towards the circle of pillars in which they were. He heard something behind him, the brush of feet. Turning, he saw over the prostrate columns another figure; then before he was aware, another was at hand on the right, under a trilithon, and another on the left. The dawn shone full on the front of the man westward, and Clare could discern from this that he was tall, and walked as if trained. They all closed in with evident purpose. Her story then was true! Springing to his feet, he looked around for a weapon, loose stone, means of escape, anything. By this time the nearest man was upon him. "It is no use, sir," he said. "There are sixteen of us on the Plain, and the whole country is reared." "Let her finish her sleep!" he implored in a whisper of the men as they gathered round. When they saw where she lay, which they had not done till then, they showed no objection, and stood watching her, as still as the pillars around. He went to the stone and bent over her, holding one poor little hand; her breathing now was quick and small, like that of a lesser creature than a woman. All waited in the growing light, their faces and hands as if they were silvered, the remainder of their figures dark, the stones glistening green-gray, the Plain still a mass of shade. Soon the light was strong, and a ray shone upon her unconscious form, peering under her eyelids and waking her. "What is it, Angel?" she said, starting up. "Have they come for me?" "Yes, dearest," he said. "They have come." "It is as it should be," she murmured. "Angel, I am almost glad--yes, glad! This happiness could not have lasted. It was too much. I have had enough; and now I shall not live for you to despise me!" She stood up, shook herself, and went forward, neither of the men having moved. "I am ready," she said quietly.

Chapter 58

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-7-chapters-53-59

That night, Tess tells Angel about how he carried her while sleepwalking, and he regrets that she did not tell him about this earlier, for it might have prevented much misunderstanding and woe. Tess is reluctant to leave their shelter and go toward Southampton or London, for she wonders why they must put an end to all that is sweet and lovely. She says that what must come will come. Angel decides that they must finally leave the mansion, but Tess wishes to stay, for she believes she will not last more than several weeks. Angel plans to take Tess north, where they can sail from Wessex. They travel northward and reach Stonehenge. Tess wishes to remain there, for Angel used to say that she was a heathen and thus Stonehenge is appropriate for her. Tess asks Angel to look after Liza-Lu if he loses her and to marry her. Tess falls asleep there, and as she sleeps a party of sixteen men surrounds Stonehenge to get Tess. Tess awakes, and asks Angel if they have come for her. Tess admits that she is almost glad, for her happiness could not have lasted. She tells them that she is ready.

For a brief period, Tess and Angel remain happily as husband and wife, yet this happiness is a nearly grotesque one, for the couple essentially has their honeymoon as they travel as fugitives. And, as both Tess and Angel realize, this period of happiness is short-lived. Tess knows that she will be caught, and thus plans for her husband and her family after her inevitable execution. This emphasizes the theme that Tess is unable to escape her fate; Hardy offers no possibility that Tess and Angel might escape England where Tess might go unpunished. Despite the tragic conclusion to Tess Durbeyfield life, both Tess and Angel accept her fate stoically, for this is a final end to her suffering. Having experienced pain and hardship almost entirely since leaving home for Trantridge, Tess can only expect more difficulties, even after reuniting with Angel. The only option that Angel has before Tess's demise is to ensure that her end is not protracted

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_19_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 20

chapter 20

{"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-20", "summary": "Marlow goes to visit Stein, who is old and lives alone in a big house. We learn that he was a political revolutionary and adventurer who lived in Malaysia for many years. He was even married to a princess there, with whom he had a baby daughter. But his wife and daughter died, and Stein has lived alone ever since. A noted naturalist, he collects butterflies, and he tells Marlow the story of the day he captured his most prized one. Cue another digression. After getting a run-down on Stein, Marlow tells Stein Jim's story. Stein is sympathetic. He thinks Jim's problem is that he's a romantic. Well that doesn't sound so bad, right? In the end, Stein agrees to help Jim. We hope this turns out better than the last time someone tried to help our guy.", "analysis": ""}

'Late in the evening I entered his study, after traversing an imposing but empty dining-room very dimly lit. The house was silent. I was preceded by an elderly grim Javanese servant in a sort of livery of white jacket and yellow sarong, who, after throwing the door open, exclaimed low, "O master!" and stepping aside, vanished in a mysterious way as though he had been a ghost only momentarily embodied for that particular service. Stein turned round with the chair, and in the same movement his spectacles seemed to get pushed up on his forehead. He welcomed me in his quiet and humorous voice. Only one corner of the vast room, the corner in which stood his writing-desk, was strongly lighted by a shaded reading-lamp, and the rest of the spacious apartment melted into shapeless gloom like a cavern. Narrow shelves filled with dark boxes of uniform shape and colour ran round the walls, not from floor to ceiling, but in a sombre belt about four feet broad. Catacombs of beetles. Wooden tablets were hung above at irregular intervals. The light reached one of them, and the word Coleoptera written in gold letters glittered mysteriously upon a vast dimness. The glass cases containing the collection of butterflies were ranged in three long rows upon slender-legged little tables. One of these cases had been removed from its place and stood on the desk, which was bestrewn with oblong slips of paper blackened with minute handwriting. '"So you see me--so," he said. His hand hovered over the case where a butterfly in solitary grandeur spread out dark bronze wings, seven inches or more across, with exquisite white veinings and a gorgeous border of yellow spots. "Only one specimen like this they have in _your_ London, and then--no more. To my small native town this my collection I shall bequeath. Something of me. The best." 'He bent forward in the chair and gazed intently, his chin over the front of the case. I stood at his back. "Marvellous," he whispered, and seemed to forget my presence. His history was curious. He had been born in Bavaria, and when a youth of twenty-two had taken an active part in the revolutionary movement of 1848. Heavily compromised, he managed to make his escape, and at first found a refuge with a poor republican watchmaker in Trieste. From there he made his way to Tripoli with a stock of cheap watches to hawk about,--not a very great opening truly, but it turned out lucky enough, because it was there he came upon a Dutch traveller--a rather famous man, I believe, but I don't remember his name. It was that naturalist who, engaging him as a sort of assistant, took him to the East. They travelled in the Archipelago together and separately, collecting insects and birds, for four years or more. Then the naturalist went home, and Stein, having no home to go to, remained with an old trader he had come across in his journeys in the interior of Celebes--if Celebes may be said to have an interior. This old Scotsman, the only white man allowed to reside in the country at the time, was a privileged friend of the chief ruler of Wajo States, who was a woman. I often heard Stein relate how that chap, who was slightly paralysed on one side, had introduced him to the native court a short time before another stroke carried him off. He was a heavy man with a patriarchal white beard, and of imposing stature. He came into the council-hall where all the rajahs, pangerans, and headmen were assembled, with the queen, a fat wrinkled woman (very free in her speech, Stein said), reclining on a high couch under a canopy. He dragged his leg, thumping with his stick, and grasped Stein's arm, leading him right up to the couch. "Look, queen, and you rajahs, this is my son," he proclaimed in a stentorian voice. "I have traded with your fathers, and when I die he shall trade with you and your sons." 'By means of this simple formality Stein inherited the Scotsman's privileged position and all his stock-in-trade, together with a fortified house on the banks of the only navigable river in the country. Shortly afterwards the old queen, who was so free in her speech, died, and the country became disturbed by various pretenders to the throne. Stein joined the party of a younger son, the one of whom thirty years later he never spoke otherwise but as "my poor Mohammed Bonso." They both became the heroes of innumerable exploits; they had wonderful adventures, and once stood a siege in the Scotsman's house for a month, with only a score of followers against a whole army. I believe the natives talk of that war to this day. Meantime, it seems, Stein never failed to annex on his own account every butterfly or beetle he could lay hands on. After some eight years of war, negotiations, false truces, sudden outbreaks, reconciliation, treachery, and so on, and just as peace seemed at last permanently established, his "poor Mohammed Bonso" was assassinated at the gate of his own royal residence while dismounting in the highest spirits on his return from a successful deer-hunt. This event rendered Stein's position extremely insecure, but he would have stayed perhaps had it not been that a short time afterwards he lost Mohammed's sister ("my dear wife the princess," he used to say solemnly), by whom he had had a daughter--mother and child both dying within three days of each other from some infectious fever. He left the country, which this cruel loss had made unbearable to him. Thus ended the first and adventurous part of his existence. What followed was so different that, but for the reality of sorrow which remained with him, this strange part must have resembled a dream. He had a little money; he started life afresh, and in the course of years acquired a considerable fortune. At first he had travelled a good deal amongst the islands, but age had stolen upon him, and of late he seldom left his spacious house three miles out of town, with an extensive garden, and surrounded by stables, offices, and bamboo cottages for his servants and dependants, of whom he had many. He drove in his buggy every morning to town, where he had an office with white and Chinese clerks. He owned a small fleet of schooners and native craft, and dealt in island produce on a large scale. For the rest he lived solitary, but not misanthropic, with his books and his collection, classing and arranging specimens, corresponding with entomologists in Europe, writing up a descriptive catalogue of his treasures. Such was the history of the man whom I had come to consult upon Jim's case without any definite hope. Simply to hear what he would have to say would have been a relief. I was very anxious, but I respected the intense, almost passionate, absorption with which he looked at a butterfly, as though on the bronze sheen of these frail wings, in the white tracings, in the gorgeous markings, he could see other things, an image of something as perishable and defying destruction as these delicate and lifeless tissues displaying a splendour unmarred by death. '"Marvellous!" he repeated, looking up at me. "Look! The beauty--but that is nothing--look at the accuracy, the harmony. And so fragile! And so strong! And so exact! This is Nature--the balance of colossal forces. Every star is so--and every blade of grass stands so--and the mighty Kosmos ib perfect equilibrium produces--this. This wonder; this masterpiece of Nature--the great artist." '"Never heard an entomologist go on like this," I observed cheerfully. "Masterpiece! And what of man?" '"Man is amazing, but he is not a masterpiece," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the glass case. "Perhaps the artist was a little mad. Eh? What do you think? Sometimes it seems to me that man is come where he is not wanted, where there is no place for him; for if not, why should he want all the place? Why should he run about here and there making a great noise about himself, talking about the stars, disturbing the blades of grass? . . ." '"Catching butterflies," I chimed in. 'He smiled, threw himself back in his chair, and stretched his legs. "Sit down," he said. "I captured this rare specimen myself one very fine morning. And I had a very big emotion. You don't know what it is for a collector to capture such a rare specimen. You can't know." 'I smiled at my ease in a rocking-chair. His eyes seemed to look far beyond the wall at which they stared; and he narrated how, one night, a messenger arrived from his "poor Mohammed," requiring his presence at the "residenz"--as he called it--which was distant some nine or ten miles by a bridle-path over a cultivated plain, with patches of forest here and there. Early in the morning he started from his fortified house, after embracing his little Emma, and leaving the "princess," his wife, in command. He described how she came with him as far as the gate, walking with one hand on the neck of his horse; she had on a white jacket, gold pins in her hair, and a brown leather belt over her left shoulder with a revolver in it. "She talked as women will talk," he said, "telling me to be careful, and to try to get back before dark, and what a great wickedness it was for me to go alone. We were at war, and the country was not safe; my men were putting up bullet-proof shutters to the house and loading their rifles, and she begged me to have no fear for her. She could defend the house against anybody till I returned. And I laughed with pleasure a little. I liked to see her so brave and young and strong. I too was young then. At the gate she caught hold of my hand and gave it one squeeze and fell back. I made my horse stand still outside till I heard the bars of the gate put up behind me. There was a great enemy of mine, a great noble--and a great rascal too--roaming with a band in the neighbourhood. I cantered for four or five miles; there had been rain in the night, but the musts had gone up, up--and the face of the earth was clean; it lay smiling to me, so fresh and innocent--like a little child. Suddenly somebody fires a volley--twenty shots at least it seemed to me. I hear bullets sing in my ear, and my hat jumps to the back of my head. It was a little intrigue, you understand. They got my poor Mohammed to send for me and then laid that ambush. I see it all in a minute, and I think--This wants a little management. My pony snort, jump, and stand, and I fall slowly forward with my head on his mane. He begins to walk, and with one eye I could see over his neck a faint cloud of smoke hanging in front of a clump of bamboos to my left. I think--Aha! my friends, why you not wait long enough before you shoot? This is not yet gelungen. Oh no! I get hold of my revolver with my right hand--quiet--quiet. After all, there were only seven of these rascals. They get up from the grass and start running with their sarongs tucked up, waving spears above their heads, and yelling to each other to look out and catch the horse, because I was dead. I let them come as close as the door here, and then bang, bang, bang--take aim each time too. One more shot I fire at a man's back, but I miss. Too far already. And then I sit alone on my horse with the clean earth smiling at me, and there are the bodies of three men lying on the ground. One was curled up like a dog, another on his back had an arm over his eyes as if to keep off the sun, and the third man he draws up his leg very slowly and makes it with one kick straight again. I watch him very carefully from my horse, but there is no more--bleibt ganz ruhig--keep still, so. And as I looked at his face for some sign of life I observed something like a faint shadow pass over his forehead. It was the shadow of this butterfly. Look at the form of the wing. This species fly high with a strong flight. I raised my eyes and I saw him fluttering away. I think--Can it be possible? And then I lost him. I dismounted and went on very slow, leading my horse and holding my revolver with one hand and my eyes darting up and down and right and left, everywhere! At last I saw him sitting on a small heap of dirt ten feet away. At once my heart began to beat quick. I let go my horse, keep my revolver in one hand, and with the other snatch my soft felt hat off my head. One step. Steady. Another step. Flop! I got him! When I got up I shook like a leaf with excitement, and when I opened these beautiful wings and made sure what a rare and so extraordinary perfect specimen I had, my head went round and my legs became so weak with emotion that I had to sit on the ground. I had greatly desired to possess myself of a specimen of that species when collecting for the professor. I took long journeys and underwent great privations; I had dreamed of him in my sleep, and here suddenly I had him in my fingers--for myself! In the words of the poet" (he pronounced it "boet")-- "'So halt' ich's endlich denn in meinen Handen, Und nenn' es in gewissem Sinne mein.'" He gave to the last word the emphasis of a suddenly lowered voice, and withdrew his eyes slowly from my face. He began to charge a long-stemmed pipe busily and in silence, then, pausing with his thumb on the orifice of the bowl, looked again at me significantly. '"Yes, my good friend. On that day I had nothing to desire; I had greatly annoyed my principal enemy; I was young, strong; I had friendship; I had the love" (he said "lof") "of woman, a child I had, to make my heart very full--and even what I had once dreamed in my sleep had come into my hand too!" 'He struck a match, which flared violently. His thoughtful placid face twitched once. '"Friend, wife, child," he said slowly, gazing at the small flame--"phoo!" The match was blown out. He sighed and turned again to the glass case. The frail and beautiful wings quivered faintly, as if his breath had for an instant called back to life that gorgeous object of his dreams. '"The work," he began suddenly, pointing to the scattered slips, and in his usual gentle and cheery tone, "is making great progress. I have been this rare specimen describing. . . . Na! And what is your good news?" '"To tell you the truth, Stein," I said with an effort that surprised me, "I came here to describe a specimen. . . ." '"Butterfly?" he asked, with an unbelieving and humorous eagerness. '"Nothing so perfect," I answered, feeling suddenly dispirited with all sorts of doubts. "A man!" '"Ach so!" he murmured, and his smiling countenance, turned to me, became grave. Then after looking at me for a while he said slowly, "Well--I am a man too." 'Here you have him as he was; he knew how to be so generously encouraging as to make a scrupulous man hesitate on the brink of confidence; but if I did hesitate it was not for long. 'He heard me out, sitting with crossed legs. Sometimes his head would disappear completely in a great eruption of smoke, and a sympathetic growl would come out from the cloud. When I finished he uncrossed his legs, laid down his pipe, leaned forward towards me earnestly with his elbows on the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers together. '"I understand very well. He is romantic." 'He had diagnosed the case for me, and at first I was quite startled to find how simple it was; and indeed our conference resembled so much a medical consultation--Stein, of learned aspect, sitting in an arm-chair before his desk; I, anxious, in another, facing him, but a little to one side--that it seemed natural to ask-- '"What's good for it?" 'He lifted up a long forefinger. '"There is only one remedy! One thing alone can us from being ourselves cure!" The finger came down on the desk with a smart rap. The case which he had made to look so simple before became if possible still simpler--and altogether hopeless. There was a pause. "Yes," said I, "strictly speaking, the question is not how to get cured, but how to live." 'He approved with his head, a little sadly as it seemed. "Ja! ja! In general, adapting the words of your great poet: That is the question. . . ." He went on nodding sympathetically. . . . "How to be! Ach! How to be." 'He stood up with the tips of his fingers resting on the desk. '"We want in so many different ways to be," he began again. "This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man he will never on his heap of mud keep still. He want to be so, and again he want to be so. . . ." He moved his hand up, then down. . . . "He wants to be a saint, and he wants to be a devil--and every time he shuts his eyes he sees himself as a very fine fellow--so fine as he can never be. . . . In a dream. . . ." 'He lowered the glass lid, the automatic lock clicked sharply, and taking up the case in both hands he bore it religiously away to its place, passing out of the bright circle of the lamp into the ring of fainter light--into shapeless dusk at last. It had an odd effect--as if these few steps had carried him out of this concrete and perplexed world. His tall form, as though robbed of its substance, hovered noiselessly over invisible things with stooping and indefinite movements; his voice, heard in that remoteness where he could be glimpsed mysteriously busy with immaterial cares, was no longer incisive, seemed to roll voluminous and grave--mellowed by distance. '"And because you not always can keep your eyes shut there comes the real trouble--the heart pain--the world pain. I tell you, my friend, it is not good for you to find you cannot make your dream come true, for the reason that you not strong enough are, or not clever enough. . . . Ja! . . . And all the time you are such a fine fellow too! Wie? Was? Gott im Himmel! How can that be? Ha! ha! ha!" 'The shadow prowling amongst the graves of butterflies laughed boisterously. '"Yes! Very funny this terrible thing is. A man that is born falls into a dream like a man who falls into the sea. If he tries to climb out into the air as inexperienced people endeavour to do, he drowns--nicht wahr? . . . No! I tell you! The way is to the destructive element submit yourself, and with the exertions of your hands and feet in the water make the deep, deep sea keep you up. So if you ask me--how to be?" 'His voice leaped up extraordinarily strong, as though away there in the dusk he had been inspired by some whisper of knowledge. "I will tell you! For that too there is only one way." 'With a hasty swish-swish of his slippers he loomed up in the ring of faint light, and suddenly appeared in the bright circle of the lamp. His extended hand aimed at my breast like a pistol; his deepset eyes seemed to pierce through me, but his twitching lips uttered no word, and the austere exaltation of a certitude seen in the dusk vanished from his face. The hand that had been pointing at my breast fell, and by-and-by, coming a step nearer, he laid it gently on my shoulder. There were things, he said mournfully, that perhaps could never be told, only he had lived so much alone that sometimes he forgot--he forgot. The light had destroyed the assurance which had inspired him in the distant shadows. He sat down and, with both elbows on the desk, rubbed his forehead. "And yet it is true--it is true. In the destructive element immerse." . . . He spoke in a subdued tone, without looking at me, one hand on each side of his face. "That was the way. To follow the dream, and again to follow the dream--and so--ewig--usque ad finem. . . ." The whisper of his conviction seemed to open before me a vast and uncertain expanse, as of a crepuscular horizon on a plain at dawn--or was it, perchance, at the coming of the night? One had not the courage to decide; but it was a charming and deceptive light, throwing the impalpable poesy of its dimness over pitfalls--over graves. His life had begun in sacrifice, in enthusiasm for generous ideas; he had travelled very far, on various ways, on strange paths, and whatever he followed it had been without faltering, and therefore without shame and without regret. In so far he was right. That was the way, no doubt. Yet for all that, the great plain on which men wander amongst graves and pitfalls remained very desolate under the impalpable poesy of its crepuscular light, overshadowed in the centre, circled with a bright edge as if surrounded by an abyss full of flames. When at last I broke the silence it was to express the opinion that no one could be more romantic than himself. 'He shook his head slowly, and afterwards looked at me with a patient and inquiring glance. It was a shame, he said. There we were sitting and talking like two boys, instead of putting our heads together to find something practical--a practical remedy--for the evil--for the great evil--he repeated, with a humorous and indulgent smile. For all that, our talk did not grow more practical. We avoided pronouncing Jim's name as though we had tried to keep flesh and blood out of our discussion, or he were nothing but an erring spirit, a suffering and nameless shade. "Na!" said Stein, rising. "To-night you sleep here, and in the morning we shall do something practical--practical. . . ." He lit a two-branched candlestick and led the way. We passed through empty dark rooms, escorted by gleams from the lights Stein carried. They glided along the waxed floors, sweeping here and there over the polished surface of a table, leaped upon a fragmentary curve of a piece of furniture, or flashed perpendicularly in and out of distant mirrors, while the forms of two men and the flicker of two flames could be seen for a moment stealing silently across the depths of a crystalline void. He walked slowly a pace in advance with stooping courtesy; there was a profound, as it were a listening, quietude on his face; the long flaxen locks mixed with white threads were scattered thinly upon his slightly bowed neck. '"He is romantic--romantic," he repeated. "And that is very bad--very bad. . . . Very good, too," he added. "But _is he_?" I queried. '"Gewiss," he said, and stood still holding up the candelabrum, but without looking at me. "Evident! What is it that by inward pain makes him know himself? What is it that for you and me makes him--exist?" 'At that moment it was difficult to believe in Jim's existence--starting from a country parsonage, blurred by crowds of men as by clouds of dust, silenced by the clashing claims of life and death in a material world--but his imperishable reality came to me with a convincing, with an irresistible force! I saw it vividly, as though in our progress through the lofty silent rooms amongst fleeting gleams of light and the sudden revelations of human figures stealing with flickering flames within unfathomable and pellucid depths, we had approached nearer to absolute Truth, which, like Beauty itself, floats elusive, obscure, half submerged, in the silent still waters of mystery. "Perhaps he is," I admitted with a slight laugh, whose unexpectedly loud reverberation made me lower my voice directly; "but I am sure you are." With his head dropping on his breast and the light held high he began to walk again. "Well--I exist, too," he said. 'He preceded me. My eyes followed his movements, but what I did see was not the head of the firm, the welcome guest at afternoon receptions, the correspondent of learned societies, the entertainer of stray naturalists; I saw only the reality of his destiny, which he had known how to follow with unfaltering footsteps, that life begun in humble surroundings, rich in generous enthusiasms, in friendship, love, war--in all the exalted elements of romance. At the door of my room he faced me. "Yes," I said, as though carrying on a discussion, "and amongst other things you dreamed foolishly of a certain butterfly; but when one fine morning your dream came in your way you did not let the splendid opportunity escape. Did you? Whereas he . . ." Stein lifted his hand. "And do you know how many opportunities I let escape; how many dreams I had lost that had come in my way?" He shook his head regretfully. "It seems to me that some would have been very fine--if I had made them come true. Do you know how many? Perhaps I myself don't know." "Whether his were fine or not," I said, "he knows of one which he certainly did not catch." "Everybody knows of one or two like that," said Stein; "and that is the trouble--the great trouble. . . ." 'He shook hands on the threshold, peered into my room under his raised arm. "Sleep well. And to-morrow we must do something practical--practical. . . ." 'Though his own room was beyond mine I saw him return the way he came. He was going back to his butterflies.'

Chapter 20

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-20

Marlow goes to visit Stein, who is old and lives alone in a big house. We learn that he was a political revolutionary and adventurer who lived in Malaysia for many years. He was even married to a princess there, with whom he had a baby daughter. But his wife and daughter died, and Stein has lived alone ever since. A noted naturalist, he collects butterflies, and he tells Marlow the story of the day he captured his most prized one. Cue another digression. After getting a run-down on Stein, Marlow tells Stein Jim's story. Stein is sympathetic. He thinks Jim's problem is that he's a romantic. Well that doesn't sound so bad, right? In the end, Stein agrees to help Jim. We hope this turns out better than the last time someone tried to help our guy.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_5_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 6

part 1, chapter 6

{"name": "Part 1, Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-6", "summary": "When she's leaving her house, Madame de Renal notices a young man approaching her house. She asks him what he wants, and he tells her he's the new tutor. Madame is relieved to see that the tutor is nothing like she imagined. Nonetheless, Madame makes Julien promise that he won't be cruel to her children. He promises. While they talk, Madame de Renal becomes obsessed with Julien's beauty, which is almost kind of feminine to her. Julien apologizes in advance for anything he might do in the next few days to offend Madame. He admits that he has always been poor and isn't aware of rich people's customs. As he explains himself, Julien becomes aware of Madame's beauty. He thinks about kissing her hand out of respect . Then he does. Monsieur de Renal shows up and sits Julien down for orientation. He forbids him from having visitors and tells him that he'll have a decent future if he does a good job. The mayor takes Julien to the local tailor and has some good clothes made for him. By the time he's ready to meet the kids, he looks like a completely different person. He has even changed his attitude to seem more commanding and severe. He meets the kids and tells them that they'll need to know their lessons if they're going to please him. Julien gives the eldest child a copy of the Bible and asks the kid to pick any random passage. Julien then recites from memory every single passage that the kid picks. Pretty soon, all of the servants in the house have gathered at the door to witness Julien's talents. Everyone is astonished. The mayor is overjoyed when one of his rivals, Mr. Valenod, walks in during Julien's demonstration. He feels like he can rub his success in Valenod's face. All this time, Julien makes sure to hide the fact that he's a great admirer of Napoleon Bonaparte, a former dictator of France.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER VI ENNUI Non so piu cosa son Cosa facio. MOZART (_Figaro_). Madame de Renal was going out of the salon by the folding window which opened on to the garden with that vivacity and grace which was natural to her when she was free from human observation, when she noticed a young peasant near the entrance gate. He was still almost a child, extremely pale, and looked as though he had been crying. He was in a white shirt and had under his arm a perfectly new suit of violet frieze. The little peasant's complexion was so white and his eyes were so soft, that Madame de Renal's somewhat romantic spirit thought at first that it might be a young girl in disguise, who had come to ask some favour of the M. the Mayor. She took pity on this poor creature, who had stopped at the entrance of the door, and who apparently did not dare to raise its hand to the bell. Madame de Renal approached, forgetting for the moment the bitter chagrin occasioned by the tutor's arrival. Julien, who was turned towards the gate, did not see her advance. He trembled when a soft voice said quite close to his ear: "What do you want here, my child." Julien turned round sharply and was so struck by Madame de Renal's look, full of graciousness as it was, that up to a certain point he forgot to be nervous. Overcome by her beauty he soon forgot everything, even what he had come for. Madame de Renal repeated her question. "I have come here to be tutor, Madame," he said at last, quite ashamed of his tears which he was drying as best as he could. Madame de Renal remained silent. They had a view of each other at close range. Julien had never seen a human being so well-dressed, and above all he had never seen a woman with so dazzling a complexion speak to him at all softly. Madame de Renal observed the big tears which had lingered on the cheeks of the young peasant, those cheeks which had been so pale and were now so pink. Soon she began to laugh with all the mad gaiety of a young girl, she made fun of herself, and was unable to realise the extent of her happiness. So this was that tutor whom she had imagined a dirty, badly dressed priest, who was coming to scold and flog her children. "What! Monsieur," she said to him at last, "you know Latin?" The word "Monsieur" astonished Julien so much that he reflected for a moment. "Yes, Madame," he said timidly. Madame de Renal was so happy that she plucked up the courage to say to Julien, "You will not scold the poor children too much?" "I scold them!" said Julien in astonishment; "why should I?" "You won't, will you, Monsieur," she added after a little silence, in a soft voice whose emotion became more and more intense. "You will be nice to them, you promise me?" To hear himself called "Monsieur" again in all seriousness by so well dressed a lady was beyond all Julien's expectations. He had always said to himself in all the castles of Spain that he had built in his youth, that no real lady would ever condescend to talk to him except when he had a fine uniform. Madame de Renal, on her side, was completely taken in by Julien's beautiful complexion, his big black eyes, and his pretty hair, which was more than usually curly, because he had just plunged his head into the basin of the public fountain in order to refresh himself. She was over-joyed to find that this sinister tutor, whom she had feared to find so harsh and severe to her children, had, as a matter of fact, the timid manner of a girl. The contrast between her fears and what she now saw, proved a great event for Madame de Renal's peaceful temperament. Finally, she recovered from her surprise. She was astonished to find herself at the gate of her own house talking in this way and at such close quarters to this young and somewhat scantily dressed man. "Let us go in, Monsieur," she said to him with a certain air of embarrassment. During Madame de Renal's whole life she had never been so deeply moved by such a sense of pure pleasure. Never had so gracious a vision followed in the wake of her disconcerting fears. So these pretty children of whom she took such care were not after all to fall into the hands of a dirty grumbling priest. She had scarcely entered the vestibule when she turned round towards Julien, who was following her trembling. His astonishment at the sight of so fine a house proved but an additional charm in Madame de Renal's eyes. She could not believe her own eyes. It seemed to her, above all, that the tutor ought to have a black suit. "But is it true, Monsieur," she said to him, stopping once again, and in mortal fear that she had made a mistake, so happy had her discovery made her. "Is it true that you know Latin?" These words offended Julien's pride, and dissipated the charming atmosphere which he had been enjoying for the last quarter of an hour. "Yes, Madame," he said, trying to assume an air of coldness, "I know Latin as well as the cure, who has been good enough to say sometimes that I know it even better." Madame de Renal thought that Julien looked extremely wicked. He had stopped two paces from her. She approached and said to him in a whisper: "You won't beat my children the first few days, will you, even if they do not know their lessons?" The softness and almost supplication of so beautiful a lady made Julien suddenly forget what he owed to his reputation as a Latinist. Madame de Renal's face was close to his own. He smelt the perfume of a woman's summer clothing, a quite astonishing experience for a poor peasant. Julien blushed extremely, and said with a sigh in a faltering voice: "Fear nothing, Madame, I will obey you in everything." It was only now, when her anxiety about her children had been relieved once and for all, that Madame de Renal was struck by Julien's extreme beauty. The comparative effeminancy of his features and his air of extreme embarrassment did not seem in any way ridiculous to a woman who was herself extremely timid. The male air, which is usually considered essential to a man's beauty, would have terrified her. "How old are you, sir," she said to Julien. "Nearly nineteen." "My elder son is eleven," went on Madame de Renal, who had completely recovered her confidence. "He will be almost a chum for you. You will talk sensibly to him. His father started beating him once. The child was ill for a whole week, and yet it was only a little tap." What a difference between him and me, thought Julien. Why, it was only yesterday that my father beat me. How happy these rich people are. Madame de Renal, who had already begun to observe the fine nuances of the workings in the tutor's mind, took this fit of sadness for timidity and tried to encourage him. "What is your name, Monsieur?" she said to him, with an accent and a graciousness whose charm Julien appreciated without being able to explain. "I am called Julien Sorel, Madame. I feel nervous of entering a strange house for the first time in my life. I have need of your protection and I want you to make many allowances for me during the first few days. I have never been to the college, I was too poor. I have never spoken to anyone else except my cousin who was Surgeon-Major, Member of the Legion of Honour, and M. the cure Chelan. He will give you a good account of me. My brothers always used to beat me, and you must not believe them if they speak badly of me to you. You must forgive my faults, Madame. I shall always mean everything for the best." Julien had regained his confidence during this long speech. He was examining Madame de Renal. Perfect grace works wonders when it is natural to the character, and above all, when the person whom it adorns never thinks of trying to affect it. Julien, who was quite a connoisseur in feminine beauty, would have sworn at this particular moment that she was not more than twenty. The rash idea of kissing her hand immediately occurred to him. He soon became frightened of his idea. A minute later he said to himself, it will be an act of cowardice if I do not carry out an action which may be useful to me, and lessen the contempt which this fine lady probably has for a poor workman just taken away from the saw-mill. Possibly Julien was a little encouraged through having heard some young girls repeat on Sundays during the last six months the words "pretty boy." During this internal debate, Madame de Renal was giving him two or three hints on the way to commence handling the children. The strain Julien was putting on himself made him once more very pale. He said with an air of constraint. "I will never beat your children, Madame. I swear it before God." In saying this, he dared to take Madame de Renal's hand and carry it to his lips. She was astonished at this act, and after reflecting, became shocked. As the weather was very warm, her arm was quite bare underneath the shawl, and Julien's movement in carrying her hand to his lips entirely uncovered it. After a few moments she scolded herself. It seemed to her that her anger had not been quick enough. M. de Renal, who had heard voices, came out of his study, and assuming the same air of paternal majesty with which he celebrated marriages at the mayoral office, said to Julien: "It is essential for me to have a few words with you before my children see you." He made Julien enter a room and insisted on his wife being present, although she wished to leave them alone. Having closed the door M. Renal sat down. "M. the cure has told me that you are a worthy person, and everybody here will treat you with respect. If I am satisfied with you I will later on help you in having a little establishment of your own. I do not wish you to see either anything more of your relatives or your friends. Their tone is bound to be prejudicial to my children. Here are thirty-six francs for the first month, but I insist on your word not to give a sou of this money to your father." M. de Renal was piqued against the old man for having proved the shrewder bargainer. "Now, Monsieur, for I have given orders for everybody here to call you Monsieur, and you will appreciate the advantage of having entered the house of real gentle folk, now, Monsieur, it is not becoming for the children to see you in a jacket." "Have the servants seen him?" said M. de Renal to his wife. "No, my dear," she answered, with an air of deep pensiveness. "All the better. Put this on," he said to the surprised young man, giving him a frock-coat of his own. "Let us now go to M. Durand's the draper." When M. de Renal came back with the new tutor in his black suit more than an hour later, he found his wife still seated in the same place. She felt calmed by Julien's presence. When she examined him she forgot to be frightened of him. Julien was not thinking about her at all. In spite of all his distrust of destiny and mankind, his soul at this moment was as simple as that of a child. It seemed as though he had lived through years since the moment, three hours ago, when he had been all atremble in the church. He noticed Madame de Renal's frigid manner and realised that she was very angry, because he had dared to kiss her hand. But the proud consciousness which was given to him by the feel of clothes so different from those which he usually wore, transported him so violently and he had so great a desire to conceal his exultation, that all his movements were marked by a certain spasmodic irresponsibility. Madame de Renal looked at him with astonishment. "Monsieur," said M. de Renal to him, "dignity above all is necessary if you wish to be respected by my children." "Sir," answered Julien, "I feel awkward in my new clothes. I am a poor peasant and have never wore anything but jackets. If you allow it, I will retire to my room." "What do you think of this 'acquisition?'" said M. de Renal to his wife. Madame de Renal concealed the truth from her husband, obeying an almost instinctive impulse which she certainly did not own to herself. "I am not as fascinated as you are by this little peasant. Your favours will result in his not being able to keep his place, and you will have to send him back before the month is out." "Oh, well! we'll send him back then, he cannot run me into more than a hundred francs, and Verrieres will have got used to seeing M. de Renal's children with a tutor. That result would not have been achieved if I had allowed Julien to wear a workman's clothes. If I do send him back, I shall of course keep the complete black suit which I have just ordered at the draper's. All he will keep is the ready-made suit which I have just put him into at the the tailor's." The hour that Julien spent in his room seemed only a minute to Madame de Renal. The children who had been told about their new tutor began to overwhelm their mother with questions. Eventually Julien appeared. He was quite another man. It would be incorrect to say that he was grave--he was the very incarnation of gravity. He was introduced to the children and spoke to them in a manner that astonished M. de Renal himself. "I am here, gentlemen, he said, as he finished his speech, to teach you Latin. You know what it means to recite a lesson. Here is the Holy Bible, he said, showing them a small volume in thirty-two mo., bound in black. It deals especially with the history of our Lord Jesus Christ and is the part which is called the New Testament. I shall often make you recite your lesson, but do you make me now recite mine." Adolphe, the eldest of the children, had taken up the book. "Open it anywhere you like," went on Julien and tell me the first word of any verse, "I will then recite by heart that sacred book which governs our conduct towards the whole world, until you stop me." Adolphe opened the book and read a word, and Julien recited the whole of the page as easily as though he had been talking French. M. de Renal looked at his wife with an air of triumph The children, seeing the astonishment of their parents, opened their eyes wide. A servant came to the door of the drawing-room; Julien went on talking Latin. The servant first remained motionless, and then disappeared. Soon Madame's house-maid, together with the cook, arrived at the door. Adolphe had already opened the book at eight different places, while Julien went on reciting all the time with the same facility. "Great heavens!" said the cook, a good and devout girl, quite aloud, "what a pretty little priest!" M. de Renal's self-esteem became uneasy. Instead of thinking of examining the tutor, his mind was concentrated in racking his memory for some other Latin words. Eventually he managed to spout a phrase of Horace. Julien knew no other Latin except his Bible. He answered with a frown. "The holy ministry to which I destine myself has forbidden me to read so profane a poet." M. de Renal quoted quite a large number of alleged verses from Horace. He explained to his children who Horace was, but the admiring children, scarcely attended to what he was saying: they were looking at Julien. The servants were still at the door. Julien thought that he ought to prolong the test--"M. Stanislas-Xavier also," he said to the youngest of the children, "must give me a passage from the holy book." Little Stanislas, who was quite flattered, read indifferently the first word of a verse, and Julien said the whole page. To put the finishing touch on M. de Renal's triumph, M. Valenod, the owner of the fine Norman horses, and M. Charcot de Maugiron, the sub-prefect of the district came in when Julien was reciting. This scene earned for Julien the title of Monsieur; even the servants did not dare to refuse it to him. That evening all Verrieres flocked to M. de Renal's to see the prodigy. Julien answered everybody in a gloomy manner and kept his own distance. His fame spread so rapidly in the town that a few hours afterwards M. de Renal, fearing that he would be taken away by somebody else, proposed to that he should sign an engagement for two years. "No, Monsieur," Julien answered coldly, "if you wished to dismiss me, I should have to go. An engagement which binds me without involving you in any obligation is not an equal one and I refuse it." Julien played his cards so well, that in less than a month of his arrival at the house, M. de Renal himself respected him. As the cure had quarrelled with both M. de Renal and M. Valenod, there was no one who could betray Julien's old passion for Napoleon. He always spoke of Napoleon with abhorrence.

Part 1, Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-6

When she's leaving her house, Madame de Renal notices a young man approaching her house. She asks him what he wants, and he tells her he's the new tutor. Madame is relieved to see that the tutor is nothing like she imagined. Nonetheless, Madame makes Julien promise that he won't be cruel to her children. He promises. While they talk, Madame de Renal becomes obsessed with Julien's beauty, which is almost kind of feminine to her. Julien apologizes in advance for anything he might do in the next few days to offend Madame. He admits that he has always been poor and isn't aware of rich people's customs. As he explains himself, Julien becomes aware of Madame's beauty. He thinks about kissing her hand out of respect . Then he does. Monsieur de Renal shows up and sits Julien down for orientation. He forbids him from having visitors and tells him that he'll have a decent future if he does a good job. The mayor takes Julien to the local tailor and has some good clothes made for him. By the time he's ready to meet the kids, he looks like a completely different person. He has even changed his attitude to seem more commanding and severe. He meets the kids and tells them that they'll need to know their lessons if they're going to please him. Julien gives the eldest child a copy of the Bible and asks the kid to pick any random passage. Julien then recites from memory every single passage that the kid picks. Pretty soon, all of the servants in the house have gathered at the door to witness Julien's talents. Everyone is astonished. The mayor is overjoyed when one of his rivals, Mr. Valenod, walks in during Julien's demonstration. He feels like he can rub his success in Valenod's face. All this time, Julien makes sure to hide the fact that he's a great admirer of Napoleon Bonaparte, a former dictator of France.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/23046-chapters/act_3_chapter_2_act_4_chapters_1_to_2.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Comedy of Errors/section_3_part_0.txt

The Comedy of Errors.act 4.scenes 1-2

act iii, scene ii; act 4, scenes 1-2

{"name": "Act III, scene ii; Act IV, scenes i-ii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210224233119/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/errors/section4/", "summary": "Inside the house, Luciana and Antipholus of Syracuse are alone together. Luciana rebukes the man she believes to be her brother-in-law for not treating Adriana well; if he must betray his wife, she pleads, he should at least do it secretly. Antipholus S., meanwhile, insists that he is not Adriana's husband and then professes his love for Luciana. Appalled, she flees to find her sister. Dromio of Syracuse joins his master and recounts how the kitchen maid, Nell, mistook him for her husband . Nell, as the Syracusan Dromio tells it, is a prodigiously fat, ugly, and fearsome woman, and he and his master have a good laugh at her expense. Then, Antipholus S. tells his slave that he intends to depart from Ephesus immediately and sends him to the harbor to book passage. Once Dromio is gone, his master ponders the beauty of Luciana but resolves not to be tempted to remain in the city, since \"none but witches do inhabit here\". As he stands in thought, Angelo the goldsmith comes in and, mistaking him for Antipholus of Ephesus, gives him the gold chain that the Ephesian Antipholus had ordered, promising to stop by later to collect payment. Angelo, we learn, is in debt to a Second Merchant, who threatens to arrest him unless the money is paid. The goldsmith promises to collect the sum from Antipholus of Ephesus, who he sees walking down the street with Dromio of Ephesus. Antipholus E. sends his slave off to buy rope, with which he plans to beat his wife and servants for locking him out of the house at the last meal. Next, he greets Angelo, who asks to be paid for his gold chain. Antipholus, of course, never received the chain, and refuses to pay, so Angelo has him arrested. At that moment, Dromio of Syracuse returns from the harbor, and mistaking Antipholus E. for his master, tells him which ships are ready to sail. Cursing, Antipholus orders him to be silent and sends him to Adriana to fetch a purse of money with which to pay his way out of jail. Meanwhile, Luciana has told Adriana about how her \"husband\" declared his love for her and pledges her innocence of any illicit behavior. Adriana curses Antipholus furiously but admits to still feeling some love for him. Dromio of Syracuse dashes in to report that Antipholus has been arrested and needs money; Adriana sends Luciana to fetch it and then orders Dromio to hurry and save her husband from prison.", "analysis": "ii - Commentary Her encounter with Antipholus of Syracuse provides an occasion for Luciana to expound again on her philosophy of marriage. She rebukes him for not being faithful and then says, \"If you like elsewhere, do it by stealth; / Muffle your false love with some show of blindness .\" In other words, cheat if you must but at least pretend that you still love her, and don't get caught philandering. This assumption that men will have affairs, and that it is better not to know about them, fits in well with Luciana's world of docile women and dominating men, but it has unsettling implications in this case, since Antipholus is professing his love for her. By suggesting that her brother-in-law can commit adultery as long as he is not caught, one might argue, she implicitly suggests her own openness to his entreaties. For his part, Antipholus' speech declaring his love for her has a touching desperation to it. The language, which promises his submission to her ),\" suggests a relationship that reverses Luciana's professed ideal of feminine obedience. In a sense, Antipholus seems to be using his infatuation to achieve what his search for his brother has not granted him--namely, a sense of self. \"Transform me then,\" he entreats her, \"and to your power I'll yield . \" If the enchantments of Ephesus threaten to strip him of his identity, then his love for Luciana offers it back to him through the re-creative powers of love. From this revealing scene, we shift immediately to the uproariously funny exchange between Antipholus and his Dromio, in which Dromio uses geographical references to describe the ugliness of Nell , who has mistaken him for her husband. \"In what part of her body stands Ireland?\" his master asks. \"Marry, sir, in her buttocks,\" the slave replies. \"I found it out by the bogs.\" \"Where Scotland?\" Antipholus continues and gets the reply: \"I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm of her hand\" . The dialogue continues through France, England, Spain, and the Indies, culminating in Antipholus' question: \"Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?\" and his man's reply: \"O, sir! I did not look so low .\" This is Dromio S. in his finest form, telling raunchy jokes with obvious glee. What follows is pure plot, as the playwright contrives to entangle his characters in a bewildering web of errors culminating with the arrest of Antipholus of Ephesus. Adriana's response to the news is telling--having just been told that her husband tried to commit adultery with her own sister, she nevertheless reaffirms her love for him and sends money to free him immediately. The transience of her jealousy is appropriate to the play, since all negative emotions in a comedy must be transient in order to prepare for the happy ending."}

_SCENE II. The same._ _Enter LUCIANA and _ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse_._ _Luc._ And may it be that you have quite forgot A husband's office? shall, Antipholus, Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot? Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous? If you did wed my sister for her wealth, 5 Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness: Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth; Muffle your false love with some show of blindness: Let not my sister read it in your eye; Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator; 10 Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty; Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger; Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted; Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint; Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted? 15 What simple thief brags of his own attaint? 'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed, And let her read it in thy looks at board: Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed; Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word. 20 Alas, poor women! make us but believe, Being compact of credit, that you love us; Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve; We in your motion turn, and you may move us. Then, gentle brother, get you in again; 25 Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife: 'Tis holy sport, to be a little vain, When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife. _Ant. S._ Sweet mistress,--what your name is else, I know not, Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,-- 30 Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not Than our earth's wonder; more than earth divine. Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, 35 The folded meaning of your words' deceit. Against my soul's pure truth why labour you To make it wander in an unknown field? Are you a god? would you create me new? Transform me, then, and to your power I'll yield. 40 But if that I am I, then well I know Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, Nor to her bed no homage do I owe: Far more, far more to you do I decline. O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, 45 To drown me in thy sister flood of tears: Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote: Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs, And as a bed I'll take them, and there lie; And, in that glorious supposition, think 50 He gains by death that hath such means to die: Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink! _Luc._ What, are you mad, that you do reason so? _Ant. S._ Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know. _Luc._ It is a fault that springeth from your eye. 55 _Ant. S._ For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by. _Luc._ Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight. _Ant. S._ As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night. _Luc._ Why call you me love? call my sister so. _Ant. S._ Thy sister's sister. _Luc._ That's my sister. _Ant. S._ No; 60 It is thyself, mine own self's better part, Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart, My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim. _Luc._ All this my sister is, or else should be. 65 _Ant. S._ Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee. Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life: Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife. Give me thy hand. _Luc._ O, soft, sir! hold you still: I'll fetch my sister, to get her good will. [_Exit._ 70 _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._ _Ant. S._ Why, how now, Dromio! where runn'st thou so fast? _Dro. S._ Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man? am I myself? _Ant. S._ Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art 75 thyself. _Dro. S._ I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and besides myself. _Ant. S._ What woman's man? and how besides thyself? _Dro. S._ Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a 80 woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me. _Ant. S._ What claim lays she to thee? _Dro. S._ Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to your horse; and she would have me as a beast: not that, 85 I being a beast, she would have me; but that she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me. _Ant. S._ What is she? _Dro. S._ A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may not speak of, without he say Sir-reverence. I have 90 but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage. _Ant. S._ How dost thou mean a fat marriage? _Dro. S._ Marry, sir, she's the kitchen-wench, and all grease; and I know not what use to put her to, but to make 95 a lamp of her, and run from her by her own light. I warrant, her rags, and the tallow in them, will burn a Poland winter: if she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world. _Ant. S._ What complexion is she of? 100 _Dro. S._ Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing like so clean kept: for why she sweats; a man may go over shoes in the grime of it. _Ant. S._ That's a fault that water will mend. _Dro. S._ No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not 105 do it. _Ant. S._ What's her name? _Dro. S._ Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters, that's an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip. 110 _Ant. S._ Then she bears some breadth? _Dro. S._ No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out countries in her. _Ant. S._ In what part of her body stands Ireland? 115 _Dro. S._ Marry, sir, in her buttocks: I found it out by the bogs. _Ant. S._ Where Scotland? _Dro. S._ I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm of the hand. 120 _Ant. S._ Where France? _Dro. S._ In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her heir. _Ant. S._ Where England? _Dro. S._ I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find 125 no whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it. _Ant. S._ Where Spain? _Dro. S._ Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath. 130 _Ant. S._ Where America, the Indies? _Dro. S._ Oh, sir, upon her nose, all o'er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain; who sent whole armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose. 135 _Ant. S._ Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands? _Dro. S._ Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To conclude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me; called me Dromio; swore I was assured to her; told me what privy marks I had about me, as, the mark of my shoulder, the 140 mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that I, amazed, ran from her as a witch: And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith, and my heart of steel, She had transform'd me to a curtal dog, and made me turn i' the wheel. _Ant. S._ Go hie thee presently, post to the road:-- 145 An if the wind blow any way from shore, I will not harbour in this town to-night:-- If any bark put forth, come to the mart, Where I will walk till thou return to me. If every one knows us, and we know none, 150 'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be gone. _Dro. S._ As from a bear a man would run for life, So fly I from her that would be my wife. [_Exit._ _Ant. S._ There's none but witches do inhabit here; And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence. 155 She that doth call me husband, even my soul Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister, Possess'd with such a gentle sovereign grace, Of such enchanting presence and discourse, Hath almost made me traitor to myself: 160 But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong, I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song. _Enter ANGELO with the chain._ _Ang._ Master Antipholus,-- _Ant. S._ Ay, that's my name. _Ang._ I know it well, sir:--lo, here is the chain. I thought to have ta'en you at the Porpentine: 165 The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long. _Ant. S._ What is your will that I shall do with this? _Ang._ What please yourself, sir: I have made it for you. _Ant. S._ Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not. _Ang._ Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have. 170 Go home with it, and please your wife withal; And soon at supper-time I'll visit you, And then receive my money for the chain. _Ant. S._ I pray you, sir, receive the money now, For fear you ne'er see chain nor money more. 175 _Ang._ You are a merry man, sir: fare you well. [_Exit._ _Ant. S._ What I should think of this, I cannot tell: But this I think, there's no man is so vain That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain. I see a man here needs not live by shifts, 180 When in the streets he meets such golden gifts. I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay: If any ship put out, then straight away. [_Exit._ NOTES: III, 2. SCENE II. Enter LUCIANA] F2. Enter JULIANA F1. 1: Luc.] Rowe. Julia Ff. 2: _Antipholus_] _Antipholis, hate_ Theobald. _Antipholis, thus_ Id. conj. _a nipping hate_ Heath conj. _unkind debate_ Collier MS. 4: _building_] Theobald. _buildings_ Ff. _ruinous_] Capell (Theobald conj.). _ruinate_ Ff. 16: _attaint_] Rowe. _attaine_ F1 F2 F3. _attain_ F4. 20: _are_] F2 F3 F4. _is_ F1. 21: _but_] Theobald. _not_ Ff. 26: _wife_] _wise_ F1. 35: _shallow_] F1. _shaddow_ F2 F3. _shadow_ F4. 43: _no_] F1. _a_ F2 F3 F4. 44: _decline_] _incline_ Collier MS. 46: _sister_] F1. _sister's_ F2 F3 F4. 49: _bed_] F2 F3 F4. _bud_ F1. _bride_ Dyce. _them_] Capell (Edwards conj.). _thee_ Ff. 52: _she_] _he_ Capell. 57: _where_] Pope. _when_ Ff. 66: _am_] _mean_ Pope. _aim_ Capell. 71: SCENE III. Pope. 93: _How_] _What_ Capell. 97: _Poland_] _Lapland_ Warburton. 108: _and_] Theobald (Thirlby conj). _is_ Ff. 120: _the_] Ff. _her_ Rowe. 122: _forehead_] _sore head_ Jackson conj. _reverted_] _revolted_ Grant White. 123: _heir_] _heire_ F1. _haire_ F2 F3. _hair_ F4. 125: _chalky_] _chalkle_ F1. 135: _caracks_] Hanmer. _carrects_ F1. _carracts_ F2 F3 F4. _ballast_] _ballasted_ Capell. 138: _drudge, or_] _drudge of the Devil, this_ Warburton. _or diviner_] _this divine one_ Capell conj. 140: _mark_] _marke_ F1. _marks_ F2 F3 F4. 143: _faith_] _flint_ Hanmer. 143, 144: Printed as prose in Ff. As verse first by Knight. 144: _curtal_] F4. _curtull_ F1. _curtall_ F2 F3. _cur-tail_ Hanmer. 146: _An_] Capell. _And_ Ff. 150: _knows us_] _know us_ Johnson. 154: SCENE IV. Pope. 161: _to_] _of_ Pope. 164: _here is_] Pope. _here's_ Ff. 177: Ant. S.] Ant. F1 F4. Dro. F2 F3. 181: _streets_] _street_ Capell conj. ACT IV. SCENE I. A public place. _Enter _Second Merchant_, ANGELO, and an _Officer_._ _Sec. Mer._ You know since Pentecost the sum is due, And since I have not much importuned you; Nor now I had not, but that I am bound To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage: Therefore make present satisfaction, 5 Or I'll attach you by this officer. _Ang._ Even just the sum that I do owe to you Is growing to me by Antipholus; And in the instant that I met with you He had of me a chain: at five o'clock 10 I shall receive the money for the same. Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house, I will discharge my bond, and thank you too. _Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_ and _DROMIO of Ephesus_ from the courtezan's._ _Off._ That labour may you save: see where he comes. _Ant. E._ While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou 15 And buy a rope's end: that will I bestow Among my wife and her confederates, For locking me out of my doors by day.-- But, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone; Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me. 20 _Dro. E._ I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope. [_Exit._ _Ant. E._ A man is well holp up that trusts to you: I promised your presence and the chain; But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me. Belike you thought our love would last too long, 25 If it were chain'd together, and therefore came not. _Ang._ Saving your merry humour, here's the note How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat, The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion, Which doth amount to three odd ducats more 30 Than I stand debted to this gentleman: I pray you, see him presently discharged, For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it. _Ant. E._ I am not furnish'd with the present money; Besides, I have some business in the town. 35 Good signior, take the stranger to my house, And with you take the chain, and bid my wife Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof: Perchance I will be there as soon as you. _Ang._ Then you will bring the chain to her yourself? 40 _Ant. E._ No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough. _Ang._ Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you? _Ant. E._ An if I have not, sir, I hope you have; Or else you may return without your money. _Ang._ Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain: 45 Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman, And I, to blame, have held him here too long. _Ant. E._ Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse Your breach of promise to the Porpentine. I should have chid you for not bringing it, 50 But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl. _Sec. Mer._ The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch. _Ang._ You hear how he importunes me;--the chain! _Ant. E._ Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money. _Ang._ Come, come, you know I gave it you even now. 55 Either send the chain, or send me by some token. _Ant. E._ Fie, now you run this humour out of breath. Come, where's the chain? I pray you, let me see it. _Sec. Mer._ My business cannot brook this dalliance. Good sir, say whether you'll answer me or no: 60 If not, I'll leave him to the officer. _Ant. E._ I answer you! what should I answer you? _Ang._ The money that you owe me for the chain. _Ant. E._ I owe you none till I receive the chain. _Ang._ You know I gave it you half an hour since. 65 _Ant. E._ You gave me none: you wrong me much to say so. _Ang._ You wrong me more, sir, in denying it: Consider how it stands upon my credit. _Sec. Mer._ Well, officer, arrest him at my suit. _Off._ I do; and charge you in the duke's name to obey me. 70 _Ang._ This touches me in reputation. Either consent to pay this sum for me, Or I attach you by this officer. _Ant. E._ Consent to pay thee that I never had! Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest. 75 _Ang._ Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer. I would not spare my brother in this case, If he should scorn me so apparently. _Off._ I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit. _Ant. E._ I do obey thee till I give thee bail. 80 But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear As all the metal in your shop will answer. _Ang._ Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, To your notorious shame; I doubt it not. _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_, from the bay._ _Dro. S._ Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum 85 That stays but till her owner comes aboard, And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir, I have convey'd aboard; and I have bought The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitae. The ship is in her trim; the merry wind 90 Blows fair from land: they stay for nought at all But for their owner, master, and yourself. _Ant. E._ How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep, What ship of Epidamnum stays for me? _Dro. S._ A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage. 95 _Ant. E._ Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope, And told thee to what purpose and what end. _Dro. S._ You sent me for a rope's end as soon: You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. _Ant. E._ I will debate this matter at more leisure, 100 And teach your ears to list me with more heed. To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight: Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk That's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry There is a purse of ducats; let her send it: 105 Tell her I am arrested in the street, And that shall bail me: hie thee, slave, be gone! On, officer, to prison till it come. [_Exeunt Sec. Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and Ant. E._ _Dro. S._ To Adriana! that is where we dined, Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband: 110 She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. Thither I must, although against my will, For servants must their masters' minds fulfil. [_Exit._ NOTES: IV, 1. 8: _growing_] _owing_ Pope. 12: _Pleaseth you_] Ff. _Please you but_ Pope. _Please it you_ Anon. conj. 14: _may you_] F1 F2 F3. _you may_ F4. 17: _her_] Rowe. _their_ Ff. _these_ Collier MS. 26: _and_] om. Pope. 28: _carat_] Pope. _charect_ F1. _Raccat_ F2 F3 F4. _caract_ Collier. 29: _chargeful_] _charge for_ Anon. conj. 41: _time enough_] _in time_ Hanmer. 46: _stays_] _stay_ Pope. _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4. 47: _to blame_] F3. _too blame_ F1 F2 F4. 53: _the chain!_] Dyce. _the chain,_ Ff. _the chain--_ Johnson. 56: _Either_] _Or_ Pope. _me by_] _by me_ Heath conj. 60: _whether_] _whe'r_ Ff. _where_ Rowe. _if_ Pope. 62: _what_] F1. _why_ F2 F3 F4. 67: _more_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 70: Printed as verse by Capell. 73: _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4. 74: _thee_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _for_ Rowe. 85: SCENE II. Pope. _there is_] Pope. _there's_ Ff. 87: _And then, sir,_] F1. _Then, sir,_ F2 F3 F4. _And then_ Capell. _she_] om. Steevens. 88: _bought_] F1. _brought_ F2 F3 F4. 98: _You sent me_] _A rope! You sent me_ Capell. _You sent me, Sir,_ Steevens. SCENE II. The house of _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_. _Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA._ _Adr._ Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so? Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye That he did plead in earnest? yea or no? Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily? What observation madest thou, in this case, 5 Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face? _Luc._ First he denied you had in him no right. _Adr._ He meant he did me none; the more my spite. _Luc._ Then swore he that he was a stranger here. _Adr._ And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were. 10 _Luc._ Then pleaded I for you. _Adr._ And what said he? _Luc._ That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me. _Adr._ With what persuasion did he tempt thy love? _Luc._ With words that in an honest suit might move. First he did praise my beauty, then my speech. 15 _Adr._ Didst speak him fair? _Luc._ Have patience, I beseech. _Adr._ I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still; My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will. He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere, Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; 20 Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind; Stigmatical in making, worse in mind. _Luc._ Who would be jealous, then, of such a one? No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone. _Adr._ Ah, but I think him better than I say, 25 And yet would herein others' eyes were worse. Far from her nest the lapwing cries away: My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse. _Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._ _Dro. S._ Here! go; the desk, the purse! sweet, now, make haste. _Luc._ How hast thou lost thy breath? _Dro. S._ By running fast. 30 _Adr._ Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well? _Dro. S._ No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell. A devil in an everlasting garment hath him; One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel; A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough; 35 A wolf, nay, worse; a fellow all in buff; A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands; A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well; One that, before the Judgment, carries poor souls to hell. 40 _Adr._ Why, man, what is the matter? _Dro. S._ I do not know the matter: he is 'rested on the case. _Adr._ What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit. _Dro. S._ I know not at whose suit he is arrested well; But he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell. 45 Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk? _Adr._ Go fetch it, sister. [_Exit Luciana._] This I wonder at, That he, unknown to me, should be in debt. Tell me, was he arrested on a band? _Dro. S._ Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; 50 A chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring? _Adr._ What, the chain? _Dro. S._ No, no, the bell: 'tis time that I were gone: It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one. _Adr._ The hours come back! that did I never hear. 55 _Dro. S._ O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, 'a turns back for very fear. _Adr._ As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason! _Dro. S._ Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's worth to season. Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say, That Time comes stealing on by night and day? 60 If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way, Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day? _Re-enter LUCIANA with a purse._ _Adr._ Go, Dromio; there's the money, bear it straight; And bring thy master home immediately. Come, sister: I am press'd down with conceit,-- 65 Conceit, my comfort and my injury. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: IV, 2. SCENE II.] SCENE III. Pope. 2: _austerely_] _assuredly_ Heath conj. 4: _or sad or_] _sad_ Capell. _merrily_] _merry_ Collier MS. 6: _Of_] F2 F3 F4. _Oh,_ F1. 7: _you_] _you; you_ Capell. _no_] _a_ Rowe. 18: _his_] _it's_ Rowe. 22: _in mind_] F1. _the mind_ F2 F3 F4. 26: _herein_] _he in_ Hanmer. 29: SCENE IV. Pope. _sweet_] _swift_ Collier MS. 33: _hath him_] _hath him fell_ Collier MS. _hath him by the heel_ Spedding conj. 34: _One_] F2 F3 F4. _On_ F1. After this line Collier MS. inserts: _Who knows no touch of mercy, cannot feel_. 35: _fury_] Pope, ed. 2 (Theobald). _Fairie_ Ff. 37: _countermands_] _commands_ Theobald. 38: _of_] _and_ Collier MS. _alleys_] _allies_ Ff. _lands_] _lanes_ Grey conj. See note (V). 37, 38: _countermands The ... lands_] _his court maintains I' the ... lanes_ Becket conj. 42, 45: _'rested_] Theobald. _rested_ Ff. 43: _Tell_] _Well, tell_ Edd. conj. 44: _arrested well;_] F1. _arrested, well;_ F2 F3. _arrested: well:_ F4. 45: _But he's_] F3 F4. _But is_ F1 F2. _But 'a's_ Edd. conj. _can I_] F1 F2. _I can_ F3 F4. 46: _mistress, redemption_] Hanmer. _Mistris redemption_ F1 F2 F3. _Mistris Redemption_ F4. See note (VI). 48: _That_] _Thus_ F1. 49, 50: _band_] _bond_ Rowe. 50: _but on_] _but_ Pope. 54-62: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope. 55: _hear_] _here_ F1. 56: _'a turns_] _it turns_ Pope. _he turns_ Capell. 58: _bankrupt_] _bankrout_ Ff. _to season_] om. Pope. 61: _Time_] Rowe. _I_ Ff. _he_ Malone. _'a_ Staunton. 62: _an hour_] _any hour_ Collier MS.

Act III, scene ii; Act IV, scenes i-ii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210224233119/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/errors/section4/

Inside the house, Luciana and Antipholus of Syracuse are alone together. Luciana rebukes the man she believes to be her brother-in-law for not treating Adriana well; if he must betray his wife, she pleads, he should at least do it secretly. Antipholus S., meanwhile, insists that he is not Adriana's husband and then professes his love for Luciana. Appalled, she flees to find her sister. Dromio of Syracuse joins his master and recounts how the kitchen maid, Nell, mistook him for her husband . Nell, as the Syracusan Dromio tells it, is a prodigiously fat, ugly, and fearsome woman, and he and his master have a good laugh at her expense. Then, Antipholus S. tells his slave that he intends to depart from Ephesus immediately and sends him to the harbor to book passage. Once Dromio is gone, his master ponders the beauty of Luciana but resolves not to be tempted to remain in the city, since "none but witches do inhabit here". As he stands in thought, Angelo the goldsmith comes in and, mistaking him for Antipholus of Ephesus, gives him the gold chain that the Ephesian Antipholus had ordered, promising to stop by later to collect payment. Angelo, we learn, is in debt to a Second Merchant, who threatens to arrest him unless the money is paid. The goldsmith promises to collect the sum from Antipholus of Ephesus, who he sees walking down the street with Dromio of Ephesus. Antipholus E. sends his slave off to buy rope, with which he plans to beat his wife and servants for locking him out of the house at the last meal. Next, he greets Angelo, who asks to be paid for his gold chain. Antipholus, of course, never received the chain, and refuses to pay, so Angelo has him arrested. At that moment, Dromio of Syracuse returns from the harbor, and mistaking Antipholus E. for his master, tells him which ships are ready to sail. Cursing, Antipholus orders him to be silent and sends him to Adriana to fetch a purse of money with which to pay his way out of jail. Meanwhile, Luciana has told Adriana about how her "husband" declared his love for her and pledges her innocence of any illicit behavior. Adriana curses Antipholus furiously but admits to still feeling some love for him. Dromio of Syracuse dashes in to report that Antipholus has been arrested and needs money; Adriana sends Luciana to fetch it and then orders Dromio to hurry and save her husband from prison.

ii - Commentary Her encounter with Antipholus of Syracuse provides an occasion for Luciana to expound again on her philosophy of marriage. She rebukes him for not being faithful and then says, "If you like elsewhere, do it by stealth; / Muffle your false love with some show of blindness ." In other words, cheat if you must but at least pretend that you still love her, and don't get caught philandering. This assumption that men will have affairs, and that it is better not to know about them, fits in well with Luciana's world of docile women and dominating men, but it has unsettling implications in this case, since Antipholus is professing his love for her. By suggesting that her brother-in-law can commit adultery as long as he is not caught, one might argue, she implicitly suggests her own openness to his entreaties. For his part, Antipholus' speech declaring his love for her has a touching desperation to it. The language, which promises his submission to her )," suggests a relationship that reverses Luciana's professed ideal of feminine obedience. In a sense, Antipholus seems to be using his infatuation to achieve what his search for his brother has not granted him--namely, a sense of self. "Transform me then," he entreats her, "and to your power I'll yield . " If the enchantments of Ephesus threaten to strip him of his identity, then his love for Luciana offers it back to him through the re-creative powers of love. From this revealing scene, we shift immediately to the uproariously funny exchange between Antipholus and his Dromio, in which Dromio uses geographical references to describe the ugliness of Nell , who has mistaken him for her husband. "In what part of her body stands Ireland?" his master asks. "Marry, sir, in her buttocks," the slave replies. "I found it out by the bogs." "Where Scotland?" Antipholus continues and gets the reply: "I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm of her hand" . The dialogue continues through France, England, Spain, and the Indies, culminating in Antipholus' question: "Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?" and his man's reply: "O, sir! I did not look so low ." This is Dromio S. in his finest form, telling raunchy jokes with obvious glee. What follows is pure plot, as the playwright contrives to entangle his characters in a bewildering web of errors culminating with the arrest of Antipholus of Ephesus. Adriana's response to the news is telling--having just been told that her husband tried to commit adultery with her own sister, she nevertheless reaffirms her love for him and sends money to free him immediately. The transience of her jealousy is appropriate to the play, since all negative emotions in a comedy must be transient in order to prepare for the happy ending.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/64.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_12_part_2.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 10.chapter 2

book 10, chapter 2

{"name": "book 10, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section13/", "summary": "Kids At present, Kolya is watching two children while their mother, a tenant of his mother, is away. He is anxious, however, because he wants to go visit Ilyusha. Ilyusha has fallen ill and may be near death. Alyosha has convinced the other boys to visit him every day, but Kolya has yet to visit him once. He has not met Alyosha yet either", "analysis": ""}

Chapter II. Children And so on that frosty, snowy, and windy day in November, Kolya Krassotkin was sitting at home. It was Sunday and there was no school. It had just struck eleven, and he particularly wanted to go out "on very urgent business," but he was left alone in charge of the house, for it so happened that all its elder inmates were absent owing to a sudden and singular event. Madame Krassotkin had let two little rooms, separated from the rest of the house by a passage, to a doctor's wife with her two small children. This lady was the same age as Anna Fyodorovna, and a great friend of hers. Her husband, the doctor, had taken his departure twelve months before, going first to Orenburg and then to Tashkend, and for the last six months she had not heard a word from him. Had it not been for her friendship with Madame Krassotkin, which was some consolation to the forsaken lady, she would certainly have completely dissolved away in tears. And now, to add to her misfortunes, Katerina, her only servant, was suddenly moved the evening before to announce, to her mistress's amazement, that she proposed to bring a child into the world before morning. It seemed almost miraculous to every one that no one had noticed the probability of it before. The astounded doctor's wife decided to move Katerina while there was still time to an establishment in the town kept by a midwife for such emergencies. As she set great store by her servant, she promptly carried out this plan and remained there looking after her. By the morning all Madame Krassotkin's friendly sympathy and energy were called upon to render assistance and appeal to some one for help in the case. So both the ladies were absent from home, the Krassotkins' servant, Agafya, had gone out to the market, and Kolya was thus left for a time to protect and look after "the kids," that is, the son and daughter of the doctor's wife, who were left alone. Kolya was not afraid of taking care of the house, besides he had Perezvon, who had been told to lie flat, without moving, under the bench in the hall. Every time Kolya, walking to and fro through the rooms, came into the hall, the dog shook his head and gave two loud and insinuating taps on the floor with his tail, but alas! the whistle did not sound to release him. Kolya looked sternly at the luckless dog, who relapsed again into obedient rigidity. The one thing that troubled Kolya was "the kids." He looked, of course, with the utmost scorn on Katerina's unexpected adventure, but he was very fond of the bereaved "kiddies," and had already taken them a picture-book. Nastya, the elder, a girl of eight, could read, and Kostya, the boy, aged seven, was very fond of being read to by her. Krassotkin could, of course, have provided more diverting entertainment for them. He could have made them stand side by side and played soldiers with them, or sent them hiding all over the house. He had done so more than once before and was not above doing it, so much so that a report once spread at school that Krassotkin played horses with the little lodgers at home, prancing with his head on one side like a trace-horse. But Krassotkin haughtily parried this thrust, pointing out that to play horses with boys of one's own age, boys of thirteen, would certainly be disgraceful "at this date," but that he did it for the sake of "the kids" because he liked them, and no one had a right to call him to account for his feelings. The two "kids" adored him. But on this occasion he was in no mood for games. He had very important business of his own before him, something almost mysterious. Meanwhile time was passing and Agafya, with whom he could have left the children, would not come back from market. He had several times already crossed the passage, opened the door of the lodgers' room and looked anxiously at "the kids" who were sitting over the book, as he had bidden them. Every time he opened the door they grinned at him, hoping he would come in and would do something delightful and amusing. But Kolya was bothered and did not go in. At last it struck eleven and he made up his mind, once for all, that if that "damned" Agafya did not come back within ten minutes he should go out without waiting for her, making "the kids" promise, of course, to be brave when he was away, not to be naughty, not to cry from fright. With this idea he put on his wadded winter overcoat with its catskin fur collar, slung his satchel round his shoulder, and, regardless of his mother's constantly reiterated entreaties that he would always put on goloshes in such cold weather, he looked at them contemptuously as he crossed the hall and went out with only his boots on. Perezvon, seeing him in his outdoor clothes, began tapping nervously, yet vigorously, on the floor with his tail. Twitching all over, he even uttered a plaintive whine. But Kolya, seeing his dog's passionate excitement, decided that it was a breach of discipline, kept him for another minute under the bench, and only when he had opened the door into the passage, whistled for him. The dog leapt up like a mad creature and rushed bounding before him rapturously. Kolya opened the door to peep at "the kids." They were both sitting as before at the table, not reading but warmly disputing about something. The children often argued together about various exciting problems of life, and Nastya, being the elder, always got the best of it. If Kostya did not agree with her, he almost always appealed to Kolya Krassotkin, and his verdict was regarded as infallible by both of them. This time the "kids'" discussion rather interested Krassotkin, and he stood still in the passage to listen. The children saw he was listening and that made them dispute with even greater energy. "I shall never, never believe," Nastya prattled, "that the old women find babies among the cabbages in the kitchen-garden. It's winter now and there are no cabbages, and so the old woman couldn't have taken Katerina a daughter." Kolya whistled to himself. "Or perhaps they do bring babies from somewhere, but only to those who are married." Kostya stared at Nastya and listened, pondering profoundly. "Nastya, how silly you are!" he said at last, firmly and calmly. "How can Katerina have a baby when she isn't married?" Nastya was exasperated. "You know nothing about it," she snapped irritably. "Perhaps she has a husband, only he is in prison, so now she's got a baby." "But is her husband in prison?" the matter-of-fact Kostya inquired gravely. "Or, I tell you what," Nastya interrupted impulsively, completely rejecting and forgetting her first hypothesis. "She hasn't a husband, you are right there, but she wants to be married, and so she's been thinking of getting married, and thinking and thinking of it till now she's got it, that is, not a husband but a baby." "Well, perhaps so," Kostya agreed, entirely vanquished. "But you didn't say so before. So how could I tell?" "Come, kiddies," said Kolya, stepping into the room. "You're terrible people, I see." "And Perezvon with you!" grinned Kostya, and began snapping his fingers and calling Perezvon. "I am in a difficulty, kids," Krassotkin began solemnly, "and you must help me. Agafya must have broken her leg, since she has not turned up till now, that's certain. I must go out. Will you let me go?" The children looked anxiously at one another. Their smiling faces showed signs of uneasiness, but they did not yet fully grasp what was expected of them. "You won't be naughty while I am gone? You won't climb on the cupboard and break your legs? You won't be frightened alone and cry?" A look of profound despondency came into the children's faces. "And I could show you something as a reward, a little copper cannon which can be fired with real gunpowder." The children's faces instantly brightened. "Show us the cannon," said Kostya, beaming all over. Krassotkin put his hand in his satchel, and pulling out a little bronze cannon stood it on the table. "Ah, you are bound to ask that! Look, it's on wheels." He rolled the toy on along the table. "And it can be fired off, too. It can be loaded with shot and fired off." "And it could kill any one?" "It can kill any one; you've only got to aim at anybody," and Krassotkin explained where the powder had to be put, where the shot should be rolled in, showing a tiny hole like a touch-hole, and told them that it kicked when it was fired. The children listened with intense interest. What particularly struck their imagination was that the cannon kicked. "And have you got any powder?" Nastya inquired. "Yes." "Show us the powder, too," she drawled with a smile of entreaty. Krassotkin dived again into his satchel and pulled out a small flask containing a little real gunpowder. He had some shot, too, in a screw of paper. He even uncorked the flask and shook a little powder into the palm of his hand. "One has to be careful there's no fire about, or it would blow up and kill us all," Krassotkin warned them sensationally. The children gazed at the powder with an awe-stricken alarm that only intensified their enjoyment. But Kostya liked the shot better. "And does the shot burn?" he inquired. "No, it doesn't." "Give me a little shot," he asked in an imploring voice. "I'll give you a little shot; here, take it, but don't show it to your mother till I come back, or she'll be sure to think it's gunpowder, and will die of fright and give you a thrashing." "Mother never does whip us," Nastya observed at once. "I know, I only said it to finish the sentence. And don't you ever deceive your mother except just this once, until I come back. And so, kiddies, can I go out? You won't be frightened and cry when I'm gone?" "We sha--all cry," drawled Kostya, on the verge of tears already. "We shall cry, we shall be sure to cry," Nastya chimed in with timid haste. "Oh, children, children, how fraught with peril are your years! There's no help for it, chickens, I shall have to stay with you I don't know how long. And time is passing, time is passing, oogh!" "Tell Perezvon to pretend to be dead!" Kostya begged. "There's no help for it, we must have recourse to Perezvon. _Ici_, Perezvon." And Kolya began giving orders to the dog, who performed all his tricks. He was a rough-haired dog, of medium size, with a coat of a sort of lilac- gray color. He was blind in his right eye, and his left ear was torn. He whined and jumped, stood and walked on his hind legs, lay on his back with his paws in the air, rigid as though he were dead. While this last performance was going on, the door opened and Agafya, Madame Krassotkin's servant, a stout woman of forty, marked with small-pox, appeared in the doorway. She had come back from market and had a bag full of provisions in her hand. Holding up the bag of provisions in her left hand she stood still to watch the dog. Though Kolya had been so anxious for her return, he did not cut short the performance, and after keeping Perezvon dead for the usual time, at last he whistled to him. The dog jumped up and began bounding about in his joy at having done his duty. "Only think, a dog!" Agafya observed sententiously. "Why are you late, female?" asked Krassotkin sternly. "Female, indeed! Go on with you, you brat." "Brat?" "Yes, a brat. What is it to you if I'm late; if I'm late, you may be sure I have good reason," muttered Agafya, busying herself about the stove, without a trace of anger or displeasure in her voice. She seemed quite pleased, in fact, to enjoy a skirmish with her merry young master. "Listen, you frivolous young woman," Krassotkin began, getting up from the sofa, "can you swear by all you hold sacred in the world and something else besides, that you will watch vigilantly over the kids in my absence? I am going out." "And what am I going to swear for?" laughed Agafya. "I shall look after them without that." "No, you must swear on your eternal salvation. Else I shan't go." "Well, don't then. What does it matter to me? It's cold out; stay at home." "Kids," Kolya turned to the children, "this woman will stay with you till I come back or till your mother comes, for she ought to have been back long ago. She will give you some lunch, too. You'll give them something, Agafya, won't you?" "That I can do." "Good-by, chickens, I go with my heart at rest. And you, granny," he added gravely, in an undertone, as he passed Agafya, "I hope you'll spare their tender years and not tell them any of your old woman's nonsense about Katerina. _Ici_, Perezvon!" "Get along with you!" retorted Agafya, really angry this time. "Ridiculous boy! You want a whipping for saying such things, that's what you want!"

book 10, Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section13/

Kids At present, Kolya is watching two children while their mother, a tenant of his mother, is away. He is anxious, however, because he wants to go visit Ilyusha. Ilyusha has fallen ill and may be near death. Alyosha has convinced the other boys to visit him every day, but Kolya has yet to visit him once. He has not met Alyosha yet either

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_35_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 36

chapter 36

{"name": "Chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-36", "summary": "A few days later, a big announcement shows up in the papers - Mrs. Palmer has finally delivered her baby! Mrs. Jennings is immensely pleased, and is busy with her new grandchild. This leaves the Dashwoods on their own; they'd rather stay home, but everyone insists that they go hang out with Lady Middleton, Lucy, and the elder Miss Steele all day, every day. Lady Middleton, it turns out, doesn't actually like the Dashwood girls, and even Miss Steele, who's actually quite easy to please, isn't such a fan - after all, they never want to gossip about guys with her. Mrs. Jennings, however, thinks it's nice for all of her young friends to get to spend time together, and she thinks they're all having a great time. She herself is really enjoying her time with her daughter Charlotte Palmer and the new grandchild, despite the fact that Mr. Palmer insists that all babies look the same to him, even his own. Around this time, another unhappy social situation arises: a friend of Fanny's invites Elinor and Marianne to a musical party, thinking that it'll be nice for Fanny. Little does this well-meaning friend know that Fanny doesn't like her sisters-in-law, and doesn't want them involved in her social circle. Marianne's used to going out during the day and evening by now, and she gets ready for the party with the willing help of Miss Steele. She and Elinor are picked up by Fanny and John's carriage, and the Dashwoods all go to the party together. Elinor isn't that interested in the party, since she's not musical. She passes the time by looking at her fellow partygoers - which happen to include the unpleasant young man from the jeweler's, who had stared so rudely at Elinor and Marianne as he ordered his idiotic toothpick case. The offensive young man comes over with John, and is introduced as the mysterious third Ferrars sibling, Robert. Elinor observes mentally that he's just as arrogant as Lucy made him out to be. Robert takes it upon himself to explain to Elinor why he is so much better than his brother, Edward . He then goes on to ask her about her family's cottage in Devonshire, exclaiming that he just loves cottages. He turns out to be a pompous name dropper. John, observing his sisters, meekly asks Fanny if they might have Elinor and Marianne come and stay with them, since Mrs. Jennings is so busy. As usual, Fanny shoots him down immediately, claiming that they can't take the girls away from Lady Middleton. John responds that this is hardly a good reason, and in desperation, Fanny says that she's decided that she'd like to invite the Miss Steeles to stay instead. John is convinced, and gives up his case. He hopes that next year Elinor will be married to Colonel Brandon, and that Marianne will be their guest. The next morning, Fanny invites Lucy and Anne Steele to stay with them at their home in Harley Street for a few days. Lucy is perfectly happy, and is certain that this bodes well for her marriage to Edward. She shows Fanny's note to Elinor , who begins to think that this might actually work. Fanny becomes devoted to her new friends, and doesn't know what she'll do without them when they leave.", "analysis": ""}

Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before. This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought. They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on THEIR ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but THAT did not signify. It was censure in common use, and easily given. Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself. All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One thing DID disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world. I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them. Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her. To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped HER minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many conquests." With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman. The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in England. As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars. He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they WERE different, Robert exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme GAUCHERIE which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man. "Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,' I always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error." Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction. "You reside in Devonshire, I think,"--was his next observation, "in a cottage near Dawlish." Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house. "For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide on the best of them. 'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it. "Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend Elliott's, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. 'But how can it be done?' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.' Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling." Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition. As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home. The expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny was startled at the proposal. "I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews. But they are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?" Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection. "They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations." Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said, "My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!" Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as THEIR visitor. Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days' time. When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater. The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them. [At this point in the first and second editions, Volume II ended.]

Chapter 36

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-36

A few days later, a big announcement shows up in the papers - Mrs. Palmer has finally delivered her baby! Mrs. Jennings is immensely pleased, and is busy with her new grandchild. This leaves the Dashwoods on their own; they'd rather stay home, but everyone insists that they go hang out with Lady Middleton, Lucy, and the elder Miss Steele all day, every day. Lady Middleton, it turns out, doesn't actually like the Dashwood girls, and even Miss Steele, who's actually quite easy to please, isn't such a fan - after all, they never want to gossip about guys with her. Mrs. Jennings, however, thinks it's nice for all of her young friends to get to spend time together, and she thinks they're all having a great time. She herself is really enjoying her time with her daughter Charlotte Palmer and the new grandchild, despite the fact that Mr. Palmer insists that all babies look the same to him, even his own. Around this time, another unhappy social situation arises: a friend of Fanny's invites Elinor and Marianne to a musical party, thinking that it'll be nice for Fanny. Little does this well-meaning friend know that Fanny doesn't like her sisters-in-law, and doesn't want them involved in her social circle. Marianne's used to going out during the day and evening by now, and she gets ready for the party with the willing help of Miss Steele. She and Elinor are picked up by Fanny and John's carriage, and the Dashwoods all go to the party together. Elinor isn't that interested in the party, since she's not musical. She passes the time by looking at her fellow partygoers - which happen to include the unpleasant young man from the jeweler's, who had stared so rudely at Elinor and Marianne as he ordered his idiotic toothpick case. The offensive young man comes over with John, and is introduced as the mysterious third Ferrars sibling, Robert. Elinor observes mentally that he's just as arrogant as Lucy made him out to be. Robert takes it upon himself to explain to Elinor why he is so much better than his brother, Edward . He then goes on to ask her about her family's cottage in Devonshire, exclaiming that he just loves cottages. He turns out to be a pompous name dropper. John, observing his sisters, meekly asks Fanny if they might have Elinor and Marianne come and stay with them, since Mrs. Jennings is so busy. As usual, Fanny shoots him down immediately, claiming that they can't take the girls away from Lady Middleton. John responds that this is hardly a good reason, and in desperation, Fanny says that she's decided that she'd like to invite the Miss Steeles to stay instead. John is convinced, and gives up his case. He hopes that next year Elinor will be married to Colonel Brandon, and that Marianne will be their guest. The next morning, Fanny invites Lucy and Anne Steele to stay with them at their home in Harley Street for a few days. Lucy is perfectly happy, and is certain that this bodes well for her marriage to Edward. She shows Fanny's note to Elinor , who begins to think that this might actually work. Fanny becomes devoted to her new friends, and doesn't know what she'll do without them when they leave.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/23042-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Tempest/section_0_part_2.txt

The Tempest.act 1.scene 2

act 1, scene 2

{"name": "act i, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210309152602/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-tempest/study-guide/summary-act-i", "summary": "Prospero and his daughter Miranda are the focus of this scene, and from Miranda's first speech it becomes clear that the storm in the previous scene was somehow caused and controlled by Prospero. Miranda is concerned that good men were lost in the wreck, but Prospero assures her that it all went to plan, and no men were harmed. Prospero explains his motivations for causing the storm by telling her his history with the nobles aboard the ship; he reveals to Miranda that Antonio is his brother, and that he was once the rightful Duke of Milan, a position Antonio now holds. Antonio usurped Prospero's estate and wealth while Prospero became increasingly \"rapt in secret studies\" and oblivious to his brother's machinations; and in order to take Prospero's title as well, Antonio arranged to have his brother Prospero and Prospero's daughter Miranda killed secretly. But Prospero is widely known to be a good man, so those charged with his death decide not to kill him, Instead, Prospero and Miranda were set adrift on the open sea in a decayed vessel, and were able to survive off the supplies that the honest councilor Gonzalo arranged for them to have; thus, they landed on the island where they now live. After Prospero's tale, Ariel, a magical spirit, appears; it becomes clear that she is in Prospero's service, and caused the storm, at Prospero's bidding. King Alonso and company are now \"dispersed'bout the isle,\" and Ariel has made the incident look like a shipwreck. Ariel also expresses her wish to be freed by Prospero, although he rescued her from the nasty witch Sycorax. Caliban, who was Syncorax's son, also makes an appearance; Miranda expresses her strong dislike for him, and he has been reduced to no more than Prospero's slave. Ferdinand, Alonso's son, meets Miranda, and falls immediately in love with her; this appears to be of Ariel's doing, and part of the carefully-laid plan that she must carry out to win her freedom from Prospero.", "analysis": "The play begins with a pair of contrasting scenes; one showing men who are helpless against the storm they believe to be nature's wrath, and one showing the storm itself to be merely the work of an illusionist, trying to reclaim his place through his magic. In the first scene, the boatswain suggests that men, despite their power, are still subject to nature; \"what cares these roarers for the name of king,\" he asks, when the king's ship is being pummeled by the storm. The boatswain's statement makes sense in the context of that scene; however, it becomes ironic in the second scene, when Miranda and Prospero reveal that it was Prospero himself who caused the storm. Antonio and Sebastian's behavior also reveals the brutish, unkind characteristics that mark them throughout the play; Antonio's depiction in this scene gives credence to Prospero's traitorous depiction of his brother that comes out when he tells Miranda about the wrongs perpetrated against him. The first impression of Gonzalo is not quite as correct as those of Antonio and Sebastian; he abets their affront of the boatswain, and shows little of the honesty or kindness which he exhibits later in the play, or for which Prospero remembers him. Also, Antonio and Sebastian's diffidence toward the boatswain on account of their status is the first demonstration in the play of social hierarchy, which becomes an important theme. Characters within the work, like Antonio, Sebastian, and even Prospero, depend upon the perpetuation of this hierarchy to give them their power, and only become leaders when those beneath them in station submit to them. Caliban is well aware that Prospero's position depends on Caliban's obeisance, as he says to Prospero, \"I am all the subjects that you have\"; though it is Prospero's \"art\" and power, rather than a landed title, that makes Caliban, the natural owner of the island, subordinate. The nature of power is repeatedly in question in this first act; Prospero believes Antonio's power to be marred by its underhanded acquisition, while Prospero believes his own power to be valid and just because he acquired it through his own knowledge and effort. Prospero reasserts his authority over Ariel, claiming that his pains to free her indenture her to him; and over Caliban too, because the charge of attempted rape takes away his credibility, as far as Prospero and Miranda are concerned. However, Prospero's power is not as justly attained as he would like to believe; he keeps Ariel in unwilling bondage, as Sycorax did, and keeps control of Caliban through threats of his power. Prospero debates throughout the work that his power, which he achieved through oppression, is more legitimate than Antonio's, which he achieved through theft; and it is this value judgment that allows Prospero to cast himself as the victim, and Antonio as the villain, though this case might not be correct. If Prospero has a mirror in any of the characters, it is Sycorax, whom Prospero repeatedly condemns as a witch. Their histories are remarkably similar; both were banished from their native countries, fled to the island for a new life, and gained control over the spirits on the island. Despite Prospero's dislike for Sycorax , they are also similar in their failings; they share the same anger, both demand servitude from those who are unwilling, and keep others in control though constant threats. Prospero and Sycorax have the same magical abilities through their mutual claim of Ariel, and share the ability to perform feats of magic through the servitude of Ariel. Prospero's long speech in scene 2 shows several of the contradictions inherent in Prospero's appearance and nature. Prospero can be empathetic and calm, as shown when he gracefully allays Miranda's fears for the safety of the men; but, he is also angry and vengeful, when he speaks of his past and his brother's alleged treachery. He calls his brother \"perfidious,\" \"false,\" and casts his brother as a villain when telling his history to his daughter. Paradoxically, Prospero also admits that it was his \"being so retired\" from his duties that \"awaked an evil nature\" in his brother, and his \"trust did beget of a falsehood\". Prospero himself causes events, like the shipwreck, without which the play could not exist; in these powers of manipulation, he performs the functions of the author from within the work. Some essayists have gone as far as to claim that Prospero is a mirror of Shakespeare as a writer because of how he fulfills the author function, though there seems to be little supporting evidence for this claim. As of the end of Act One, Prospero is the only character who is fully fleshed out. The characters of Antonio and Sebastian have been sketched out; and Ariel, Caliban, and Miranda appear, though their interactions with Prospero do more to further Prospero's characterization than their own. However, in Prospero, more than any other character, key themes come into play, and Act One begins the development of this exceedingly crucial character"}

SCENE II. _The island. Before PROSPERO'S cell._ _Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA._ _Mir._ If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'd 5 With those that I saw suffer! a brave vessel, Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perish'd! Had I been any god of power, I would 10 Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere It should the good ship so have swallow'd and The fraughting souls within her. _Pros._ Be collected: No more amazement: tell your piteous heart There's no harm done. _Mir._ O, woe the day! _Pros._ No harm. 15 I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing Of whence I am, nor that I am more better Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, 20 And thy no greater father. _Mir._ More to know Did never meddle with my thoughts. _Pros._ 'Tis time I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand, And pluck my magic garment from me. --So: [_Lays down his mantle._ Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. 25 The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd The very virtue of compassion in thee, I have with such provision in mine art So safely order'd, that there is no soul, No, not so much perdition as an hair 30 Betid to any creature in the vessel Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down; For thou must now know farther. _Mir._ You have often Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd, And left me to a bootless inquisition, 35 Concluding "Stay: not yet." _Pros._ The hour's now come; The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember A time before we came unto this cell? I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not 40 Out three years old. _Mir._ Certainly, sir, I can. _Pros._ By what? by any other house or person? Of any thing the image tell me that Hath kept with thy remembrance. _Mir._ 'Tis far off, And rather like a dream than an assurance 45 That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once that tended me? _Pros._ Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? 50 If thou remember'st ought ere thou camest here, How thou camest here thou mayst. _Mir._ But that I do not. _Pros._ Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and A prince of power. _Mir._ Sir, are not you my father? 55 _Pros._ Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father Was Duke of Milan; and his only heir And princess, no worse issued. _Mir._ O the heavens! What foul play had we, that we came from thence? 60 Or blessed was't we did? _Pros._ Both, both, my girl: By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence; But blessedly holp hither. _Mir._ O, my heart bleeds To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to. Which is from my remembrance! Please you, farther. 65 _Pros._ My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio,-- I pray thee, mark me,--that a brother should Be so perfidious!--he whom, next thyself, Of all the world I loved, and to him put The manage of my state; as, at that time, 70 Through all the signories it was the first, And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts Without a parallel; those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother, 75 And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle-- Dost thou attend me? _Mir._ Sir, most heedfully. _Pros._ Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, whom to advance, and whom 80 To trash for over-topping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em, Or else new form'd 'em; having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was 85 The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, And suck'd my verdure out on't. Thou attend'st not. _Mir._ O, good sir, I do. _Pros._ I pray thee, mark me. I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind 90 With that which, but by being so retired, O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother Awaked an evil nature; and my trust, Like a good parent, did beget of him A falsehood in its contrary, as great 95 As my trust was; which had indeed no limit, A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, Not only with what my revenue yielded, But what my power might else exact, like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, 100 Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie, he did believe He was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution, And executing the outward face of royalty, With all prerogative:--hence his ambition growing,-- 105 Dost thou hear? _Mir._ Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. _Pros._ To have no screen between this part he play'd And him he play'd it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties 110 He thinks me now incapable; confederates, So dry he was for sway, wi' the King of Naples To give him annual tribute, do him homage, Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend The dukedom, yet unbow'd,--alas, poor Milan!-- 115 To most ignoble stooping. _Mir._ O the heavens! _Pros._ Mark his condition, and th' event; then tell me If this might be a brother. _Mir._ I should sin To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons. _Pros._ Now the condition. 120 This King of Naples, being an enemy To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit; Which was, that he, in lieu o' the premises, Of homage and I know not how much tribute, Should presently extirpate me and mine 125 Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan, With all the honours, on my brother: whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness, 130 The ministers for the purpose hurried thence Me and thy crying self. _Mir._ Alack, for pity! I, not remembering how I cried out then, Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to't. _Pros._ Hear a little further, 135 And then I'll bring thee to the present business Which now's upon 's; without the which, this story Were most impertinent. _Mir._ Wherefore did they not That hour destroy us? _Pros._ Well demanded, wench: My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, 140 So dear the love my people bore me; nor set A mark so bloody on the business; but With colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared 145 A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us, To cry to the sea that roar'd to us; to sigh To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 150 Did us but loving wrong. _Mir._ Alack, what trouble Was I then to you! _Pros._ O, a cherubin Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile, Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt, 155 Under my burthen groan'd; which raised in me An undergoing stomach, to bear up Against what should ensue. _Mir._ How came we ashore? _Pros._ By Providence divine. Some food we had, and some fresh water, that 160 A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity, who being then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries, Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness, 165 Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom. _Mir._ Would I might But ever see that man! _Pros._ Now I arise: [_Resumes his mantle._ Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. 170 Here in this island we arrived; and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit Than other princesses can, that have more time For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. _Mir._ Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir, 175 For still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason For raising this sea-storm? _Pros._ Know thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies Brought to this shore; and by my prescience 180 I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions: Thou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness, 185 And give it way: I know thou canst not choose. [_Miranda sleeps._ Come away, servant, come. I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel, come. _Enter _ARIEL_._ _Ari._ All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, 190 To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl'd clouds, to thy strong bidding task Ariel and all his quality. _Pros._ Hast thou, spirit, Perform'd to point the tempest that I bade thee? _Ari._ To every article. 195 I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak, Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement: sometime I'ld divide, And burn in many places; on the topmast, The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, 200 Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune Seem to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble, 205 Yea, his dread trident shake. _Pros._ My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason? _Ari._ Not a soul But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners 210 Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me: the king's son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring,--then like reeds, not hair,-- Was the first man that leap'd; cried, "Hell is empty, And all the devils are here." _Pros._ Why, that's my spirit! 215 But was not this nigh shore? _Ari._ Close by, my master. _Pros._ But are they, Ariel, safe? _Ari._ Not a hair perish'd; On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me, In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle. 220 The king's son have I landed by himself; Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, His arms in this sad knot. _Pros._ Of the king's ship The mariners, say how thou hast disposed, 225 And all the rest o' the fleet. _Ari._ Safely in harbour Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew From the still-vex'd Bermoothes, there she's hid: The mariners all under hatches stow'd; 230 Who, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour, I have left asleep: and for the rest o' the fleet, Which I dispersed, they all have met again, And are upon the Mediterranean flote, Bound sadly home for Naples; 235 Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd, And his great person perish. _Pros._ Ariel, thy charge Exactly is perform'd: but there's more work. What is the time o' the day? _Ari._ Past the mid season. _Pros._ At least two glasses. The time 'twixt six and now 240 Must by us both be spent most preciously. _Ari._ Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, Which is not yet perform'd me. _Pros._ How now? moody? What is't thou canst demand? _Ari._ My liberty. 245 _Pros._ Before the time be out? no more! _Ari._ I prithee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise To bate me a full year. _Pros._ Dost thou forget 250 From what a torment I did free thee? _Ari._ No. _Pros._ Thou dost; and think'st it much to tread the ooze Of the salt deep, To run upon the sharp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o' the earth 255 When it is baked with frost. _Ari._ I do not, sir. _Pros._ Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her? _Ari._ No, sir. _Pros._ Thou hast. Where was she born? speak; tell me. 260 _Ari._ Sir, in Argier. _Pros._ O, was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, 265 Thou know'st, was banish'd: for one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true? _Ari._ Ay, sir. _Pros._ This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child, And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave, 270 As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant; And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, 275 And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison'd thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within which space she died, And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans 280 As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island-- Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckled whelp hag-born--not honour'd with A human shape. _Ari._ Yes, Caliban her son. _Pros._ Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban, 285 Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st What torment I did find thee in; thy groans Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax 290 Could not again undo: it was mine art, When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape The pine, and let thee out. _Ari._ I thank thee, master. _Pros._ If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak, And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till 295 Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters. _Ari._ Pardon, master: I will be correspondent to command, And do my spiriting gently. _Pros._ Do so; and after two days I will discharge thee. _Ari._ That's my noble master! What shall I do? say what; what shall I do? 300 _Pros._ Go make thyself like a nymph o' the sea: Be subject to no sight but thine and mine; invisible To every eyeball else. Go take this shape, And hither come in't: go, hence with diligence! [_Exit Ariel._ Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; 305 Awake! _Mir._ The strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me. _Pros._ Shake it off. Come on; We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer. _Mir._ 'Tis a villain, sir, I do not love to look on. _Pros._ But, as 'tis, 310 We cannot miss him: he does make our fire, Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices That profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban! Thou earth, thou! speak. _Cal._ [_within_] There's wood enough within. _Pros._ Come forth, I say! there's other business for thee: 315 Come, thou tortoise! when? _Re-enter ARIEL like a water-nymph._ Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear. _Ari._ My lord, it shall be done. [_Exit._ _Pros._ Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! 320 _Enter CALIBAN._ _Cal._ As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd With raven's feather from unwholesome fen Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye And blister you all o'er! _Pros._ For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, 325 Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch'd As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em. _Cal._ I must eat my dinner. 330 This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first, Thou strokedst me, and madest much of me; wouldst give me Water with berries in't; and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, 335 That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee, And show'd thee all the qualities o' th' isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile: Curs'd be I that did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! 340 For I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o' th' island. _Pros._ Thou most lying slave, Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee, 345 Filth as thou art, with human care; and lodged thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child. _Cal._ O ho, O ho! would 't had been done! Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else 350 This isle with Calibans. _Pros._ Abhorred slave, Which any print of goodness wilt not take, Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage, 355 Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes With words that made them known. But thy vile race, Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou 360 Deservedly confined into this rock, Who hadst deserved more than a prison. _Cal._ You taught me language; and my profit on't Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language! _Pros._ Hag-seed, hence! 365 Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou'rt best, To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice? If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps, Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar, 370 That beasts shall tremble at thy din. _Cal._ No, pray thee. [_Aside_] I must obey: his art is of such power, It would control my dam's god, Setebos, And make a vassal of him. _Pros._ So, slave; hence! [_Exit Caliban._ _Re-enter ARIEL, invisible, playing and singing; FERDINAND following._ _ARIEL'S song._ Come unto these yellow sands, 375 And then take hands: Courtsied when you have and kiss'd The wild waves whist: Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. 380 _Burthen_ [_dispersedly_]. Hark, hark! Bow-wow. The watch-dogs bark: Bow-wow. _Ari._ Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer 385 Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. _Fer._ Where should this music be? i' th' air or th' earth? It sounds no more: and, sure, it waits upon Some god o' th' island. Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the king my father's wreck, 390 This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it. Or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone. No, it begins again. 395 _ARIEL sings._ Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change 400 Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: _Burthen:_ Ding-dong. _Ari._ Hark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell. _Fer._ The ditty does remember my drown'd father. 405 This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes:--I hear it now above me. _Pros._ The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond. _Mir._ What is't? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, 410 It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit. _Pros._ No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest Was in the wreck; and, but he's something stain'd With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou mightst call him 415 A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows, And strays about to find 'em. _Mir._ I might call him A thing divine; for nothing natural I ever saw so noble. _Pros._ [_Aside_] It goes on, I see, As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free thee 420 Within two days for this. _Fer._ Most sure, the goddess On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer May know if you remain upon this island; And that you will some good instruction give How I may bear me here: my prime request, 425 Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! If you be maid or no? _Mir._ No wonder, sir; But certainly a maid. _Fer._ My language! heavens! I am the best of them that speak this speech, Were I but where 'tis spoken. _Pros._ How? the best? 430 What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee? _Fer._ A single thing, as I am now, that wonders To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me; And that he does I weep: myself am Naples, Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld 435 The king my father wreck'd. _Mir._ Alack, for mercy! _Fer._ Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of Milan And his brave son being twain. _Pros._ [_Aside_] The Duke of Milan And his more braver daughter could control thee, If now 'twere fit to do't. At the first sight 440 They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel, I'll set thee free for this. [_To Fer._] A word, good sir; I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word. _Mir._ Why speaks my father so ungently? This Is the third man that e'er I saw; the first 445 That e'er I sigh'd for: pity move my father To be inclined my way! _Fer._ O, if a virgin, And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you The queen of Naples. _Pros._ Soft, sir! one word more. [_Aside_] They are both in either's powers: but this swift business 450 I must uneasy make, lest too light winning Make the prize light. [_To Fer._] One word more; I charge thee That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp The name thou owest not; and hast put thyself Upon this island as a spy, to win it 455 From me, the lord on't. _Fer._ No, as I am a man. _Mir._ There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't. _Pros._ Follow me. Speak not you for him; he's a traitor. Come; 460 I'll manacle thy neck and feet together: Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots, and husks Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow. _Fer._ No; I will resist such entertainment till 465 Mine enemy has more power. [_Draws, and is charmed from moving._ _Mir._ O dear father, Make not too rash a trial of him, for He's gentle, and not fearful. _Pros._ What! I say, My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor; Who makest a show, but darest not strike, thy conscience 470 Is so possess'd with guilt: come from thy ward; For I can here disarm thee with this stick And make thy weapon drop. _Mir._ Beseech you, father. _Pros._ Hence! hang not on my garments. _Mir._ Sir, have pity; I'll be his surety. _Pros._ Silence! one word more 475 Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What! An advocate for an impostor! hush! Thou think'st there is no more such shapes as he, Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! To the most of men this is a Caliban, 480 And they to him are angels. _Mir._ My affections Are, then, most humble; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man. _Pros._ Come on; obey: Thy nerves are in their infancy again, And have no vigour in them. _Fer._ So they are: 485 My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. My father's loss, the weakness which I feel, The wreck of all my friends, nor this man's threats, To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, Might I but through my prison once a day 490 Behold this maid: all corners else o' th' earth Let liberty make use of; space enough Have I in such a prison. _Pros._ [_Aside_] It works. [_To Fer._] Come on. Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [_To Fer._] Follow me. [_To Ari._] Hark what thou else shalt do me. _Mir._ Be of comfort; 495 My father's of a better nature, sir, Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted Which now came from him. _Pros._ Thou shalt be as free As mountain winds: but then exactly do All points of my command. _Ari._ To the syllable. 500 _Pros._ Come, follow. Speak not for him. [_Exeunt._ Notes: I, 2. 3: _stinking_] _flaming_ Singer conj. _kindling_ S. Verges conj. 4: _cheek_] _heat_ Collier MS. _crack_ Staunton conj. 7: _creature_] _creatures_ Theobald. 13: _fraughting_] Ff. _fraighted_ Pope. _fraighting_ Theobald. _freighting_ Steevens. 15: Mir. _O, woe the day!_ Pros. _No harm._] Mir. _O woe the day! no harm?_ Johnson conj. 19: _I am more better_] _I'm more or better_ Pope. 24: [Lays ... mantle] Pope. 28: _provision_] F1. _compassion_ F2 F3 F4. _prevision_ Hunter conj. 29: _soul_] _soul lost_ Rowe. _foyle_ Theobald. _soil_ Johnson conj. _loss_ Capell. _foul_ Wright conj. 31: _betid_] F1. _betide_ F2 F3 F4. 35: _a_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4. 38: _thou_] om. Pope. 41: _Out_] _Full_ Pope (after Dryden). _Quite_ Collier MS. 44: _with_] _in_ Pope (after Dryden). 53: _Twelve year ... year_] _Tis twelve years ... years_ Pope. 58, 59: _and his only heir And princess_] _and his only heir A princess_ Pope. _thou his only heir And princess_ Steevens. _and though his only heir A princess_] Johnson conj. 63: _holp_] _help'd_ Pope. _O, my heart_] _My heart_ Pope. 78: _me_] om. F3 F4. 80: _whom ... whom_] F2 F3 F4. _who ... who_ F1. 81: _trash_] _plash_ Hanmer. 82, 83: _'em ... 'em_] _them ... them_ Capell. 84: _i' the state_] _i'th state_ F1. _e'th state_ F2. _o'th state_ F3 F4. om. Pope. 88: _O, good sir ... mark me._] _Good sir ... mark me then._ Pope. _O yes, good sir ... mark me._ Capell. Mir. _O, ... do._ Pros. _I ... me_] _I ... me._ Mir. _O ... do._ Steevens. 89: _dedicated_] _dedicate_ Steevens (Ritson conj.). 91: _so_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 97: _lorded_] _loaded_ Collier MS. 99: _exact, like_] _exact. Like_ Ff. 100: _having into truth ... of it_] _loving an untruth, and telling 't oft_ Hanmer. _having unto truth ... oft_ Warburton. _having to untruth ... of it_ Collier MS. _having sinn'd to truth ... oft_ Musgrave conj. _telling_] _quelling_ S. Verges conj. 101: _Made ... memory_] _Makes ... memory_ Hanmer. _Makes ... memory too_ Musgrave conj. 103: _indeed the duke_] _the duke_ Steevens. _indeed duke_ S. Walker conj. _out o' the_] _from_ Pope. 105: _his_] _is_ F2. 105, 106: _ambition growing_] _ambition Growing_ Steevens. 106: _hear?_] _hear, child?_ Hanmer. 109: _Milan_] _Millanie_ F1 (Capell's copy). 112: _wi' the_] Capell. _with_ Ff. _wi' th'_ Rowe. _with the_ Steevens. 116: _most_] F1. _much_ F2 F3 F4. 119: _but_] _not_ Pope. 120: _Good ... sons_] Theobald suggested that these words should be given to Prospero. Hanmer prints them so. 122: _hearkens_] _hears_ Pope. _hearks_ Theobald. 129: _Fated_] _Mated_ Dryden's version. _purpose_] _practise_ Collier MS. 131: _ministers_] _minister_ Rowe. 133: _out_] _on't_ Steevens conj. 135: _to 't_] om. Steevens (Farmer conj.). 138: _Wherefore_] _Why_ Pope. 141: _me_] om. Pope. 146: _boat_] Rowe (after Dryden). _butt_ F1 F2 F3. _but_ F4. _busse_ Black conj. 147: _sail_] F1. _nor sail_ F2 F3 F4. 148: _have_] _had_ Rowe (after Dryden). 150: _the winds_] _winds_ Pope. 155: _deck'd_] _brack'd_ Hanmer. _mock'd_ Warburton. _fleck'd_ Johnson conj. _degg'd_ anon. ap. Reed conj. 162: _who_] om. Pope. _he_ Steevens conj. 169: _Now I arise_] Continued to Miranda. Blackstone conj. [Resumes his mantle] om. Ff. [Put on robe again. Collier MS. 173: _princesses_] _princesse_ F1 F2 F3. _princess_ F4. _princes_ Rowe. _princess'_ Dyce (S. Walker conj.). See note (III). 186: [M. sleeps] Theobald. 189: SCENE III. Pope. 190: _be't_] F1. _be it_ F2 F3 F4. 193: _quality_] _qualities_ Pope (after Dryden). 198: _sometime_] F1. _sometimes_ F2 F3 F4. 200: _bowsprit_] _bore-sprit_ Ff. _bolt-sprit_ Rowe. 201: _lightnings_] Theobald. _lightning_ Ff. 202: _o' the_] _of_ Pope. _thunder-claps_] _thunder-clap_ Johnson. 205: _Seem_] _Seem'd_ Theobald. 206: _dread_] F1. _dead_ F2 F3 F4. _My brave_] _My brave, brave_ Theobald. _That's my brave_ Hanmer. 209: _mad_] _mind_ Pope (after Dryden). 211, 212: _vessel, ... son_] _vessell; Then all a fire with me the King's sonne_ Ff. 218: _sustaining_] _sea-stained_ Edwards conj. _unstaining_ or _sea-staining_ Spedding conj. 229: _Bermoothes_] _Bermudas_ Theobald. 231: _Who_] _Whom_ Hanmer. 234: _are_] _all_ Collier MS. _upon_] _on_ Pope. 239-240: Ari. _Past the mid season._ Pros. _At least two glasses_] Ari. _Past the mid season at least two glasses._ Warburton. Pros. _... Past the mid season?_ Ari. _At least two glasses_ Johnson conj. 244: _How now? moody?_] _How now, moody!_ Dyce (so Dryden, ed. 1808). 245: _What_] F1. _Which_ F2 F3 F4. 248: _made thee_] Ff. _made_ Pope. 249: _didst_] F3 F4. _did_ F1 F2. 264: _and sorceries_] _sorceries too_ Hanmer. 267: _Is not this true?_] _Is this not true?_ Pope. 271: _wast then_] Rowe (after Dryden). _was then_ Ff. 273: _earthy_] _earthly_ Pope. 282: _son_] F1. _sunne_ F2. _sun_ F3 F4. _she_] Rowe (after Dryden). _he_ Ff. 298: See note (IV). 301: _like_] F1. _like to_ F2 F3 F4. 302: _Be subject to_] _be subject To_ Malone. _but thine and mine_] _but mine_ Pope. 304: _in't_] _in it_ Pope. _go, hence_] _goe: hence_ Ff. _go hence_ Pope. _hence_ Hanmer. 307: _Heaviness_] _Strange heaviness_ Edd. conj. 312: _serves in offices_] F1. _serves offices_ F2 F3 F4. _serveth offices_ Collier MS. 316: _Come, thou tortoise! when?_] om. Pope. _Come_] _Come forth_ Steevens.] 320: _come forth!_] _come forth, thou tortoise!_ Pope. 321: SCENE IV. Pope. 332: _camest_] Rowe. _cam'st_ Ff. _cam'st here_ Ritson conj. 333: _madest_] Rowe (after Dryden). _made_ Ff. 339: _Curs'd be I that_] F1. _Curs'd be I that I_ F2 F3 F4. _cursed be I that_ Steevens. 342: _Which_] _Who_ Pope, and at line 351. 346: _thee_] om. F4. 349: _would 't_] Ff. _I wou'd it_ Pope. 351: Pros.] Theobald (after Dryden). Mira. Ff. 352: _wilt_] F1. _will_ F2 F3 F4. 355, 356: _didst not ... Know_] _couldst not ... Shew_ Hanmer. 356: _wouldst_] _didst_ Hanmer. 361, 362: _Deservedly ... deserved_] _Justly ... who hadst Deserv'd_ S. Walker conj. _Confin'd ... deserv'd_ id. conj. 362: _Who ... prison_] om. Pope (after Dryden). 366: _thou'rt_] F1 F2 F3. _thou art_ F4. _thou wer't_ Rowe. 375: SCENE V. Pope. following.] Malone. 378: _The wild waves whist_] Printed as a parenthesis by Steevens. See note (V). 380: _the burthen bear_] Pope. _bear the burthen_ Ff. 381-383: Steevens gives _Hark, hark! The watch-dogs bark_ to Ariel. 387: _i' th' air or th' earth?_] _in air or earth?_ Pope. 390: _again_] _against_ Rowe (after Dryden). 407: _owes_] _owns_ Pope (after Dryden), but leaves _ow'st_ 454. 408: SCENE VI. Pope. 419: _It goes on, I see,_] _It goes, I see_ Capell. _It goes on_ Steevens. 420: _fine spirit!_] om. Hanmer. 427: _maid_] F3. _mayd_ F1 F2. _made_ F4. 443: See note (VI). 444: _ungently_] F1. _urgently_ F2 F3 F4. 451: _lest_] F4. _least_ F1 F2 F3. 452: _One_] _Sir, one_ Pope. _I charge thee_] _I charge thee_ [to Ariel. Pope. 460: Pros. prefixed again to this line in Ff. 468: _and_] _tho'_ Hanmer. 469: _foot_] _fool_ S. Walker conj. _child_ Dryden's version. 470: _makest_] _mak'st_ F1. _makes_ F2 F3 F4. 471: _so_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _all_ Pope. 478: _is_] _are_ Rowe. 488: _nor_] _and_ Rowe (after Dryden). _or_ Capell. 489: _are_] _were_ Malone conj.

act i, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210309152602/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-tempest/study-guide/summary-act-i

Prospero and his daughter Miranda are the focus of this scene, and from Miranda's first speech it becomes clear that the storm in the previous scene was somehow caused and controlled by Prospero. Miranda is concerned that good men were lost in the wreck, but Prospero assures her that it all went to plan, and no men were harmed. Prospero explains his motivations for causing the storm by telling her his history with the nobles aboard the ship; he reveals to Miranda that Antonio is his brother, and that he was once the rightful Duke of Milan, a position Antonio now holds. Antonio usurped Prospero's estate and wealth while Prospero became increasingly "rapt in secret studies" and oblivious to his brother's machinations; and in order to take Prospero's title as well, Antonio arranged to have his brother Prospero and Prospero's daughter Miranda killed secretly. But Prospero is widely known to be a good man, so those charged with his death decide not to kill him, Instead, Prospero and Miranda were set adrift on the open sea in a decayed vessel, and were able to survive off the supplies that the honest councilor Gonzalo arranged for them to have; thus, they landed on the island where they now live. After Prospero's tale, Ariel, a magical spirit, appears; it becomes clear that she is in Prospero's service, and caused the storm, at Prospero's bidding. King Alonso and company are now "dispersed'bout the isle," and Ariel has made the incident look like a shipwreck. Ariel also expresses her wish to be freed by Prospero, although he rescued her from the nasty witch Sycorax. Caliban, who was Syncorax's son, also makes an appearance; Miranda expresses her strong dislike for him, and he has been reduced to no more than Prospero's slave. Ferdinand, Alonso's son, meets Miranda, and falls immediately in love with her; this appears to be of Ariel's doing, and part of the carefully-laid plan that she must carry out to win her freedom from Prospero.

The play begins with a pair of contrasting scenes; one showing men who are helpless against the storm they believe to be nature's wrath, and one showing the storm itself to be merely the work of an illusionist, trying to reclaim his place through his magic. In the first scene, the boatswain suggests that men, despite their power, are still subject to nature; "what cares these roarers for the name of king," he asks, when the king's ship is being pummeled by the storm. The boatswain's statement makes sense in the context of that scene; however, it becomes ironic in the second scene, when Miranda and Prospero reveal that it was Prospero himself who caused the storm. Antonio and Sebastian's behavior also reveals the brutish, unkind characteristics that mark them throughout the play; Antonio's depiction in this scene gives credence to Prospero's traitorous depiction of his brother that comes out when he tells Miranda about the wrongs perpetrated against him. The first impression of Gonzalo is not quite as correct as those of Antonio and Sebastian; he abets their affront of the boatswain, and shows little of the honesty or kindness which he exhibits later in the play, or for which Prospero remembers him. Also, Antonio and Sebastian's diffidence toward the boatswain on account of their status is the first demonstration in the play of social hierarchy, which becomes an important theme. Characters within the work, like Antonio, Sebastian, and even Prospero, depend upon the perpetuation of this hierarchy to give them their power, and only become leaders when those beneath them in station submit to them. Caliban is well aware that Prospero's position depends on Caliban's obeisance, as he says to Prospero, "I am all the subjects that you have"; though it is Prospero's "art" and power, rather than a landed title, that makes Caliban, the natural owner of the island, subordinate. The nature of power is repeatedly in question in this first act; Prospero believes Antonio's power to be marred by its underhanded acquisition, while Prospero believes his own power to be valid and just because he acquired it through his own knowledge and effort. Prospero reasserts his authority over Ariel, claiming that his pains to free her indenture her to him; and over Caliban too, because the charge of attempted rape takes away his credibility, as far as Prospero and Miranda are concerned. However, Prospero's power is not as justly attained as he would like to believe; he keeps Ariel in unwilling bondage, as Sycorax did, and keeps control of Caliban through threats of his power. Prospero debates throughout the work that his power, which he achieved through oppression, is more legitimate than Antonio's, which he achieved through theft; and it is this value judgment that allows Prospero to cast himself as the victim, and Antonio as the villain, though this case might not be correct. If Prospero has a mirror in any of the characters, it is Sycorax, whom Prospero repeatedly condemns as a witch. Their histories are remarkably similar; both were banished from their native countries, fled to the island for a new life, and gained control over the spirits on the island. Despite Prospero's dislike for Sycorax , they are also similar in their failings; they share the same anger, both demand servitude from those who are unwilling, and keep others in control though constant threats. Prospero and Sycorax have the same magical abilities through their mutual claim of Ariel, and share the ability to perform feats of magic through the servitude of Ariel. Prospero's long speech in scene 2 shows several of the contradictions inherent in Prospero's appearance and nature. Prospero can be empathetic and calm, as shown when he gracefully allays Miranda's fears for the safety of the men; but, he is also angry and vengeful, when he speaks of his past and his brother's alleged treachery. He calls his brother "perfidious," "false," and casts his brother as a villain when telling his history to his daughter. Paradoxically, Prospero also admits that it was his "being so retired" from his duties that "awaked an evil nature" in his brother, and his "trust did beget of a falsehood". Prospero himself causes events, like the shipwreck, without which the play could not exist; in these powers of manipulation, he performs the functions of the author from within the work. Some essayists have gone as far as to claim that Prospero is a mirror of Shakespeare as a writer because of how he fulfills the author function, though there seems to be little supporting evidence for this claim. As of the end of Act One, Prospero is the only character who is fully fleshed out. The characters of Antonio and Sebastian have been sketched out; and Ariel, Caliban, and Miranda appear, though their interactions with Prospero do more to further Prospero's characterization than their own. However, in Prospero, more than any other character, key themes come into play, and Act One begins the development of this exceedingly crucial character

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_2_chapters_10_to_12.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Red and the Black/section_12_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapters 10-12

chapters 10-12

{"name": "Chapters 10-12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-2-chapters-1012", "summary": "As Julien's ardor cools, he is able to reflect on Mathilde's attitude toward him, and he begins to see her in a new light. The academician tells Julien the story of Boniface de la Mole, ancestor of Mathilde, who was beheaded in the Place de Greve defending his friends, and whose lover was the Queen Marguerite. The latter heroically retrieved Boniface's head and lovingly buried it. Mathilde reveres this ancestor and wears mourning on the anniversary of his death. This knowledge evokes Julien's admiration for Mathilde, and in subsequent conversations with her in the garden, he finds that she is intelligent and charming. Finding himself treated kindly by Mathilde, Julien wonders whether she loves him. Then his suspicious nature sees a plot being perpetrated by Mathilde and her brother to make him look ridiculous. Julien decides to seduce her, then to flee. He is tormented by the suspicion that she loves him. Mathilde, on the other hand, has arrived at the discovery that she must be in love with Julien. Mathilde praises Julien in the presence of her brother, Caylus, and Croisenois, and, to their surprise, ridicules them in Julien's defense. She attributes their condemnation of Julien to the jealousy they must feel for a man of genius. One evening, Julien hears his name mentioned in an argument between Mathilde and her brother, and when he joins them, silence falls, and Caylus, Croisenois, and de Luz treat him coldly.", "analysis": "Julien discovers immediately how to have a successful relationship with Mathilde. He must remain cool and never permit her momentary sympathy to lull him into complete confidence. He notices that their conversations seem to begin as a duel, and he realizes that, in order to command her respect, thus her admiration, he must maintain a certain distance between them. Later, as their relationship becomes more involved, Julien will forget this discovery momentarily. His ultimate success with Mathilde will depend upon his rediscovery and utilization of this strategy. Julien is still master of himself. He suspects that Mathilde loves him, but he is not the victim of any passion for her. Here reawakens the peasant's distrust and suspicion. Julien's fear of ridicule conflicts with his growing admiration for Mathilde, and the resulting decision to seduce her indicates the victory of his suspicious nature. According to Stendhal's theory of love, some assurance and encouragement that one is loved are necessary before one's own feelings progress in the crystallization process. Chapter 11 is an exploration of Mathilde's character and presents the culmination of the various preoccupations she has had since Chapter 8. Stendhal describes typical incidents that illustrate her pride, the command she has over others, her boredom with the ordinary; and he continues the self-analysis she made at the ball. Mathilde arrives at the discovery that she must be in love with Julien and is overjoyed at this prospect. In reality, she is in love with the idea of being in love. Hers is a love in the Cornelian sense: it depends upon her intellectual approval of it, and it is necessary that the object of the love prove himself worthy of it. She projects its future course: \"I've already shown boldness and greatness of heart by daring to fall in love with a man so far below me in social position, I wonder if he'll continue to be worthy of me. At the first sign of weakness I see in him, I'll abandon him.\" Chapter 12 is but the continuation of the preceding in that Mathilde continues to subject her love for Julien to cold intellectual analysis. She rationalizes it, justifies it, and revels in it. Here for the first time, Mathilde verbalizes the association between Julien and herself and Boniface and Marguerite, an association she has unconsciously forged since Chapter 8. Mathilde has arrived at that stage in crystallization in which every virtue and perfection is attributed to the object once the realization of love has come to awareness. She sees Julien as a superior man who despises others, and that is why she doesn't despise him. Doubtless, she defends Julien with greater vigor because of the overwhelming disgust that her brother and suitors inspire in her, as the epitome of the commonplace. Even Norbert's warning that Julien is a future revolutionary who would see them to the guillotine is simply another reason for Mathilde to love him. What does worry her, however, is the possibility that Julien does not love her. At any rate, Mathilde has escaped her boredom by deliberating about this decision to indulge in a great passion. Julien still wavers between his doubts and hopes concerning Mathilde's intentions. In this respect, Julien would seem to be experiencing a variation of the crystallization process, although Stendhal's modesty prevents him from showing Julien as a victim of this emotion."}

CHAPTER XL QUEEN MARGUERITE Love! In what madness do you not manage to make us find pleasure! Letters of a Portuguese Nun. Julien reread his letters. "How ridiculous I must have appeared in the eyes of that Parisian doll," he said to himself when the dinner-bell rang. "How foolish to have really told her what I was thinking! Perhaps it was not so foolish. Telling the truth on that occasion was worthy of me. Why did she come to question me on personal matters? That question was indiscreet on her part. She broke the convention. My thoughts about Danton are not part of the sacrifice which her father pays me to make." When he came into the dining-room Julien's thoughts were distracted from his bad temper by mademoiselle de la Mole's mourning which was all the more striking because none of the other members of the family were in black. After dinner he felt completely rid of the feeling which had obsessed him all day. Fortunately the academician who knew Latin was at dinner. "That's the man who will make the least fun of me," said Julien to himself, "if, as I surmise, my question about mademoiselle de la Mole's mourning is in bad taste." Mathilde was looking at him with a singular expression. "So this is the coquetry of the women of this part of the country, just as madame de Renal described it to me," said Julien to himself. "I was not nice to her this morning. I did not humour her caprice of talking to me. I got up in value in her eyes. The Devil doubtless is no loser by it. "Later on her haughty disdain will manage to revenge herself. I defy her to do her worst. What a contrast with what I have lost! What charming naturalness? What naivety! I used to know her thoughts before she did herself. I used to see them come into existence. The only rival she had in her heart was the fear of her childrens' death. It was a reasonable, natural feeling to me, and even though I suffered from it I found it charming. I have been a fool. The ideas I had in my head about Paris prevented me from appreciating that sublime woman. "Great God what a contrast and what do I find here? Arid, haughty vanity: all the fine shades of wounded egotism and nothing more." They got up from table. "I must not let my academician get snapped up," said Julien to himself. He went up to him as they were passing into the garden, assumed an air of soft submissiveness and shared in his fury against the success of Hernani. "If only we were still in the days of _lettres de cachet_!" he said. "Then he would not have dared," exclaimed the academician with a gesture worthy of Talma. Julien quoted some words from Virgil's Georgics in reference to a flower and expressed the opinion that nothing was equal to the abbe Delille's verses. In a word he flattered the academician in every possible way. He then said to him with the utmost indifference, "I suppose mademoiselle de la Mole has inherited something from some uncle for whom she is in mourning." "What! you belong to the house?" said the academician stopping short, "and you do not know her folly? As a matter of fact it is strange her mother should allow her to do such things, but between ourselves, they do not shine in this household exactly by their force of character. Mademoiselle's share has to do for all of them, and governs them. To-day is the thirtieth of April!" and the academician stopped and looked meaningly at Julien. Julien smiled with the most knowing expression he could master. "What connection can there be between ruling a household, wearing a black dress, and the thirtieth April?" he said to himself. "I must be even sillier than I thought." "I must confess...." he said to the academician while he continued to question him with his look. "Let us take a turn round the garden," said the academician delighted at seeing an opportunity of telling a long and well-turned story. "What! is it really possible you do not know what happened on the 30th April, 1574?" "And where?" said Julien in astonishment. "At the place de Greve." Julien was extremely astonished that these words did not supply him with the key. His curiosity and his expectation of a tragic interest which would be in such harmony with his own character gave his eyes that brilliance which the teller of a story likes to see so much in the person who is listening to him. The academician was delighted at finding a virgin ear, and narrated at length to Julien how Boniface de la Mole, the handsomest young man of this century together with Annibal de Coconasso, his friend, a gentleman of Piedmont, had been beheaded on the 30th April, 1574. La Mole was the adored lover of Queen Marguerite of Navarre and "observe," continued the academician, "that mademoiselle de La Mole's full name is Mathilde Marguerite. La Mole was at the same time a favourite of the Duke d'Alencon and the intimate friend of his mistress's husband, the King of Navarre, subsequently Henri IV. On Shrove Tuesday of that year 1574, the court happened to be at St. Germain with the poor king Charles IX. who was dying. La Mole wished to rescue his friends the princes, whom Queen Catherine of Medici was keeping prisoner in her Court. He advanced two hundred cavalry under the walls of St. Germain; the Duke d'Alencon was frightened and La Mole was thrown to the executioner. "But the thing which affects mademoiselle Mathilde, and what she has admitted to me herself seven or eight years ago when she was twelve, is a head! a head!----and the academician lifted up his eyes to the heavens. What struck her in this political catastrophe, was the hiding of Queen Marguerite de Navarre in a house in the place de Greve and her then asking for her lover's head. At midnight on the following day she took that head in her carriage and went and buried it herself in a chapel at the foot of the hill at Montmartre." "Impossible?" cried Julien really moved. "Mademoiselle Mathilde despises her brother because, as you see, he does not bother one whit about this ancient history, and never wears mourning on the thirtieth of April. It is since the time of this celebrated execution and in order to recall the intimate friendship of La Mole for the said Coconasso, who Italian that he was, bore the name of Annibal that all the men of that family bear that name. And," added the academician lowering his voice, "this Coconasso was, according to Charles IX. himself, one of the cruellest assassins of the twenty-fourth August, 1572. But how is it possible, my dear Sorel, that you should be ignorant of these things--you who take your meals with the family." "So that is why mademoiselle de la Mole twice called her brother Annibal at dinner. I thought I had heard wrong." "It was a reproach. It is strange that the marquise should allow such follies. The husband of that great girl will have a fine time of it." This remark was followed by five or six satiric phrases. Julien was shocked by the joy which shone in the academician's eyes. "We are just a couple of servants," he thought, "engaged in talking scandal about our masters. But I ought not to be astonished at anything this academy man does." Julien had surprised him on his knees one day before the marquise de la Mole; he was asking her for a tobacco receivership for a nephew in the provinces. In the evening a little chambermaid of mademoiselle de la Mole, who was paying court to Julien, just as Elisa had used to do, gave him to understand that her mistress's mourning was very far from being worn simply to attract attention. This eccentricity was rooted in her character. She really loved that la Mole, the beloved lover of the most witty queen of the century, who had died through trying to set his friends at liberty--and what friends! The first prince of the blood and Henri IV. Accustomed as he had been to the perfect naturalness which shone throughout madame de Renal's whole demeanour, Julien could not help finding all the women of Paris affected, and, though by no means of a morose disposition, found nothing to say to them. Mademoiselle de la Mole was an exception. He now began to cease taking for coldness of heart that kind of beauty which attaches importance to a noble bearing. He had long conversations with mademoiselle de la Mole, who would sometimes walk with him in the garden after dinner. She told him one day that she was reading the History of D'Aubigne and also Brantome. "Strange books to read," thought Julien; "and the marquis does not allow her to read Walter Scott's novels!" She told him one day, with that pleased brilliancy in her eyes, which is the real test of genuine admiration, about a characteristic act of a young woman of the reign of Henry III., which she had just read in the memoirs of L'Etoile. Finding her husband unfaithful she stabbed him. Julien's vanity was nattered. A person who was surrounded by so much homage, and who governed the whole house, according to the academician, deigned to talk to him on a footing almost resembling friendship. "I made a mistake," thought Julien soon afterwards. "This is not familiarity, I am simply the confidante of a tragedy, she needs to speak to someone. I pass in this family for a man of learning. I will go and read Brantome, D'Aubigne, L'Etoile. I shall then be able to challenge some of the anecdotes which madame de la Mole speaks to me about. I want to leave off this role of the passive confidante." His conversations with this young girl, whose demeanour was so impressive and yet so easy, gradually became more interesting. He forgot his grim role of the rebel plebian. He found her well-informed and even logical. Her opinions in the gardens were very different to those which she owned to in the salon. Sometimes she exhibited an enthusiasm and a frankness which were in absolute contrast to her usual cold haughtiness. "The wars of the League were the heroic days of France," she said to him one day, with eyes shining with enthusiasm. "Then everyone fought to gain something which he desired, for the sake of his party's triumph, and not just in order to win a cross as in the days of your emperor. Admit that there was then less egotism and less pettiness. I love that century." "And Boniface de la Mole was the hero of it," he said to her. "At least he was loved in a way that it is perhaps sweet to be loved. What woman alive now would not be horrified at touching the head of her decapitated lover?" Madame de la Mole called her daughter. To be effective hypocrisy ought to hide itself, yet Julien had half confided his admiration for Napoleon to mademoiselle de la Mole. Julien remained alone in the garden. "That is the immense advantage they have over us," he said to himself. "Their ancestors lift them above vulgar sentiments, and they have not got always to be thinking about their subsistence! What misery," he added bitterly. "I am not worthy to discuss these great matters. My life is nothing more than a series of hypocrisies because I have not got a thousand francs a year with which to buy my bread and butter." Mathilde came running back. "What are you dreaming about, monsieur?" she said to him. Julien was tired of despising himself. Through sheer pride he frankly told her his thoughts. He blushed a great deal while talking to such a person about his own poverty. He tried to make it as plain as he could that he was not asking for anything. Mathilde never thought him so handsome; she detected in him an expression of frankness and sensitiveness which he often lacked. Within a month of this episode Julien was pensively walking in the garden of the hotel; but his face had no longer the hardness and philosophic superciliousness which the chronic consciousness of his inferior position had used to write upon it. He had just escorted mademoiselle de la Mole to the door of the salon. She said she had hurt her foot while running with her brother. "She leaned on my arm in a very singular way," said Julien to himself. "Am I a coxcomb, or is it true that she has taken a fancy to me? She listens to me so gently, even when I confess to her all the sufferings of my pride! She too, who is so haughty to everyone! They would be very astonished in the salon if they saw that expression of hers. It is quite certain that she does not show anyone else such sweetness and goodness." Julien endeavoured not to exaggerate this singular friendship. He himself compared it to an armed truce. When they met again each day, they almost seemed before they took up the almost intimate tone of the previous day to ask themselves "are we going to be friends or enemies to-day?" Julien had realised that to allow himself to be insulted with impunity even once by this haughty girl would mean the loss of everything. "If I have got to quarrel would it not be better that it should be straight away in defending the rights of my own pride, than in parrying the expressions of contempt which would follow the slightest abandonment of my duty to my own self-respect?" On many occasions, on days when she was in a bad temper Mathilde, tried to play the great lady with him. These attempts were extremely subtle, but Julien rebuffed them roughly. One day he brusquely interrupted her. "Has mademoiselle de la Mole any orders to give her father's secretary?" he said to her. "If so he must listen to her orders, and execute them, but apart from that he has not a single word to say to her. He is not paid to tell her his thoughts." This kind of life, together with the singular surmises which it occasioned, dissipated the boredom which he had been accustomed to experience in that magnificent salon, where everyone was afraid, and where any kind of jest was in bad form. "It would be humorous if she loved me but whether she loves me or not," went on Julien, "I have for my confidential friend a girl of spirit before whom I see the whole household quake, while the marquis de Croisenois does so more than anyone else. Yes, to be sure, that same young man who is so polite, so gentle, and so brave, and who has combined all those advantages of birth and fortune a single one of which would put my heart at rest--he is madly in love with her, he ought to marry her. How many letters has M. de la Mole made me write to the two notaries in order to arrange the contract? And I, though I am an absolute inferior when I have my pen in my hand, why, I triumph over that young man two hours afterwards in this very garden; for, after all, her preference is striking and direct. Perhaps she hates him because she sees in him a future husband. She is haughty enough for that. As for her kindness to me, I receive it in my capacity of confidential servant. "But no, I am either mad or she is making advances to me; the colder and more respectful I show myself to her, the more she runs after me. It may be a deliberate piece of affectation; but I see her eyes become animated when I appear unexpectedly. Can the women of Paris manage to act to such an extent. What does it matter to me! I have appearances in my favour, let us enjoy appearances. Heavens, how beautiful she is! How I like her great blue eyes when I see them at close quarters, and they look at me in the way they often do? What a difference between this spring and that of last year, when I lived an unhappy life among three hundred dirty malicious hypocrites, and only kept myself afloat through sheer force of character, I was almost as malicious as they were." "That young girl is making fun of me," Julien would think in his suspicious days. "She is acting in concert with her brother to make a fool of me. But she seems to have an absolute contempt for her brother's lack of energy. He is brave and that is all. He has not a thought which dares to deviate from the conventional. It is always I who have to take up the cudgels in his defence. A young girl of nineteen! Can one at that age act up faithfully every second of the day to the part which one has determined to play. On the other hand whenever mademoiselle de la Mole fixes her eyes on me with a singular expression comte Norbert always goes away. I think that suspicious. Ought he not to be indignant at his sister singling out a servant of her household? For that is how I heard the Duke de Chaulnes speak about me. This recollection caused anger to supersede every other emotion. It is simply a fashion for old fashioned phraseology on the part of the eccentric duke?" "Well, she is pretty!" continued Julien with a tigerish expression, "I will have her, I will then go away, and woe to him who disturbs me in my flight." This idea became Julien's sole preoccupation. He could not think of anything else. His days passed like hours. Every moment when he tried to concentrate on some important matter his mind became a blank, and he would wake up a quarter of an hour afterwards with a beating heart and an anxious mind, brooding over this idea "does she love me?" CHAPTER XLI A YOUNG GIRL'S DOMINION I admire her beauty but I fear her intellect.--_Merimee_. If Julien had employed the time which he spent in exaggerating Matilde's beauty or in working himself up into a rage against that family haughtiness which she was forgetting for his sake in examining what was going on in the salon, he would have understood the secret of her dominion over all that surrounded her. When anyone displeased mademoiselle de La Mole she managed to punish the offender by a jest which was so guarded, so well chosen, so polite and so neatly timed, that the more the victim thought about it, the sorer grew the wound. She gradually became positively terrible to wounded vanity. As she attached no value to many things which the rest of her family very seriously wanted, she always struck them as self-possessed. The salons of the aristocracy are nice enough to brag about when you leave them, but that is all; mere politeness alone only counts for something in its own right during the first few days. Julien experienced this after the first fascination and the first astonishment had passed off. "Politeness," he said to himself "is nothing but the absence of that bad temper which would be occasioned by bad manners." Mathilde was frequently bored; perhaps she would have been bored anywhere. She then found a real distraction and real pleasure in sharpening an epigram. It was perhaps in order to have more amusing victims than her great relations, the academician and the five or six other men of inferior class who paid her court, that she had given encouragement to the marquis de Croisenois, the comte Caylus and two or three other young men of the highest rank. They simply represented new subjects for epigrams. We will admit with reluctance, for we are fond of Mathilde, that she had received many letters from several of them and had sometimes answered them. We hasten to add that this person constitutes an exception to the manners of the century. Lack of prudence is not generally the fault with which the pupils of the noble convent of the Sacred Heart can be reproached. One day the marquis de Croisenois returned to Mathilde a fairly compromising letter which she had written the previous night. He thought that he was thereby advancing his cause a great deal by taking this highly prudent step. But the very imprudence of her correspondence was the very element in it Mathilde liked. Her pleasure was to stake her fate. She did not speak to him again for six weeks. She amused herself with the letters of these young men, but in her view they were all like each other. It was invariably a case of the most profound, the most melancholy, passion. "They all represent the same perfect man, ready to leave for Palestine," she exclaimed to her cousin. "Can you conceive of anything more insipid? So these are the letters I am going to receive all my life! There can only be a change every twenty years according to the kind of vogue which happens to be fashionable. They must have had more colour in them in the days of the Empire. In those days all these young society men had seen or accomplished feats which really had an element of greatness. The Duke of N---- my uncle was at Wagram." "What brains do you need to deal a sabre blow? And when they have had the luck to do that they talk of it so often!" said mademoiselle de Sainte-Heredite, Mathilde's cousin. "Well, those tales give me pleasure. Being in a real battle, a battle of Napoleon, where six thousand soldiers were killed, why, that's proof of courage. Exposing one's self to danger elevates the soul and saves it from the boredom in which my poor admirers seem to be sunk; and that boredom is contagious. Which of them ever thought of doing anything extraordinary? They are trying to win my hand, a pretty business to be sure! I am rich and my father will procure advancement for his son-in-law. Well! I hope he'll manage to find someone who is a little bit amusing." Mathilde's keen, sharp and picturesque view of life spoilt her language as one sees. An expression of hers would often constitute a blemish in the eyes of her polished friends. If she had been less fashionable they would almost have owned that her manner of speaking was, from the standpoint of feminine delicacy, to some extent unduly coloured. She, on her side, was very unjust towards the handsome cavaliers who fill the Bois de Boulogne. She envisaged the future not with terror, that would have been a vivid emotion, but with a disgust which was very rare at her age. What could she desire? Fortune, good birth, wit, beauty, according to what the world said, and according to what she believed, all these things had been lavished upon her by the hands of chance. So this was the state of mind of the most envied heiress of the faubourg Saint-Germain when she began to find pleasure in walking with Julien. She was astonished at his pride; she admired the ability of the little bourgeois. "He will manage to get made a bishop like the abbe Mouray," she said to herself. Soon the sincere and unaffected opposition with which our hero received several of her ideas filled her mind; she continued to think about it, she told her friend the slightest details of the conversation, but thought that she would never succeed in fully rendering all their meaning. An idea suddenly flashed across her; "I have the happiness of loving," she said to herself one day with an incredible ecstasy of joy. "I am in love, I am in love, it is clear! Where can a young, witty and beautiful girl of my own age find sensations if not in love? It is no good. I shall never feel any love for Croisenois, Caylus, and _tutti quanti_. They are unimpeachable, perhaps too unimpeachable; any way they bore me." She rehearsed in her mind all the descriptions of passion which she had read in _Manon Lescaut_, the _Nouvelle Heloise_, the _Letters of a Portuguese Nun_, etc., etc. It was only a question of course of the grand passion; light love was unworthy of a girl of her age and birth. She vouchsafed the name of love to that heroic sentiment which was met with in France in the time of Henri III. and Bassompierre. That love did not basely yield to obstacles, but, far from it, inspired great deeds. "How unfortunate for me that there is not a real court like that of Catherine de' Medici or of Louis XIII. I feel equal to the boldest and greatest actions. What would I not make of a king who was a man of spirit like Louis XIII. if he were sighing at my feet! I would take him to the Vendee, as the Baron de Tolly is so fond of saying, and from that base he would re-conquer his kingdom; then no more about a charter--and Julien would help me. What does he lack? name and fortune. He will make a name, he will win a fortune. "Croisenois lacks nothing, and he will never be anything else all his life but a duke who is half 'ultra' and half Liberal, an undecided being who never goes to extremes and consequently always plays second fiddle. "What great action is not an extreme at the moment when it is undertaken? It is only after accomplishment that it seems possible to commonplace individuals. Yes, it is love with all its miracles which is going to reign over my heart; I feel as much from the fire which is thrilling me. Heaven owed me this boon. It will not then have lavished in vain all its bounties on one single person. My happiness will be worthy of me. Each day will no longer be the cold replica of the day before. There is grandeur and audacity in the very fact of daring to love a man, placed so far beneath me by his social position. Let us see what happens, will he continue to deserve me? I will abandon him at the first sign of weakness which I detect. A girl of my birth and of that mediaeval temperament which they are good enough to ascribe to me (she was quoting from her father) must not behave like a fool. "But should I not be behaving like a fool if I were to love the marquis de Croisenois? I should simply have a new edition over again of that happiness enjoyed by my girl cousins which I so utterly despise. I already know everything the poor marquis would say to me and every answer I should make. What's the good of a love which makes one yawn? One might as well be in a nunnery. I shall have a celebration of the signing of a contract just like my younger cousin when the grandparents all break down, provided of course that they are not annoyed by some condition introduced into the contract at the eleventh hour by the notary on the other side." CHAPTER XLII IS HE A DANTON? The need of anxiety. These words summed up the character of my aunt, the beautiful Marguerite de Valois, who was soon to marry the King of Navarre whom we see reigning at present in France under the name of Henry IV. The need of staking something was the key to the character of this charming princess; hence her quarrels and reconciliations with her brothers from the time when she was sixteen. Now, what can a young girl stake? The most precious thing she has: her reputation, the esteem of a lifetime. _Memoirs of the Duke d' Angouleme._ _the natural son of Charles IX_. "There is no contract to sign for Julien and me, there is no notary; everything is on the heroic plane, everything is the child of chance. Apart from the noble birth which he lacks, it is the love of Marguerite de Valois for the young La Mole, the most distinguished man of the time, over again. Is it my fault that the young men of the court are such great advocates of the conventional, and turn pale at the mere idea of the slightest adventure which is a little out of the ordinary? A little journey in Greece or Africa represents the highest pitch of their audacity, and moreover they can only march in troops. As soon as they find themselves alone they are frightened, not of the Bedouin's lance, but of ridicule and that fear makes them mad. "My little Julien on the other hand only likes to act alone. This unique person never thinks for a minute of seeking help or support in others! He despises others, and that is why I do not despise him. "If Julien were noble as well as poor, my love would simply be a vulgar piece of stupidity, a sheer mesalliance; I would have nothing to do with it; it would be absolutely devoid of the characteristic traits of grand passion--the immensity of the difficulty to be overcome and the black uncertainty cf the result." Mademoiselle de la Mole was so engrossed in these pretty arguments that without realising what she was doing, she praised Julien to the marquis de Croisenois and her brother on the following day. Her eloquence went so far that it provoked them. "You be careful of this young man who has so much energy," exclaimed her brother; "if we have another revolution he will have us all guillotined." She was careful not to answer, but hastened to rally her brother and the marquis de Croisenois on the apprehension which energy caused them. "It is at bottom simply the fear of meeting the unexpected, the fear of being non-plussed in the presence of the unexpected--" "Always, always, gentlemen, the fear of ridicule, a monster which had the misfortune to die in 1816." "Ridicule has ceased to exist in a country where there are two parties," M. de la Mole was fond of saying. His daughter had understood the idea. "So, gentlemen," she would say to Julien's enemies, "you will be frightened all your life and you will be told afterwards, "Ce n'etait pas un loup, ce n'en etait que l'ombre." Matilde soon left them. Her brother's words horrified her; they occasioned her much anxiety, but the day afterwards she regarded them as tantamount to the highest praise. "His energy frightens them in this age where all energy is dead. I will tell him my brother's phrase. I want to see what answer he will make. But I will choose one of the moments when his eyes are shining. Then he will not be able to lie to me. "He must be a Danton!" she added after a long and vague reverie. "Well, suppose the revolution begins again, what figures will Croisenois and my brother cut then? It is settled in advance: Sublime resignation. They will be heroic sheep who will allow their throats to be cut without saying a word. Their one fear when they die will still be the fear of being bad form. If a Jacobin came to arrest my little Julien he would blow his brains out, however small a chance he had of escaping. He is not frightened of doing anything in bad form." These last words made her pensive; they recalled painful memories and deprived her of all her boldness. These words reminded her of the jests of MM. de Caylus, Croisenois, de Luz and her brother; these gentlemen joined in censuring Julien for his priestly demeanour, which they said was humble and hypocritical. "But," she went on suddenly with her eyes gleaming with joy, "the very bitterness and the very frequency of their jests prove in spite of themselves that he is the most distinguished man whom we have seen this winter. What matter his defects and the things which they make fun of? He has the element of greatness and they are shocked by it. Yes, they, the very men who are so good and so charitable in other matters. It is a fact that he is poor and that he has studied in order to be a priest; they are the heads of a squadron and never had any need of studying; they found it less trouble. "In spite of all the handicap of his everlasting black suit and of that priestly expression which he must wear, poor boy, if he isn't to die of hunger, his merit frightens them, nothing could be clearer. And as for that priest-like expression, why he no longer has it after we have been alone for some moments, and after those gentlemen have evolved what they imagine to be a subtle and impromptu epigram, is not their first look towards Julien? I have often noticed it. And yet they know well that he never speaks to them unless he is questioned. I am the only one whom he speaks to. He thinks I have a lofty soul. He only answers the points they raise sufficiently to be polite. He immediately reverts into respectfulness. But with me he will discuss things for whole hours, he is not certain of his ideas so long as I find the slightest objection to them. There has not been a single rifle-shot fired all this winter; words have been the only means of attracting attention. Well, my father, who is a superior man and will carry the fortunes of our house very far, respects Julien. Every one else hates him, no one despises him except my mother's devout friends." The Comte de Caylus had or pretended to have a great passion for horses; he passed his life in his stables and often breakfasted there. This great passion, together with his habit of never laughing, won for him much respect among his friends: he was the eagle of the little circle. As soon as they had reassembled the following day behind madame de la Mole's armchair, M. de Caylus, supported by Croisenois and by Norbert, began in Julien's absence to attack sharply the high opinion which Mathilde entertained for Julien. He did this without any provocation, and almost the very minute that he caught sight of mademoiselle de la Mole. She tumbled to the subtlety immediately and was delighted with it. "So there they are all leagued together," she said to herself, "against a man of genius who has not ten louis a year to bless himself with and who cannot answer them except in so far as he is questioned. They are frightened of him, black coat and all. But how would things stand if he had epaulettes?" She had never been more brilliant, hardly had Caylus and his allies opened their attack than she riddled them with sarcastic jests. When the fire of these brilliant officers was at length extinguished she said to M. de Caylus, "Suppose that some gentleman in the Franche-Comte mountains finds out to-morrow that Julien is his natural son and gives him a name and some thousands of francs, why in six months he will be an officer of hussars like you, gentlemen, in six weeks he will have moustaches like you gentlemen. And then his greatness of character will no longer be an object of ridicule. I shall then see you reduced, monsieur the future duke, to this stale and bad argument, the superiority of the court nobility over the provincial nobility. But where will you be if I choose to push you to extremities and am mischievous enough to make Julien's father a Spanish duke, who was a prisoner of war at Besancon in the time of Napoleon, and who out of conscientious scruples acknowledges him on his death bed?" MM. de Caylus, and de Croisenois found all these assumptions of illegitimacy in rather bad taste. That was all they saw in Mathilde's reasoning. His sister's words were so clear that Norbert, in spite of his submissiveness, assumed a solemn air, which one must admit did not harmonise very well with his amiable, smiling face. He ventured to say a few words. "Are you ill? my dear," answered Mathilde with a little air of seriousness. "You must be very bad to answer jests by moralizing." "Moralizing from you! Are you soliciting a job as prefect?" Mathilde soon forgot the irritation of the comte de Caylus, the bad temper of Norbert, and the taciturn despair of M. de Croisenois. She had to decide one way or the other a fatal question which had just seized upon her soul. "Julien is sincere enough with me," she said to herself, "a man at his age, in a inferior position, and rendered unhappy as he is by an extraordinary ambition, must have need of a woman friend. I am perhaps that friend, but I see no sign of love in him. Taking into account the audacity of his character he would surely have spoken to me about his love." This uncertainty and this discussion with herself which henceforth monopolised Mathilde's time, and in connection with which she found new arguments each time that Julien spoke to her, completely routed those fits of boredom to which she had been so liable. Daughter as she was of a man of intellect who might become a minister, mademoiselle de la Mole had been when in the convent of the Sacred Heart, the object of the most excessive flattery. This misfortune can never be compensated for. She had been persuaded that by reason of all her advantages of birth, fortune, etc., she ought to be happier than any one else. This is the cause of the boredom of princes and of all their follies. Mathilde had not escaped the deadly influence of this idea. However intelligent one may be, one cannot at the age of ten be on one's guard against the flatteries of a whole convent, which are apparently so well founded. From the moment that she had decided that she loved Julien, she was no longer bored. She congratulated herself every day on having deliberately decided to indulge in a grand passion. "This amusement is very dangerous," she thought. "All the better, all the better, a thousand times. Without a grand passion I should be languishing in boredom during the finest time of my life, the years from sixteen to twenty. I have already wasted my finest years: all my pleasure consisted in being obliged to listen to the silly arguments of my mother's friends who when at Coblentz in 1792 were not quite so strict, so they say, as their words of to-day." It was while Mathilde was a prey to these great fits of uncertainty that Julien was baffled by those long looks of hers which lingered upon him. He noticed, no doubt, an increased frigidity in the manner of comte Norbert, and a fresh touch of haughtiness in the manner of MM. de Caylus, de Luz and de Croisenois. He was accustomed to that. He would sometimes be their victim in this way at the end of an evening when, in view of the position he occupied, he had been unduly brilliant. Had it not been for the especial welcome with which Mathilde would greet him, and the curiosity with which all this society inspired him, he would have avoided following these brilliant moustachioed young men into the garden, when they accompanied mademoiselle de La Mole there, in the hour after dinner. "Yes," Julien would say to himself, "it is impossible for me to deceive myself, mademoiselle de la Mole looks at me in a very singular way. But even when her fine blue open eyes are fixed on me, wide open with the most abandon, I always detect behind them an element of scrutiny, self-possession and malice. Is it possible that this may be love? But how different to madame de Renal's looks!" One evening after dinner Julien, who had followed M. de la Mole into his study, was rapidly walking back to the garden. He approached Mathilde's circle without any warning, and caught some words pronounced in a very loud voice. She was teasing her brother. Julien heard his name distinctly pronounced twice. He appeared. There was immediately a profound silence and abortive efforts were made to dissipate it. Mademoiselle de la Mole and her brother were too animated to find another topic of conversation. MM. de Caylus, de Croisenois, de Luz, and one of their friends, manifested an icy coldness to Julien. He went away.

Chapters 10-12

https://web.archive.org/web/20201128052739/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/r/the-red-and-the-black/summary-and-analysis/part-2-chapters-1012

As Julien's ardor cools, he is able to reflect on Mathilde's attitude toward him, and he begins to see her in a new light. The academician tells Julien the story of Boniface de la Mole, ancestor of Mathilde, who was beheaded in the Place de Greve defending his friends, and whose lover was the Queen Marguerite. The latter heroically retrieved Boniface's head and lovingly buried it. Mathilde reveres this ancestor and wears mourning on the anniversary of his death. This knowledge evokes Julien's admiration for Mathilde, and in subsequent conversations with her in the garden, he finds that she is intelligent and charming. Finding himself treated kindly by Mathilde, Julien wonders whether she loves him. Then his suspicious nature sees a plot being perpetrated by Mathilde and her brother to make him look ridiculous. Julien decides to seduce her, then to flee. He is tormented by the suspicion that she loves him. Mathilde, on the other hand, has arrived at the discovery that she must be in love with Julien. Mathilde praises Julien in the presence of her brother, Caylus, and Croisenois, and, to their surprise, ridicules them in Julien's defense. She attributes their condemnation of Julien to the jealousy they must feel for a man of genius. One evening, Julien hears his name mentioned in an argument between Mathilde and her brother, and when he joins them, silence falls, and Caylus, Croisenois, and de Luz treat him coldly.

Julien discovers immediately how to have a successful relationship with Mathilde. He must remain cool and never permit her momentary sympathy to lull him into complete confidence. He notices that their conversations seem to begin as a duel, and he realizes that, in order to command her respect, thus her admiration, he must maintain a certain distance between them. Later, as their relationship becomes more involved, Julien will forget this discovery momentarily. His ultimate success with Mathilde will depend upon his rediscovery and utilization of this strategy. Julien is still master of himself. He suspects that Mathilde loves him, but he is not the victim of any passion for her. Here reawakens the peasant's distrust and suspicion. Julien's fear of ridicule conflicts with his growing admiration for Mathilde, and the resulting decision to seduce her indicates the victory of his suspicious nature. According to Stendhal's theory of love, some assurance and encouragement that one is loved are necessary before one's own feelings progress in the crystallization process. Chapter 11 is an exploration of Mathilde's character and presents the culmination of the various preoccupations she has had since Chapter 8. Stendhal describes typical incidents that illustrate her pride, the command she has over others, her boredom with the ordinary; and he continues the self-analysis she made at the ball. Mathilde arrives at the discovery that she must be in love with Julien and is overjoyed at this prospect. In reality, she is in love with the idea of being in love. Hers is a love in the Cornelian sense: it depends upon her intellectual approval of it, and it is necessary that the object of the love prove himself worthy of it. She projects its future course: "I've already shown boldness and greatness of heart by daring to fall in love with a man so far below me in social position, I wonder if he'll continue to be worthy of me. At the first sign of weakness I see in him, I'll abandon him." Chapter 12 is but the continuation of the preceding in that Mathilde continues to subject her love for Julien to cold intellectual analysis. She rationalizes it, justifies it, and revels in it. Here for the first time, Mathilde verbalizes the association between Julien and herself and Boniface and Marguerite, an association she has unconsciously forged since Chapter 8. Mathilde has arrived at that stage in crystallization in which every virtue and perfection is attributed to the object once the realization of love has come to awareness. She sees Julien as a superior man who despises others, and that is why she doesn't despise him. Doubtless, she defends Julien with greater vigor because of the overwhelming disgust that her brother and suitors inspire in her, as the epitome of the commonplace. Even Norbert's warning that Julien is a future revolutionary who would see them to the guillotine is simply another reason for Mathilde to love him. What does worry her, however, is the possibility that Julien does not love her. At any rate, Mathilde has escaped her boredom by deliberating about this decision to indulge in a great passion. Julien still wavers between his doubts and hopes concerning Mathilde's intentions. In this respect, Julien would seem to be experiencing a variation of the crystallization process, although Stendhal's modesty prevents him from showing Julien as a victim of this emotion.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/42.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_41_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 42

chapter 42

{"name": "Chapter 42", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-42", "summary": "As their conversation continues, Jim finally promises that Brown will either have a fight or be let go. When the two part ways, Jim heads off to discuss matters with Doramin, and Brown returns to an unhappy Cornelius, who is irked that Brown didn't shoot Jim when he had the chance. Elsewhere, Jim argues that they should just let Brown go and avoid any more bloodshed. Of course no one agrees with him. Well, fine then, thinks Jim. He tells them that Dain Waris can take over the attack on Brown, because he wants nothing more to do with the whole rigmarole.", "analysis": ""}

'I don't think he could do more than perhaps look upon that straight path. He seemed to have been puzzled by what he saw, for he interrupted himself in his narrative more than once to exclaim, "He nearly slipped from me there. I could not make him out. Who was he?" And after glaring at me wildly he would go on, jubilating and sneering. To me the conversation of these two across the creek appears now as the deadliest kind of duel on which Fate looked on with her cold-eyed knowledge of the end. No, he didn't turn Jim's soul inside out, but I am much mistaken if the spirit so utterly out of his reach had not been made to taste to the full the bitterness of that contest. These were the emissaries with whom the world he had renounced was pursuing him in his retreat--white men from "out there" where he did not think himself good enough to live. This was all that came to him--a menace, a shock, a danger to his work. I suppose it is this sad, half-resentful, half-resigned feeling, piercing through the few words Jim said now and then, that puzzled Brown so much in the reading of his character. Some great men owe most of their greatness to the ability of detecting in those they destine for their tools the exact quality of strength that matters for their work; and Brown, as though he had been really great, had a satanic gift of finding out the best and the weakest spot in his victims. He admitted to me that Jim wasn't of the sort that can be got over by truckling, and accordingly he took care to show himself as a man confronting without dismay ill-luck, censure, and disaster. The smuggling of a few guns was no great crime, he pointed out. As to coming to Patusan, who had the right to say he hadn't come to beg? The infernal people here let loose at him from both banks without staying to ask questions. He made the point brazenly, for, in truth, Dain Waris's energetic action had prevented the greatest calamities; because Brown told me distinctly that, perceiving the size of the place, he had resolved instantly in his mind that as soon as he had gained a footing he would set fire right and left, and begin by shooting down everything living in sight, in order to cow and terrify the population. The disproportion of forces was so great that this was the only way giving him the slightest chance of attaining his ends--he argued in a fit of coughing. But he didn't tell Jim this. As to the hardships and starvation they had gone through, these had been very real; it was enough to look at his band. He made, at the sound of a shrill whistle, all his men appear standing in a row on the logs in full view, so that Jim could see them. For the killing of the man, it had been done--well, it had--but was not this war, bloody war--in a corner? and the fellow had been killed cleanly, shot through the chest, not like that poor devil of his lying now in the creek. They had to listen to him dying for six hours, with his entrails torn with slugs. At any rate this was a life for a life. . . . And all this was said with the weariness, with the recklessness of a man spurred on and on by ill-luck till he cares not where he runs. When he asked Jim, with a sort of brusque despairing frankness, whether he himself--straight now--didn't understand that when "it came to saving one's life in the dark, one didn't care who else went--three, thirty, three hundred people"--it was as if a demon had been whispering advice in his ear. "I made him wince," boasted Brown to me. "He very soon left off coming the righteous over me. He just stood there with nothing to say, and looking as black as thunder--not at me--on the ground." He asked Jim whether he had nothing fishy in his life to remember that he was so damnedly hard upon a man trying to get out of a deadly hole by the first means that came to hand--and so on, and so on. And there ran through the rough talk a vein of subtle reference to their common blood, an assumption of common experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt, of secret knowledge that was like a bond of their minds and of their hearts. 'At last Brown threw himself down full length and watched Jim out of the corners of his eyes. Jim on his side of the creek stood thinking and switching his leg. The houses in view were silent, as if a pestilence had swept them clean of every breath of life; but many invisible eyes were turned, from within, upon the two men with the creek between them, a stranded white boat, and the body of the third man half sunk in the mud. On the river canoes were moving again, for Patusan was recovering its belief in the stability of earthly institutions since the return of the white lord. The right bank, the platforms of the houses, the rafts moored along the shores, even the roofs of bathing-huts, were covered with people that, far away out of earshot and almost out of sight, were straining their eyes towards the knoll beyond the Rajah's stockade. Within the wide irregular ring of forests, broken in two places by the sheen of the river, there was a silence. "Will you promise to leave the coast?" Jim asked. Brown lifted and let fall his hand, giving everything up as it were--accepting the inevitable. "And surrender your arms?" Jim went on. Brown sat up and glared across. "Surrender our arms! Not till you come to take them out of our stiff hands. You think I am gone crazy with funk? Oh no! That and the rags I stand in is all I have got in the world, besides a few more breechloaders on board; and I expect to sell the lot in Madagascar, if I ever get so far--begging my way from ship to ship." 'Jim said nothing to this. At last, throwing away the switch he held in his hand, he said, as if speaking to himself, "I don't know whether I have the power." . . . "You don't know! And you wanted me just now to give up my arms! That's good, too," cried Brown; "Suppose they say one thing to you, and do the other thing to me." He calmed down markedly. "I dare say you have the power, or what's the meaning of all this talk?" he continued. "What did you come down here for? To pass the time of day?" '"Very well," said Jim, lifting his head suddenly after a long silence. "You shall have a clear road or else a clear fight." He turned on his heel and walked away. 'Brown got up at once, but he did not go up the hill till he had seen Jim disappear between the first houses. He never set his eyes on him again. On his way back he met Cornelius slouching down with his head between his shoulders. He stopped before Brown. "Why didn't you kill him?" he demanded in a sour, discontented voice. "Because I could do better than that," Brown said with an amused smile. "Never! never!" protested Cornelius with energy. "Couldn't. I have lived here for many years." Brown looked up at him curiously. There were many sides to the life of that place in arms against him; things he would never find out. Cornelius slunk past dejectedly in the direction of the river. He was now leaving his new friends; he accepted the disappointing course of events with a sulky obstinacy which seemed to draw more together his little yellow old face; and as he went down he glanced askant here and there, never giving up his fixed idea. 'Henceforth events move fast without a check, flowing from the very hearts of men like a stream from a dark source, and we see Jim amongst them, mostly through Tamb' Itam's eyes. The girl's eyes had watched him too, but her life is too much entwined with his: there is her passion, her wonder, her anger, and, above all, her fear and her unforgiving love. Of the faithful servant, uncomprehending as the rest of them, it is the fidelity alone that comes into play; a fidelity and a belief in his lord so strong that even amazement is subdued to a sort of saddened acceptance of a mysterious failure. He has eyes only for one figure, and through all the mazes of bewilderment he preserves his air of guardianship, of obedience, of care. 'His master came back from his talk with the white men, walking slowly towards the stockade in the street. Everybody was rejoiced to see him return, for while he was away every man had been afraid not only of him being killed, but also of what would come after. Jim went into one of the houses, where old Doramin had retired, and remained alone for a long time with the head of the Bugis settlers. No doubt he discussed the course to follow with him then, but no man was present at the conversation. Only Tamb' Itam, keeping as close to the door as he could, heard his master say, "Yes. I shall let all the people know that such is my wish; but I spoke to you, O Doramin, before all the others, and alone; for you know my heart as well as I know yours and its greatest desire. And you know well also that I have no thought but for the people's good." Then his master, lifting the sheeting in the doorway, went out, and he, Tamb' Itam, had a glimpse of old Doramin within, sitting in the chair with his hands on his knees, and looking between his feet. Afterwards he followed his master to the fort, where all the principal Bugis and Patusan inhabitants had been summoned for a talk. Tamb' Itam himself hoped there would be some fighting. "What was it but the taking of another hill?" he exclaimed regretfully. However, in the town many hoped that the rapacious strangers would be induced, by the sight of so many brave men making ready to fight, to go away. It would be a good thing if they went away. Since Jim's arrival had been made known before daylight by the gun fired from the fort and the beating of the big drum there, the fear that had hung over Patusan had broken and subsided like a wave on a rock, leaving the seething foam of excitement, curiosity, and endless speculation. Half of the population had been ousted out of their homes for purposes of defence, and were living in the street on the left side of the river, crowding round the fort, and in momentary expectation of seeing their abandoned dwellings on the threatened bank burst into flames. The general anxiety was to see the matter settled quickly. Food, through Jewel's care, had been served out to the refugees. Nobody knew what their white man would do. Some remarked that it was worse than in Sherif Ali's war. Then many people did not care; now everybody had something to lose. The movements of canoes passing to and fro between the two parts of the town were watched with interest. A couple of Bugis war-boats lay anchored in the middle of the stream to protect the river, and a thread of smoke stood at the bow of each; the men in them were cooking their midday rice when Jim, after his interviews with Brown and Doramin, crossed the river and entered by the water-gate of his fort. The people inside crowded round him, so that he could hardly make his way to the house. They had not seen him before, because on his arrival during the night he had only exchanged a few words with the girl, who had come down to the landing-stage for the purpose, and had then gone on at once to join the chiefs and the fighting men on the other bank. People shouted greetings after him. One old woman raised a laugh by pushing her way to the front madly and enjoining him in a scolding voice to see to it that her two sons, who were with Doramin, did not come to harm at the hands of the robbers. Several of the bystanders tried to pull her away, but she struggled and cried, "Let me go. What is this, O Muslims? This laughter is unseemly. Are they not cruel, bloodthirsty robbers bent on killing?" "Let her be," said Jim, and as a silence fell suddenly, he said slowly, "Everybody shall be safe." He entered the house before the great sigh, and the loud murmurs of satisfaction, had died out. 'There's no doubt his mind was made up that Brown should have his way clear back to the sea. His fate, revolted, was forcing his hand. He had for the first time to affirm his will in the face of outspoken opposition. "There was much talk, and at first my master was silent," Tamb' Itam said. "Darkness came, and then I lit the candles on the long table. The chiefs sat on each side, and the lady remained by my master's right hand." 'When he began to speak, the unaccustomed difficulty seemed only to fix his resolve more immovably. The white men were now waiting for his answer on the hill. Their chief had spoken to him in the language of his own people, making clear many things difficult to explain in any other speech. They were erring men whom suffering had made blind to right and wrong. It is true that lives had been lost already, but why lose more? He declared to his hearers, the assembled heads of the people, that their welfare was his welfare, their losses his losses, their mourning his mourning. He looked round at the grave listening faces and told them to remember that they had fought and worked side by side. They knew his courage . . . Here a murmur interrupted him . . . And that he had never deceived them. For many years they had dwelt together. He loved the land and the people living in it with a very great love. He was ready to answer with his life for any harm that should come to them if the white men with beards were allowed to retire. They were evil-doers, but their destiny had been evil, too. Had he ever advised them ill? Had his words ever brought suffering to the people? he asked. He believed that it would be best to let these whites and their followers go with their lives. It would be a small gift. "I whom you have tried and found always true ask you to let them go." He turned to Doramin. The old nakhoda made no movement. "Then," said Jim, "call in Dain Waris, your son, my friend, for in this business I shall not lead."'

Chapter 42

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-42

As their conversation continues, Jim finally promises that Brown will either have a fight or be let go. When the two part ways, Jim heads off to discuss matters with Doramin, and Brown returns to an unhappy Cornelius, who is irked that Brown didn't shoot Jim when he had the chance. Elsewhere, Jim argues that they should just let Brown go and avoid any more bloodshed. Of course no one agrees with him. Well, fine then, thinks Jim. He tells them that Dain Waris can take over the attack on Brown, because he wants nothing more to do with the whole rigmarole.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/29.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_28_part_0.txt

The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra.act iv.scene iv

act iv, scene iv

{"name": "Act IV, Scene iv", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iv-scene-iv", "summary": "It's early morning, and Antony calls to his man Eros to help him put on his armor, while Cleopatra calls him back to bed. As Eros dresses him in armor, Cleopatra tries to help, but Antony says she is the armor around his heart. She helps anyway, and he says the man that undoes his armor that day will feel his rage-- Antony is confident about his manliness. Antony wishes Cleopatra could see him at war today, as she would see him in his truest form, as a workman at his trade. An armed soldier enters, and Antony compliments him for looking ready for war. The soldier announces that a thousand men wait on Antony at the port, with more on the way. Things are generally looking up. Antony is in high spirits--this is his home turf, being soldierly and warish and such. He kisses Cleopatra's hand like a gallant fellow, saying, \"Fare thee well, dame,\" which is a far cry from his usual fawning. He tells her he leaves her as a man of steel , and we get a glimpse of what Antony the soldier was like before he became Cleopatra's Antony in Egypt. He leads his men to war, as Cleopatra is led back to her bed.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE IV. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace Enter ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, with others ANTONY. Eros! mine armour, Eros! CLEOPATRA. Sleep a little. ANTONY. No, my chuck. Eros! Come, mine armour, Eros! Enter EROS with armour Come, good fellow, put mine iron on. If fortune be not ours to-day, it is Because we brave her. Come. CLEOPATRA. Nay, I'll help too. What's this for? ANTONY. Ah, let be, let be! Thou art The armourer of my heart. False, false; this, this. CLEOPATRA. Sooth, la, I'll help. Thus it must be. ANTONY. Well, well; We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good fellow? Go put on thy defences. EROS. Briefly, sir. CLEOPATRA. Is not this buckled well? ANTONY. Rarely, rarely! He that unbuckles this, till we do please To daff't for our repose, shall hear a storm. Thou fumblest, Eros, and my queen's a squire More tight at this than thou. Dispatch. O love, That thou couldst see my wars to-day, and knew'st The royal occupation! Thou shouldst see A workman in't. Enter an armed SOLDIER Good-morrow to thee. Welcome. Thou look'st like him that knows a warlike charge. To business that we love we rise betime, And go to't with delight. SOLDIER. A thousand, sir, Early though't be, have on their riveted trim, And at the port expect you. [Shout. Flourish of trumpets within] Enter CAPTAINS and soldiers CAPTAIN. The morn is fair. Good morrow, General. ALL. Good morrow, General. ANTONY. 'Tis well blown, lads. This morning, like the spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes. So, so. Come, give me that. This way. Well said. Fare thee well, dame, whate'er becomes of me. This is a soldier's kiss. Rebukeable, And worthy shameful check it were, to stand On more mechanic compliment; I'll leave thee Now like a man of steel. You that will fight, Follow me close; I'll bring you to't. Adieu. Exeunt ANTONY, EROS, CAPTAINS and soldiers CHARMIAN. Please you retire to your chamber? CLEOPATRA. Lead me. He goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar might Determine this great war in single fight! Then, Antony- but now. Well, on. Exeunt ACT_4|SC_5

Act IV, Scene iv

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iv-scene-iv

It's early morning, and Antony calls to his man Eros to help him put on his armor, while Cleopatra calls him back to bed. As Eros dresses him in armor, Cleopatra tries to help, but Antony says she is the armor around his heart. She helps anyway, and he says the man that undoes his armor that day will feel his rage-- Antony is confident about his manliness. Antony wishes Cleopatra could see him at war today, as she would see him in his truest form, as a workman at his trade. An armed soldier enters, and Antony compliments him for looking ready for war. The soldier announces that a thousand men wait on Antony at the port, with more on the way. Things are generally looking up. Antony is in high spirits--this is his home turf, being soldierly and warish and such. He kisses Cleopatra's hand like a gallant fellow, saying, "Fare thee well, dame," which is a far cry from his usual fawning. He tells her he leaves her as a man of steel , and we get a glimpse of what Antony the soldier was like before he became Cleopatra's Antony in Egypt. He leads his men to war, as Cleopatra is led back to her bed.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/34.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_33_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 4

part 2, chapter 4

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-4", "summary": "It becomes clear to Julien that the de La Moles and their friends suffer from deep boredom. One of the reasons might be that they never tolerate any serious subjects in their conversation. Everything has to be about superficial amusement. It's no wonder they're bored. The only reason that people come to the de La Moles' house is because they want something from the marquis. Everyone seems to know this and it makes everything in the house seem hollow. One day, Julien asks Father Pirard whether he'd be allowed to stop eating dinner with the de La Moles, since it's so boring. Then he realizes that the marquis' daughter has been listening. He feels like he's really put his foot in it, but he doesn't realize that Mathilde feels the same way. It turns out that Mathilde has a little social group that makes fun of how boring her parents' friends are. Julien soon finds his way into this company. He's shocked, though, because he doesn't think it's appropriate to sit around insulting people behind their backs. Julien hears his rival Tanbeau talking about how a poet named Beranger should be thrown into a dungeon for ten years because he writes obscene political things. Julien thinks Tanbeau is a monster. Father Pirard beckons Julien over and tells him not to write anything political in the French language or the marquis will dislike him forever. Julien goes upstairs and burns a few things he's been writing.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER XXXIV THE HOTEL DE LA MOLE What is he doing here? Will he like it there? Will he try to please?--_Ronsard_. If everything in the aristocratic salon of the Hotel de la Mole seemed strange to Julien, that pale young man in his black suit seemed in his turn very strange to those persons who deigned to notice him. Madame de la Mole suggested to her husband that he should send him off on some business on those days when they had certain persons to dinner. "I wish to carry the experiment to its logical conclusion," answered the marquis. "The abbe Pirard contends that we are wrong in crushing the self-respect of the people whom we allow around us. _One can only lean on what resists_. The only thing against this man is his unknown face, apart from that he is a deaf mute." "If I am to know my way about," said Julien to himself. "I must write down the names of the persons whom I see come to the salon together with a few words on their character." He put at the head of the list five or six friends of the house who took every opportunity of paying court to him, believing that he was protected by a whim of the marquis. They were poor dull devils. But it must be said in praise of this class of men, such as they are found to-day in the salons of the aristocracy, that every one did not find them equally tame. One of them was now allowing himself to be bullied by the marquis, who was venting his irritation at a harsh remark which had been addressed to him by the marquise. The masters of the house were too proud or too prone to boredom; they were too much used to finding their only distraction in the addressing of insults, to enable them to expect true friends. But, except on rainy days and in rare moments of savage boredom, they always showed themselves perfectly polite. If the five or six toadies who manifested so paternal an affection towards Julien had deserted the Hotel de la Mole, the marquise would have been exposed to long spells of solitude, and in the eyes of women of that class, solitude is awful, it is the symbol of _disgrace_. The marquis was charming to his wife. He saw that her salon was sufficiently furnished, though not with peers, for he did not think his new colleagues were sufficiently noble to come to his house as friends, or sufficiently amusing to be admitted as inferiors. It was only later that Julien fathomed these secrets. The governing policy of a household, though it forms the staple of conversation in bourgeois families, is only alluded to in families of the class of that of the marquis in moments of distress. So paramount even in this bored century is the necessity of amusing one's self, that even on the days of dinner-parties the marquis had scarcely left the salon before all the guests ran away. Provided that one did not make any jests about either God or the priests or the king or the persons in office, or the artists who enjoyed the favour of the court, or of anything that was established, provided that one did not praise either Beranger or the opposition papers, or Voltaire or Rousseau or anything which involved any element of free speech, provided that above all that one never talked politics, one could discuss everything with freedom. There is no income of a hundred thousand crowns a year and no blue ribbon which could sustain a contest against such a code of salon etiquette. The slightest live idea appeared a crudity. In spite of the prevailing good form, perfect politeness, and desire to please, _ennui_ was visible in every face. The young people who came to pay their calls were frightened of speaking of anything which might make them suspected of thinking or of betraying that they had read something prohibited, and relapsed into silence after a few elegant phrases about Rossini and the weather. Julien noticed that the conversation was usually kept alive by two viscounts and five barons whom M. de la Mole had known at the time of the emigration. These gentlemen enjoyed an income of from six to eight hundred thousand francs. Four swore by the _Quotidienne_ and three by the _Gazette de France_. One of them had every day some anecdote to tell about the Chateau, in which he made lavish use of the word _admirable_. Julien noticed that he had five crosses, the others as a rule only had three. By way of compensation six footmen in livery were to be seen in the ante-room, and during the whole evening ices or tea were served every quarter-of-an-hour, while about midnight there was a kind of supper with champagne. This was the reason that sometimes induced Julien to stay till the end. Apart from this he could scarcely understand why any one could bring himself to take seriously the ordinary conversation in this magnificently gilded salon. Sometimes he would look at the talkers to see if they themselves were not making fun of what they were saying. "My M. de Maistre, whom I know by heart," he thought, "has put it a hundred times better, and all the same he is pretty boring." Julien was not the only one to appreciate this stifling moral atmosphere. Some consoled themselves by taking a great quantity of ices, others by the pleasure of saying all the rest of the evening, "I have just come from the Hotel de la Mole where I learnt that Russia, etc." Julien learnt from one of the toadies that scarcely six months ago madame de la Mole had rewarded more than twenty years of assiduous attention by promoting the poor baron Le Bourguignon, who had been a sub-prefect since the restoration, to the rank of prefect. This great event had whetted the zeal of all these gentlemen. Previously there were few things to which they would have objected, now they objected to nothing. There was rarely any overt lack of consideration, but Julien had already caught at meals two or three little short dialogues between the marquis and his wife which were cruel to those who were seated near them. These noble personages did not conceal their sincere contempt for everyone who was not sprung from people who were entitled to ride in the carriages of the king. Julien noticed that the word crusade was the only word which gave their face an expression of deep seriousness akin to respect. Their ordinary respect had always a touch of condescension. In the middle of this magnificence and this boredom Julien was interested in nothing except M. de la Mole. He was delighted to hear him protest one day that he had had nothing to do with the promotion of that poor Le Bourguignon, it was an attention to the marquise. Julien knew the truth from the abbe Pirard. The abbe was working in the marquis's library with Julien one morning at the eternal de Frilair lawsuit. "Monsieur," said Julien suddenly, "is dining every day with madame la marquise one of my duties or a special favour that they show to me?" "It's a special honour," replied the scandalised abbe. "M. the Academician, who has been cultivating the family for fifteen years, has never been able to obtain so much for his M. Tanbeau." "I find it, sir, the most painful part of my employment. I was less bored at the seminary. Some times I see even mademoiselle de la Mole yawn, and yet she ought to be accustomed to the social charms of the friends of the house. I am frightened of falling asleep. As a favour, obtain permission for me to go and get a forty sous' dinner in some obscure inn." The abbe who was a true snob, was very appreciative of the honour of dining with a great lord. While he was endeavouring to get Julien to understand this point of view a slight noise made them turn round. Julien saw mademoiselle de la Mole listening. He reddened. She had come to fetch a book and had heard everything. She began to entertain some respect for Julien. "He has not been born servile," she thought, "like that old abbe. Heavens, how ugly he is." At dinner Julien did not venture to look at mademoiselle de la Mole but she was kind enough to speak to him. They were expecting a lot of visitors that day and she asked him to stay. The young girls of Paris are not at all fond of persons of a certain age, especially when they are slovenly. Julien did not need much penetration to realise that the colleagues of M. le Bourguignon who remained in the salon had the privilege of being the ordinary butt of mademoiselle de la Mole's jokes. On this particular day, whether or not by reason of some affectation on her part, she proved cruel to bores. Mademoiselle de la Mole was the centre of a little knot which used to form nearly every evening behind the marquise's immense arm-chair. There were to be found there the marquis de Croisenois, the comte de Caylus, the vicomte de Luz and two or three other young officers, the friends of Norbert or his sister. These gentlemen used to sit down on a large blue sofa. At the end of the sofa, opposite the part where the brilliant Mathilde was sitting, Julien sat in silence on a little, rather low straw chair. This modest position was envied by all the toadies; Norbert kept his father's young secretary in countenance by speaking to him, or mentioning him by name once or twice in the evening. On this particular occasion mademoiselle de la Mole asked him what was the height of the mountain on which the citadel of Besancon is planted. Julien had never any idea if this mountain was higher or lower than Montmartre. He often laughed heartily at what was said in this little knot, but he felt himself incapable of inventing anything analagous. It was like a strange language which he understood but could not speak. On this particular day Matilde's friends manifested a continuous hostility to the visitors who came into the vast salon. The friends of the house were the favoured victims at first, inasmuch as they were better known. You can form your opinion as to whether Julien paid attention; everything interested him, both the substance of things and the manner of making fun of them. "And there is M. Descoulis," said Matilde; "he doesn't wear a wig any more. Does he want to get a prefectship through sheer force of genius? He is displaying that bald forehead which he says is filled with lofty thoughts." "He is a man who knows the whole world," said the marquis de Croisenois. "He also goes to my uncle the cardinal's. He is capable of cultivating a falsehood with each of his friends for years on end, and he has two or three hundred friends. He knows how to nurse friendship, that is his talent. He will go out, just as you see him, in the worst winter weather, and be at the door of one of his friends by seven o'clock in the morning. "He quarrels from time to time and he writes seven or eight letters for each quarrel. Then he has a reconciliation and he writes seven or eight letters to express his bursts of friendship. But he shines most brilliantly in the frank and sincere expansiveness of the honest man who keeps nothing up his sleeve. This manoeuvre is brought into play when he has some favour to ask. One of my uncle's grand vicars is very good at telling the life of M. Descoulis since the restoration. I will bring him to you." "Bah! I don't believe all that, it's professional jealousy among the lower classes," said the comte de Caylus. "M. Descoulis will live in history," replied the marquis. "He brought about the restoration together with the abbe de Pradt and messieurs de Talleyrand and Pozzo di Borgo." "That man has handled millions," said Norbert, "and I can't conceive why he should come here to swallow my father's epigrams which are frequently atrocious. 'How many times have you betrayed your friends, my dear Descoulis?' he shouted at him one day from one end of the table to the other." "But is it true that he has played the traitor?" asked mademoiselle de la Mole. "Who has not played the traitor?" "Why!" said the comte de Caylus to Norbert, "do you have that celebrated Liberal, M. Sainclair, in your house. What the devil's he come here for? I must go up to him and speak to him and make him speak. He is said to be so clever." "But how will your mother receive him?" said M. de Croisenois. "He has such extravagant, generous and independent ideas." "Look," said mademoiselle de la Mole, "look at the independent man who bows down to the ground to M. Descoulis while he grabs hold of his hand. I almost thought he was going to put it to his lips." "Descoulis must stand better with the powers that be than we thought," answered M. de Croisenois. "Sainclair comes here in order to get into the academy," said Norbert. "See how he bows to the baron L----, Croisenois." "It would be less base to kneel down," replied M. de Luz. "My dear Sorel," said Norbert, "you are extremely smart, but you come from the mountains. Mind you never bow like that great poet is doing, even to God the Father." "Ah there's a really witty man, M. the Baron Baton," said mademoiselle de la Mole, imitating a little the voice of the flunkey who had just announced him. "I think that even your servants make fun of him. What a name Baron Baton," said M. de Caylus. "What's in a name?" he said to us the other day, went on Matilde. "Imagine the Duke de Bouillon announced for the first time. So far as I am concerned the public only need to get used to me." "Julien left the vicinity of the sofa." Still insufficiently appreciative of the charming subtleties of a delicate raillery to laugh at a joke, he considered that a jest ought to have some logical foundation. He saw nothing in these young peoples' conversation except a vein of universal scandal-mongering and was shocked by it. His provincial or English prudery went so far as to detect envy in it, though in this he was certainly mistaken. "Count Norbert," he said to himself, "who has had to make three drafts for a twenty-line letter to his colonel would be only too glad to have written once in his whole life one page as good as M. Sainclair." Julien approached successively the several groups and attracted no attention by reason of his lack of importance. He followed the Baron Baton from a distance and tried to hear him. This witty man appeared nervous and Julien did not see him recover his equanimity before he had hit upon three or four stinging phrases. Julien thought that this kind of wit had great need of space. The Baron could not make epigrams. He needed at least four sentences of six lines each, in order to be brilliant. "That man argues, he does not talk," said someone behind Julien. He turned round and reddened with pleasure when he heard the name of the comte Chalvet. He was the subtlest man of the century. Julien had often found his name in the _Memorial of St. Helena_ and in the portions of history dictated by Napoleon. The diction of comte Chalvet was laconic, his phrases were flashes of lightning--just, vivid, deep. If he talked about any matter the conversation immediately made a step forward; he imported facts into it; it was a pleasure to hear him. In politics, however, he was a brazen cynic. "I am independent, I am," he was saying to a gentleman with three stars, of whom apparently he was making fun. "Why insist on my having to-day the same opinion I had six weeks ago. In that case my opinion would be my master." Four grave young men who were standing round scowled; these gentlemen did not like flippancy. The comte saw that he had gone too far. Luckily he perceived the honest M. Balland, a veritable hypocrite of honesty. The count began to talk to him; people closed up, for they realised that poor Balland was going to be the next victim. M. Balland, although he was horribly ugly and his first steps in the world were almost unmentionable, had by dint of his morals and his morality married a very rich wife who had died; he subsequently married a second very rich one who was never seen in society. He enjoyed, in all humility, an income of sixty thousand francs, and had his own flatterers. Comte Chalvet talked to him pitilessly about all this. There was soon a circle of thirty persons around them. Everybody was smiling, including the solemn young men who were the hope of the century. "Why does he come to M. de la Mole where he is obviously only a laughing stock?" thought Julien. He approached the abbe Pirard to ask him. M. Balland made his escape. "Good," said Norbert, "there is one of the spies of my father gone; there is only the little limping Napier left." "Can that be the key of the riddle?" thought Julien, "but if so, why does the marquis receive M. Balland?" The stern abbe Pirard was scowling in a corner of the salon listening to the lackeys announcing the names. "This is nothing more than a den," he was saying like another Basil, "I see none but shady people come in." As a matter of fact the severe abbe did not know what constitutes high society. But his friends the Jansenites, had given him some very precise notions about those men who only get into society by reason of their extreme subtlety in the service of all parties, or of their monstrous wealth. For some minutes that evening he answered Julien's eager questions fully and freely, and then suddenly stopped short grieved at having always to say ill of every one, and thinking he was guilty of a sin. Bilious Jansenist as he was, and believing as he did in the duty of Christian charity, his life was a perpetual conflict. "How strange that abbe Pirard looks," said mademoiselle de la Mole, as Julien came near the sofa. Julien felt irritated, but she was right all the same. M. Pirard was unquestionably the most honest man in the salon, but his pimply face, which was suffering from the stings of conscience, made him look hideous at this particular moment. "Trust physiognomy after this," thought Julien, "it is only when the delicate conscience of the abbe Pirard is reproaching him for some trifling lapse that he looks so awful; while the expression of that notorious spy Napier shows a pure and tranquil happiness." The abbe Pirard, however, had made great concessions to his party. He had taken a servant, and was very well dressed. Julien noticed something strange in the salon, it was that all eyes were being turned towards the door, and there was a semi silence. The flunkey was announcing the famous Barron Tolly, who had just become publicly conspicuous by reason of the elections. Julien came forward and had a very good view of him. The baron had been the president of an electoral college; he had the brilliant idea of spiriting away the little squares of paper which contained the votes of one of the parties. But to make up for it he replaced them by an equal number of other little pieces of paper containing a name agreeable to himself. This drastic manoeuvre had been noticed by some of the voters, who had made an immediate point of congratulating the Baron de Tolly. The good fellow was still pale from this great business. Malicious persons had pronounced the word galleys. M. de la Mole received him coldly. The poor Baron made his escape. "If he leaves us so quickly it's to go to M. Comte's,"[1] said Comte Chalvet and everyone laughed. Little Tanbeau was trying to win his spurs by talking to some silent noblemen and some intriguers who, though shady, were all men of wit, and were on this particular night in great force in M. de la Mole's salon (for he was mentioned for a place in the ministry). If he had not yet any subtlety of perception he made up for it as one will see by the energy of his words. "Why not sentence that man to ten years' imprisonment," he was saying at the moment when Julien approached his knot. "Those reptiles should be confined in the bottom of a dungeon, they ought to languish to death in gaol, otherwise their venom will grow and become more dangerous. What is the good of sentencing him to a fine of a thousand crowns? He is poor, so be it, all the better, but his party will pay for him. What the case required was a five hundred francs fine and ten years in a dungeon." "Well to be sure, who is the monster they are speaking about?" thought Julien who was viewing with amazement the vehement tone and hysterical gestures of his colleague. At this moment the thin, drawn, little face of the academician's nephew was hideous. Julien soon learnt that they were talking of the greatest poet of the century. "You monster," Julien exclaimed half aloud, while tears of generosity moistened his eyes. "You little rascal," he thought, "I will pay you out for this." "Yet," he thought, "those are the unborn hopes of the party of which the marquis is one of the chiefs. How many crosses and how many sinecures would that celebrated man whom he is now defaming have accumulated if he had sold himself--I won't say to the mediocre ministry of M. de Nerval--but to one of those reasonably honest ministries which we have seen follow each other in succession." The abbe Pirard motioned to Julien from some distance off; M. de la Mole had just said something to him. But when Julien, who was listening at the moment with downcast eyes to the lamentations of the bishop, had at length got free and was able to get near his friend, he found him monopolised by the abominable little Tanbeau. The little beast hated him as the cause of Julien's favour with the marquis, and was now making up to him. "_When will death deliver us from that aged rottenness_," it was in these words of a biblical energy that the little man of letters was now talking of the venerable Lord Holland. His merit consisted in an excellent knowledge of the biography of living men, and he had just made a rapid review of all the men who could aspire to some influence under the reign of the new King of England. The abbe Pirard passed in to an adjacent salon. Julien followed him. "I warn you the marquis does not like scribblers, it is his only prejudice. Know Latin and Greek if you can manage it, the history of the Egyptians, Persians, etc., he will honour and protect you as a learned man. But don't write a page of French, especially on serious matters which are above your position in society, or he will call you a scribbler and take you for a scoundrel. How is it that living as you do in the hotel of a great lord you don't know the Duke de Castries' epigram on Alembert and Rousseau: 'the fellow wants to reason about everything and hasn't got an income of a thousand crowns'!" "Everything leaks out here," thought Julien, "just like the seminary." He had written eight or six fairly drastic pages. It was a kind of historical eulogy of the old surgeon-major who had, he said, made a man of him. "The little note book," said Julien to himself, "has always been locked." He went up to his room, burnt his manuscript and returned to the salon. The brilliant scoundrels had left it, only the men with the stars were left. Seven or eight very aristocratic ladies, very devout, very affected, and of from thirty to thirty-five years of age, were grouped round the table that the servants had just brought in ready served. The brilliant marechale de Fervaques came in apologising for the lateness of the hour. It was more than midnight: she went and sat down near the marquise. Julien was deeply touched, she had the eyes and the expression of madame de Renal. Mademoiselle de la Mole's circle was still full of people. She was engaged with her friends in making fun of the unfortunate comte de Thaler. He was the only son of that celebrated Jew who was famous for the riches that he had won by lending money to kings to make war on the peoples. The Jew had just died leaving his son an income of one hundred thousand crowns a month, and a name that was only too well known. This strange position required either a simple character or force of will power. Unfortunately the comte was simply a fellow who was inflated by all kinds of pretensions which had been suggested to him by all his toadies. M. de Caylus asserted that they had induced him to make up his mind to ask for the hand of mademoiselle de la Mole, to whom the marquis de Croisenois, who would be a duke with a hundred thousand francs a year, was paying his attentions. "Oh, do not accuse him of having a mind," said Norbert pitifully. Will-power was what the poor comte de Thaler lacked most of all. So far as this side of his character went he was worthy of being a king. He would take council from everybody, but he never had the courage to follow any advice to the bitter end. "His physiognomy would be sufficient in itself," mademoiselle de la Mole was fond of saying, "to have inspired her with a holy joy." It was a singular mixture of anxiety and disappointment, but from time to time one could distinguish gusts of self-importance, and above all that trenchant tone suited to the richest man in France, especially when he had nothing to be ashamed of in his personal appearance and was not yet thirty-six. "He is timidly insolent," M. de Croisenois would say. The comte de Caylus, Norbert, and two or three moustachioed young people made fun of him to their heart's content without him suspecting it, and finally packed him off as one o'clock struck. "Are those your famous Arab horses waiting for you at the door in this awful weather?" said Norbert to him. "No, it is a new pair which are much cheaper," said M. de Thaler. "The horse on the left cost me five thousand francs, while the one on the right is only worth one hundred louis, but I would ask you to believe me when I say that I only have him out at night. His trot you see is exactly like the other ones." Norbert's remark made the comte think it was good form for a man like him to make a hobby of his horses, and that he must not let them get wet. He went away, and the other gentleman left a minute afterwards making fun of him all the time. "So," thought Julien as he heard them laugh on the staircase, "I have the privilege of seeing the exact opposite of my own situation. I have not got twenty louis a year and I found myself side by side with a man who has twenty louis an hour and they made fun of him. Seeing a sight like that cures one of envy." [1] celebrated conjuror.

Part 2, Chapter 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-4

It becomes clear to Julien that the de La Moles and their friends suffer from deep boredom. One of the reasons might be that they never tolerate any serious subjects in their conversation. Everything has to be about superficial amusement. It's no wonder they're bored. The only reason that people come to the de La Moles' house is because they want something from the marquis. Everyone seems to know this and it makes everything in the house seem hollow. One day, Julien asks Father Pirard whether he'd be allowed to stop eating dinner with the de La Moles, since it's so boring. Then he realizes that the marquis' daughter has been listening. He feels like he's really put his foot in it, but he doesn't realize that Mathilde feels the same way. It turns out that Mathilde has a little social group that makes fun of how boring her parents' friends are. Julien soon finds his way into this company. He's shocked, though, because he doesn't think it's appropriate to sit around insulting people behind their backs. Julien hears his rival Tanbeau talking about how a poet named Beranger should be thrown into a dungeon for ten years because he writes obscene political things. Julien thinks Tanbeau is a monster. Father Pirard beckons Julien over and tells him not to write anything political in the French language or the marquis will dislike him forever. Julien goes upstairs and burns a few things he's been writing.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/65.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_64_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 10.chapter 3

book 10, chapter 3

{"name": "Book 10, Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-10-chapter-3", "summary": "Kolya steps out onto the market square and whistles for Smurov, a boy a couple years younger than him. Together they head through the square to visit Ilyusha. It seems that since the rock throwing incident, Ilyusha has taken seriously ill. Moreover, he keeps calling for a dog named Zhuchka, which no one has been able to find. Since the incident, his classmates have started visiting him regularly, along with Alyosha Karamazov. Although Ilyusha has dearly wanted to see Kolya, Kolya has refused to visit him for the entire month until now. As the two boys cross the square, Kolya baits the peasants who are out selling their wares. Finally they arrive at Ilyusha's, but Kolya asks Smurov to go in and ask Alyosha to meet him outside", "analysis": ""}

Chapter III. The Schoolboy But Kolya did not hear her. At last he could go out. As he went out at the gate he looked round him, shrugged up his shoulders, and saying "It is freezing," went straight along the street and turned off to the right towards the market-place. When he reached the last house but one before the market-place he stopped at the gate, pulled a whistle out of his pocket, and whistled with all his might as though giving a signal. He had not to wait more than a minute before a rosy-cheeked boy of about eleven, wearing a warm, neat and even stylish coat, darted out to meet him. This was Smurov, a boy in the preparatory class (two classes below Kolya Krassotkin), son of a well-to-do official. Apparently he was forbidden by his parents to associate with Krassotkin, who was well known to be a desperately naughty boy, so Smurov was obviously slipping out on the sly. He was--if the reader has not forgotten--one of the group of boys who two months before had thrown stones at Ilusha. He was the one who told Alyosha Karamazov about Ilusha. "I've been waiting for you for the last hour, Krassotkin," said Smurov stolidly, and the boys strode towards the market-place. "I am late," answered Krassotkin. "I was detained by circumstances. You won't be thrashed for coming with me?" "Come, I say, I'm never thrashed! And you've got Perezvon with you?" "Yes." "You're taking him, too?" "Yes." "Ah! if it were only Zhutchka!" "That's impossible. Zhutchka's non-existent. Zhutchka is lost in the mists of obscurity." "Ah! couldn't we do this?" Smurov suddenly stood still. "You see Ilusha says that Zhutchka was a shaggy, grayish, smoky-looking dog like Perezvon. Couldn't you tell him this is Zhutchka, and he might believe you?" "Boy, shun a lie, that's one thing; even with a good object--that's another. Above all, I hope you've not told them anything about my coming." "Heaven forbid! I know what I am about. But you won't comfort him with Perezvon," said Smurov, with a sigh. "You know his father, the captain, 'the wisp of tow,' told us that he was going to bring him a real mastiff pup, with a black nose, to-day. He thinks that would comfort Ilusha; but I doubt it." "And how is Ilusha?" "Ah, he is bad, very bad! I believe he's in consumption: he is quite conscious, but his breathing! His breathing's gone wrong. The other day he asked to have his boots on to be led round the room. He tried to walk, but he couldn't stand. 'Ah, I told you before, father,' he said, 'that those boots were no good. I could never walk properly in them.' He fancied it was his boots that made him stagger, but it was simply weakness, really. He won't live another week. Herzenstube is looking after him. Now they are rich again--they've got heaps of money." "They are rogues." "Who are rogues?" "Doctors and the whole crew of quacks collectively, and also, of course, individually. I don't believe in medicine. It's a useless institution. I mean to go into all that. But what's that sentimentality you've got up there? The whole class seems to be there every day." "Not the whole class: it's only ten of our fellows who go to see him every day. There's nothing in that." "What I don't understand in all this is the part that Alexey Karamazov is taking in it. His brother's going to be tried to-morrow or next day for such a crime, and yet he has so much time to spend on sentimentality with boys." "There's no sentimentality about it. You are going yourself now to make it up with Ilusha." "Make it up with him? What an absurd expression! But I allow no one to analyze my actions." "And how pleased Ilusha will be to see you! He has no idea that you are coming. Why was it, why was it you wouldn't come all this time?" Smurov cried with sudden warmth. "My dear boy, that's my business, not yours. I am going of myself because I choose to, but you've all been hauled there by Alexey Karamazov--there's a difference, you know. And how do you know? I may not be going to make it up at all. It's a stupid expression." "It's not Karamazov at all; it's not his doing. Our fellows began going there of themselves. Of course, they went with Karamazov at first. And there's been nothing of that sort--no silliness. First one went, and then another. His father was awfully pleased to see us. You know he will simply go out of his mind if Ilusha dies. He sees that Ilusha's dying. And he seems so glad we've made it up with Ilusha. Ilusha asked after you, that was all. He just asks and says no more. His father will go out of his mind or hang himself. He behaved like a madman before. You know he is a very decent man. We made a mistake then. It's all the fault of that murderer who beat him then." "Karamazov's a riddle to me all the same. I might have made his acquaintance long ago, but I like to have a proper pride in some cases. Besides, I have a theory about him which I must work out and verify." Kolya subsided into dignified silence. Smurov, too, was silent. Smurov, of course, worshiped Krassotkin and never dreamed of putting himself on a level with him. Now he was tremendously interested at Kolya's saying that he was "going of himself" to see Ilusha. He felt that there must be some mystery in Kolya's suddenly taking it into his head to go to him that day. They crossed the market-place, in which at that hour were many loaded wagons from the country and a great number of live fowls. The market women were selling rolls, cottons and threads, etc., in their booths. These Sunday markets were naively called "fairs" in the town, and there were many such fairs in the year. Perezvon ran about in the wildest spirits, sniffing about first one side, then the other. When he met other dogs they zealously smelt each other over according to the rules of canine etiquette. "I like to watch such realistic scenes, Smurov," said Kolya suddenly. "Have you noticed how dogs sniff at one another when they meet? It seems to be a law of their nature." "Yes; it's a funny habit." "No, it's not funny; you are wrong there. There's nothing funny in nature, however funny it may seem to man with his prejudices. If dogs could reason and criticize us they'd be sure to find just as much that would be funny to them, if not far more, in the social relations of men, their masters--far more, indeed. I repeat that, because I am convinced that there is far more foolishness among us. That's Rakitin's idea--a remarkable idea. I am a Socialist, Smurov." "And what is a Socialist?" asked Smurov. "That's when all are equal and all have property in common, there are no marriages, and every one has any religion and laws he likes best, and all the rest of it. You are not old enough to understand that yet. It's cold, though." "Yes, twelve degrees of frost. Father looked at the thermometer just now." "Have you noticed, Smurov, that in the middle of winter we don't feel so cold even when there are fifteen or eighteen degrees of frost as we do now, in the beginning of winter, when there is a sudden frost of twelve degrees, especially when there is not much snow. It's because people are not used to it. Everything is habit with men, everything even in their social and political relations. Habit is the great motive-power. What a funny-looking peasant!" Kolya pointed to a tall peasant, with a good-natured countenance in a long sheepskin coat, who was standing by his wagon, clapping together his hands, in their shapeless leather gloves, to warm them. His long fair beard was all white with frost. "That peasant's beard's frozen," Kolya cried in a loud provocative voice as he passed him. "Lots of people's beards are frozen," the peasant replied, calmly and sententiously. "Don't provoke him," observed Smurov. "It's all right; he won't be cross; he's a nice fellow. Good-by, Matvey." "Good-by." "Is your name Matvey?" "Yes. Didn't you know?" "No, I didn't. It was a guess." "You don't say so! You are a schoolboy, I suppose?" "Yes." "You get whipped, I expect?" "Nothing to speak of--sometimes." "Does it hurt?" "Well, yes, it does." "Ech, what a life!" The peasant heaved a sigh from the bottom of his heart. "Good-by, Matvey." "Good-by. You are a nice chap, that you are." The boys went on. "That was a nice peasant," Kolya observed to Smurov. "I like talking to the peasants, and am always glad to do them justice." "Why did you tell a lie, pretending we are thrashed?" asked Smurov. "I had to say that to please him." "How do you mean?" "You know, Smurov, I don't like being asked the same thing twice. I like people to understand at the first word. Some things can't be explained. According to a peasant's notions, schoolboys are whipped, and must be whipped. What would a schoolboy be if he were not whipped? And if I were to tell him we are not, he'd be disappointed. But you don't understand that. One has to know how to talk to the peasants." "Only don't tease them, please, or you'll get into another scrape as you did about that goose." "So you're afraid?" "Don't laugh, Kolya. Of course I'm afraid. My father would be awfully cross. I am strictly forbidden to go out with you." "Don't be uneasy, nothing will happen this time. Hallo, Natasha!" he shouted to a market woman in one of the booths. "Call me Natasha! What next! My name is Marya," the middle-aged market woman shouted at him. "I am so glad it's Marya. Good-by!" "Ah, you young rascal! A brat like you to carry on so!" "I'm in a hurry. I can't stay now. You shall tell me next Sunday." Kolya waved his hand at her, as though she had attacked him and not he her. "I've nothing to tell you next Sunday. You set upon me, you impudent young monkey. I didn't say anything," bawled Marya. "You want a whipping, that's what you want, you saucy jackanapes!" There was a roar of laughter among the other market women round her. Suddenly a man in a violent rage darted out from the arcade of shops close by. He was a young man, not a native of the town, with dark, curly hair and a long, pale face, marked with smallpox. He wore a long blue coat and a peaked cap, and looked like a merchant's clerk. He was in a state of stupid excitement and brandished his fist at Kolya. "I know you!" he cried angrily, "I know you!" Kolya stared at him. He could not recall when he could have had a row with the man. But he had been in so many rows in the street that he could hardly remember them all. "Do you?" he asked sarcastically. "I know you! I know you!" the man repeated idiotically. "So much the better for you. Well, it's time I was going. Good-by!" "You are at your saucy pranks again?" cried the man. "You are at your saucy pranks again? I know, you are at it again!" "It's not your business, brother, if I am at my saucy pranks again," said Kolya, standing still and scanning him. "Not my business?" "No; it's not your business." "Whose then? Whose then? Whose then?" "It's Trifon Nikititch's business, not yours." "What Trifon Nikititch?" asked the youth, staring with loutish amazement at Kolya, but still as angry as ever. Kolya scanned him gravely. "Have you been to the Church of the Ascension?" he suddenly asked him, with stern emphasis. "What Church of Ascension? What for? No, I haven't," said the young man, somewhat taken aback. "Do you know Sabaneyev?" Kolya went on even more emphatically and even more severely. "What Sabaneyev? No, I don't know him." "Well then you can go to the devil," said Kolya, cutting short the conversation; and turning sharply to the right he strode quickly on his way as though he disdained further conversation with a dolt who did not even know Sabaneyev. "Stop, heigh! What Sabaneyev?" the young man recovered from his momentary stupefaction and was as excited as before. "What did he say?" He turned to the market women with a silly stare. The women laughed. "You can never tell what he's after," said one of them. "What Sabaneyev is it he's talking about?" the young man repeated, still furious and brandishing his right arm. "It must be a Sabaneyev who worked for the Kuzmitchovs, that's who it must be," one of the women suggested. The young man stared at her wildly. "For the Kuzmitchovs?" repeated another woman. "But his name wasn't Trifon. His name's Kuzma, not Trifon; but the boy said Trifon Nikititch, so it can't be the same." "His name is not Trifon and not Sabaneyev, it's Tchizhov," put in suddenly a third woman, who had hitherto been silent, listening gravely. "Alexey Ivanitch is his name. Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch." "Not a doubt about it, it's Tchizhov," a fourth woman emphatically confirmed the statement. The bewildered youth gazed from one to another. "But what did he ask for, what did he ask for, good people?" he cried almost in desperation. " 'Do you know Sabaneyev?' says he. And who the devil's to know who is Sabaneyev?" "You're a senseless fellow. I tell you it's not Sabaneyev, but Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch Tchizhov, that's who it is!" one of the women shouted at him impressively. "What Tchizhov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know." "That tall, sniveling fellow who used to sit in the market in the summer." "And what's your Tchizhov to do with me, good people, eh?" "How can I tell what he's to do with you?" put in another. "You ought to know yourself what you want with him, if you make such a clamor about him. He spoke to you, he did not speak to us, you stupid. Don't you really know him?" "Know whom?" "Tchizhov." "The devil take Tchizhov and you with him. I'll give him a hiding, that I will. He was laughing at me!" "Will give Tchizhov a hiding! More likely he will give you one. You are a fool, that's what you are!" "Not Tchizhov, not Tchizhov, you spiteful, mischievous woman. I'll give the boy a hiding. Catch him, catch him, he was laughing at me!" The woman guffawed. But Kolya was by now a long way off, marching along with a triumphant air. Smurov walked beside him, looking round at the shouting group far behind. He too was in high spirits, though he was still afraid of getting into some scrape in Kolya's company. "What Sabaneyev did you mean?" he asked Kolya, foreseeing what his answer would be. "How do I know? Now there'll be a hubbub among them all day. I like to stir up fools in every class of society. There's another blockhead, that peasant there. You know, they say 'there's no one stupider than a stupid Frenchman,' but a stupid Russian shows it in his face just as much. Can't you see it all over his face that he is a fool, that peasant, eh?" "Let him alone, Kolya. Let's go on." "Nothing could stop me, now I am once off. Hey, good morning, peasant!" A sturdy-looking peasant, with a round, simple face and grizzled beard, who was walking by, raised his head and looked at the boy. He seemed not quite sober. "Good morning, if you are not laughing at me," he said deliberately in reply. "And if I am?" laughed Kolya. "Well, a joke's a joke. Laugh away. I don't mind. There's no harm in a joke." "I beg your pardon, brother, it was a joke." "Well, God forgive you!" "Do you forgive me, too?" "I quite forgive you. Go along." "I say, you seem a clever peasant." "Cleverer than you," the peasant answered unexpectedly, with the same gravity. "I doubt it," said Kolya, somewhat taken aback. "It's true, though." "Perhaps it is." "It is, brother." "Good-by, peasant!" "Good-by!" "There are all sorts of peasants," Kolya observed to Smurov after a brief silence. "How could I tell I had hit on a clever one? I am always ready to recognize intelligence in the peasantry." In the distance the cathedral clock struck half-past eleven. The boys made haste and they walked as far as Captain Snegiryov's lodging, a considerable distance, quickly and almost in silence. Twenty paces from the house Kolya stopped and told Smurov to go on ahead and ask Karamazov to come out to him. "One must sniff round a bit first," he observed to Smurov. "Why ask him to come out?" Smurov protested. "You go in; they will be awfully glad to see you. What's the sense of making friends in the frost out here?" "I know why I want to see him out here in the frost," Kolya cut him short in the despotic tone he was fond of adopting with "small boys," and Smurov ran to do his bidding.

Book 10, Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-10-chapter-3

Kolya steps out onto the market square and whistles for Smurov, a boy a couple years younger than him. Together they head through the square to visit Ilyusha. It seems that since the rock throwing incident, Ilyusha has taken seriously ill. Moreover, he keeps calling for a dog named Zhuchka, which no one has been able to find. Since the incident, his classmates have started visiting him regularly, along with Alyosha Karamazov. Although Ilyusha has dearly wanted to see Kolya, Kolya has refused to visit him for the entire month until now. As the two boys cross the square, Kolya baits the peasants who are out selling their wares. Finally they arrive at Ilyusha's, but Kolya asks Smurov to go in and ask Alyosha to meet him outside

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_38_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 39

chapter 39

{"name": "Chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility55.asp", "summary": "Three days after the incident at John Dashwood's house, Mrs. Jennings and Elinor go out for a walk to Kensington gardens. After separating from Mrs. Jennings, Elinor meets Anne Steele, and the two talk about Lucy and the unhappy incident. Miss Steele also tells Elinor about Edward's visit that morning and how she had overheard an intimate conversation between him and Lucy. Elinor is disgusted at her behavior. After reaching home, she relates the incident to Mrs. Jennings. Later, she receives a letter from Lucy by the two-penny post informing her of their current circumstances. She seeks the help of the Middletons or Palmers to offer a position to Edward. Elinor shows the letter to Mrs. Jennings. The old lady is impressed by the letter.", "analysis": "Notes The chapter reveals the somewhat crass behavior of the Steele sisters. Miss Steele reveals to Elinor that she had purposely stood outside the door of the locked room in which Lucy and Edward were conversing. She does not feel guilty about her behavior; her justification is that even Lucy had eavesdropped earlier. Lucy's letter also exposes her selfishness and base nature. Lucy asks Elinor to recommend her case to anyone who will be willing to provide a position to Edward. She looks forward to the help of Mrs. Jennings, the Middletons and the Palmers. Lucy is not ashamed to ask favors of others. CHAPTER 39 Summary Elinor and Marianne are invited by the Palmers to Cleveland. At the insistence of Mrs. Jennings, they decide to accept the invitation. One day Colonel Brandon visits them and asks Elinor to inform Edward that he is prepared to give a position at Delaford to him. Edward could lead a comfortable life on an income of two thousand pounds, but he would not be able to afford a wife. Mrs. Jennings, who observes Elinor and Colonel Brandon talking animatedly, concludes that they must be talking about a wedding. Notes In answer to Marianne's wish that they go home, the sisters are invited to accompany Mrs. Jennings to Cleveland. Since it will be easy for them to reach Barton from Cleveland, they accept the invitation. Mrs. Jennings, who is always engaged in matchmaking, starts imagining the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. Thus, when she hears the phrase, \"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon,\" she is angry with the Colonel for postponing their wedding. Misunderstanding causes much humor in the scene. Colonel Brandon can be rightly identified as a generous man who willingly offers a living to Edward in Delaford. His love for Marianne and respect for Elinor makes him extend help to their friends. It is ironic that he chooses Elinor to convey this information to Edward. CHAPTER 40 Summary Mrs. Jennings approaches Elinor soon after the Colonel's exit. She congratulates her and asks her many questions, which gradually reveal her mistaken assumption that there is an engagement between Elinor and the Colonel. Elinor mentions Brandon's generosity and his request to her to convey the information to Edward. Mrs. Jennings is puzzled, and as she is in a hurry to leave, she decides to speak further with Elinor upon her return. When Edward arrives, Elinor tells him the good news. He is pleasantly surprised. He promises to meet the Colonel and thank him for his generosity. Mrs. Jennings returns to the house and asks Elinor if Edward is prepared to get ordained to perform her marriage to the Colonel. Elinor is shocked to hear Mrs. Jennings' words. She corrects the misunderstanding by informing the old lady of the Colonel's offer to Edward. Notes This chapter demonstrates the misunderstandings that arise when a character like Mrs. Jennings gives her interpretation of the events that she witnesses. The conversation between Elinor and Mrs. Jennings is amusing as each misinterprets the other's words. Elinor is unaware of Mrs. Jennings' suspicions, and hence she talks about informing Edward of the Colonel's offer. Mrs. Jennings is then unable to understand why Edward should be informed of the Colonel's proposal. She surmises that Elinor and the Colonel might have decided to get married only after Edward has been ordained and is ready to perform their wedding. Much humor results from this confused conversation. Edward Ferrars is obviously surprised when Elinor informs him of the Colonel's generous offer at Delaford: in this time of crisis, assistance from such an unexpected quarter is astonishing. Like Mrs. Jennings, he believes the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. He feels that Brandon has offered him help only to please Elinor. Thus he thanks Elinor for helping him."}

The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood;--but it was inforced with so much real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure. When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not very auspicious. "Cleveland!"--she cried, with great agitation. "No, I cannot go to Cleveland."-- "You forget," said Elinor gently, "that its situation is not...that it is not in the neighbourhood of..." "But it is in Somersetshire.--I cannot go into Somersetshire.--There, where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to go there." Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. As Marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started. Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;--and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from Barton. "Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss Dashwoods;"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was settled--"for they are quite resolved upon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when I come back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats." Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escape from it;--and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment.-- Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a doubt. She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not think THAT any material objection;--and Mrs. Jennings commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the Colonel's calm voice,-- "I am afraid it cannot take place very soon." Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry out, "Lord! what should hinder it?"--but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation. "This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older." This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to feel what she said, "I shall always think myself very much obliged to you." Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making her any reply!--She had not thought her old friend could have made so indifferent a suitor. What had really passed between them was to this effect. "I have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice your friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman.-- Have I been rightly informed?--Is it so?--" Elinor told him that it was. "The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,"--he replied, with great feeling,--"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible.-- Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be doing--what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but THAT, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable.-- It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200 L per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting it to him, will be very great. Pray assure him of it." Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and SHE, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different cause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from HER, she would have been very glad to be spared herself;-- but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and THEN it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent;--an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that SHE was considering Mr. Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on--and he said so. "This little rectory CAN do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.--" Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.

Chapter 39

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility55.asp

Three days after the incident at John Dashwood's house, Mrs. Jennings and Elinor go out for a walk to Kensington gardens. After separating from Mrs. Jennings, Elinor meets Anne Steele, and the two talk about Lucy and the unhappy incident. Miss Steele also tells Elinor about Edward's visit that morning and how she had overheard an intimate conversation between him and Lucy. Elinor is disgusted at her behavior. After reaching home, she relates the incident to Mrs. Jennings. Later, she receives a letter from Lucy by the two-penny post informing her of their current circumstances. She seeks the help of the Middletons or Palmers to offer a position to Edward. Elinor shows the letter to Mrs. Jennings. The old lady is impressed by the letter.

Notes The chapter reveals the somewhat crass behavior of the Steele sisters. Miss Steele reveals to Elinor that she had purposely stood outside the door of the locked room in which Lucy and Edward were conversing. She does not feel guilty about her behavior; her justification is that even Lucy had eavesdropped earlier. Lucy's letter also exposes her selfishness and base nature. Lucy asks Elinor to recommend her case to anyone who will be willing to provide a position to Edward. She looks forward to the help of Mrs. Jennings, the Middletons and the Palmers. Lucy is not ashamed to ask favors of others. CHAPTER 39 Summary Elinor and Marianne are invited by the Palmers to Cleveland. At the insistence of Mrs. Jennings, they decide to accept the invitation. One day Colonel Brandon visits them and asks Elinor to inform Edward that he is prepared to give a position at Delaford to him. Edward could lead a comfortable life on an income of two thousand pounds, but he would not be able to afford a wife. Mrs. Jennings, who observes Elinor and Colonel Brandon talking animatedly, concludes that they must be talking about a wedding. Notes In answer to Marianne's wish that they go home, the sisters are invited to accompany Mrs. Jennings to Cleveland. Since it will be easy for them to reach Barton from Cleveland, they accept the invitation. Mrs. Jennings, who is always engaged in matchmaking, starts imagining the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. Thus, when she hears the phrase, "I am afraid it cannot take place very soon," she is angry with the Colonel for postponing their wedding. Misunderstanding causes much humor in the scene. Colonel Brandon can be rightly identified as a generous man who willingly offers a living to Edward in Delaford. His love for Marianne and respect for Elinor makes him extend help to their friends. It is ironic that he chooses Elinor to convey this information to Edward. CHAPTER 40 Summary Mrs. Jennings approaches Elinor soon after the Colonel's exit. She congratulates her and asks her many questions, which gradually reveal her mistaken assumption that there is an engagement between Elinor and the Colonel. Elinor mentions Brandon's generosity and his request to her to convey the information to Edward. Mrs. Jennings is puzzled, and as she is in a hurry to leave, she decides to speak further with Elinor upon her return. When Edward arrives, Elinor tells him the good news. He is pleasantly surprised. He promises to meet the Colonel and thank him for his generosity. Mrs. Jennings returns to the house and asks Elinor if Edward is prepared to get ordained to perform her marriage to the Colonel. Elinor is shocked to hear Mrs. Jennings' words. She corrects the misunderstanding by informing the old lady of the Colonel's offer to Edward. Notes This chapter demonstrates the misunderstandings that arise when a character like Mrs. Jennings gives her interpretation of the events that she witnesses. The conversation between Elinor and Mrs. Jennings is amusing as each misinterprets the other's words. Elinor is unaware of Mrs. Jennings' suspicions, and hence she talks about informing Edward of the Colonel's offer. Mrs. Jennings is then unable to understand why Edward should be informed of the Colonel's proposal. She surmises that Elinor and the Colonel might have decided to get married only after Edward has been ordained and is ready to perform their wedding. Much humor results from this confused conversation. Edward Ferrars is obviously surprised when Elinor informs him of the Colonel's generous offer at Delaford: in this time of crisis, assistance from such an unexpected quarter is astonishing. Like Mrs. Jennings, he believes the Colonel to be in love with Elinor. He feels that Brandon has offered him help only to please Elinor. Thus he thanks Elinor for helping him.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1526-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Twelfth Night, or What You Will/section_16_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night, or What You Will.act 4.scene 3

act 4, scene 3

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210415161814/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/twelfth-night/summary/act-4-scene-3", "summary": "In Olivia's garden, Sebastian can't believe his good fortune--Olivia, who he has just met, is totally into him and recently gave him a pearl as a token of her love. Sebastian wonders aloud where Antonio is--he sure wishes he could find his trusty pal because Antonio might be able to tell him if the rich, gorgeous Olivia is a dream or reality. Sebastian says that if he isn't crazy, it's possible Olivia is. Olivia enters the garden with a priest in tow. She still thinks Sebastian is \"Cesario,\" who now appears to be in love with her. She tells Sebastian they should get hitched ASAP before he changes his mind. Best to nail down this whole deal before he runs off with some other woman. Sebastian thinks this is a terrific idea and says he'll go along with whatever Olivia says.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE III. OLIVIA'S Garden. [Enter SEBASTIAN.] SEBASTIAN. This is the air; that is the glorious sun; This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't: And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then? I could not find him at the Elephant; Yet there he was; and there I found this credit, That he did range the town to seek me out. His counsel now might do me golden service; For though my soul disputes well with my sense, That this may be some error, but no madness, Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me To any other trust but that I am mad, Or else the lady's mad; yet if 'twere so, She could not sway her house, command her followers, Take and give back affairs and their despatch With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing, As I perceive she does: there's something in't That is deceivable. But here comes the lady. [Enter OLIVIA and a Priest.] OLIVIA. Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into the chantry by: there, before him And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith, That my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace. He shall conceal it Whiles you are willing it shall come to note; What time we will our celebration keep According to my birth.--What do you say? SEBASTIAN. I'll follow this good man, and go with you; And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. OLIVIA. Then lead the way, good father;--And heavens so shine That they may fairly note this act of mine! [Exeunt.]

Act 4, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210415161814/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/twelfth-night/summary/act-4-scene-3

In Olivia's garden, Sebastian can't believe his good fortune--Olivia, who he has just met, is totally into him and recently gave him a pearl as a token of her love. Sebastian wonders aloud where Antonio is--he sure wishes he could find his trusty pal because Antonio might be able to tell him if the rich, gorgeous Olivia is a dream or reality. Sebastian says that if he isn't crazy, it's possible Olivia is. Olivia enters the garden with a priest in tow. She still thinks Sebastian is "Cesario," who now appears to be in love with her. She tells Sebastian they should get hitched ASAP before he changes his mind. Best to nail down this whole deal before he runs off with some other woman. Sebastian thinks this is a terrific idea and says he'll go along with whatever Olivia says.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Prince/section_21_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 24

chapter 24

{"name": "Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-24", "summary": "If a new prince follows all of these principles, he will soon be as secure as a hereditary ruler, because if people find they are doing well in the present, they will not look for changes. But anyone who acquires a new state and then loses it through incompetence is disgraced. The Italian rulers who have lost their states did so because they lacked military power, made their subjects hate them, or were unable to defend against the nobles. They should not blame bad luck but their own laziness for their losses, because they did not make preparations, and when trouble struck, they ran away, hoping the people would restore them. A prince can only rely on defenses that he can personally control.", "analysis": "This chapter brings Machiavelli back to his discussion of Italy's political situation in his time, which he last treated in his discussion of military matters in Chapters 12 through 14. He specifically mentions the King of Naples and the Duke of Milan as rulers who have lost their power, but he is most concerned with Ludovico Sforza, whom Machiavelli regarded with contempt. Sforza provided a perfect example of how not to follow Machiavelli's precepts. He encouraged Charles VIII of France to invade Italy, and when Louis XII returned, the French deprived Sforza of his state and made him their prisoner. Machiavelli blamed him for many of Italy's troubles resulting from the foreign invasions. Frederick of Aragon , the King of Naples, is probably less fair as an example, because he was forced out of power by a secret agreement between Louis XII and Ferdinand II to divide Naples between them. In the face of two major powers, there was very little Frederick could have done to preserve his position. In particular, Machiavelli has harsh words for the laziness and indolence of the Italian princes, because an ideal prince must always be planning and maneuvering to avoid future disasters. Finally, Machiavelli returns to his theme of self-sufficiency: Relying on others is always a mistake, because others are out of your control. Only by controlling your own resources can you be really secure. Machiavelli takes up this theme more fully in Chapter 25. Glossary Philip of Macedon Philip V , king of Macedon. He was defeated in 197 B.C. by Titus Quintus Flaminius, a Roman general, at Cynoscephalae."}

The previous suggestions, carefully observed, will enable a new prince to appear well established, and render him at once more secure and fixed in the state than if he had been long seated there. For the actions of a new prince are more narrowly observed than those of an hereditary one, and when they are seen to be able they gain more men and bind far tighter than ancient blood; because men are attracted more by the present than by the past, and when they find the present good they enjoy it and seek no further; they will also make the utmost defence of a prince if he fails them not in other things. Thus it will be a double glory for him to have established a new principality, and adorned and strengthened it with good laws, good arms, good allies, and with a good example; so will it be a double disgrace to him who, born a prince, shall lose his state by want of wisdom. And if those seigniors are considered who have lost their states in Italy in our times, such as the King of Naples, the Duke of Milan, and others, there will be found in them, firstly, one common defect in regard to arms from the causes which have been discussed at length; in the next place, some one of them will be seen, either to have had the people hostile, or if he has had the people friendly, he has not known how to secure the nobles. In the absence of these defects states that have power enough to keep an army in the field cannot be lost. Philip of Macedon, not the father of Alexander the Great, but he who was conquered by Titus Quintius, had not much territory compared to the greatness of the Romans and of Greece who attacked him, yet being a warlike man who knew how to attract the people and secure the nobles, he sustained the war against his enemies for many years, and if in the end he lost the dominion of some cities, nevertheless he retained the kingdom. Therefore, do not let our princes accuse fortune for the loss of their principalities after so many years' possession, but rather their own sloth, because in quiet times they never thought there could be a change (it is a common defect in man not to make any provision in the calm against the tempest), and when afterwards the bad times came they thought of flight and not of defending themselves, and they hoped that the people, disgusted with the insolence of the conquerors, would recall them. This course, when others fail, may be good, but it is very bad to have neglected all other expedients for that, since you would never wish to fall because you trusted to be able to find someone later on to restore you. This again either does not happen, or, if it does, it will not be for your security, because that deliverance is of no avail which does not depend upon yourself; those only are reliable, certain, and durable that depend on yourself and your valour.

Chapter 24

https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-24

If a new prince follows all of these principles, he will soon be as secure as a hereditary ruler, because if people find they are doing well in the present, they will not look for changes. But anyone who acquires a new state and then loses it through incompetence is disgraced. The Italian rulers who have lost their states did so because they lacked military power, made their subjects hate them, or were unable to defend against the nobles. They should not blame bad luck but their own laziness for their losses, because they did not make preparations, and when trouble struck, they ran away, hoping the people would restore them. A prince can only rely on defenses that he can personally control.

This chapter brings Machiavelli back to his discussion of Italy's political situation in his time, which he last treated in his discussion of military matters in Chapters 12 through 14. He specifically mentions the King of Naples and the Duke of Milan as rulers who have lost their power, but he is most concerned with Ludovico Sforza, whom Machiavelli regarded with contempt. Sforza provided a perfect example of how not to follow Machiavelli's precepts. He encouraged Charles VIII of France to invade Italy, and when Louis XII returned, the French deprived Sforza of his state and made him their prisoner. Machiavelli blamed him for many of Italy's troubles resulting from the foreign invasions. Frederick of Aragon , the King of Naples, is probably less fair as an example, because he was forced out of power by a secret agreement between Louis XII and Ferdinand II to divide Naples between them. In the face of two major powers, there was very little Frederick could have done to preserve his position. In particular, Machiavelli has harsh words for the laziness and indolence of the Italian princes, because an ideal prince must always be planning and maneuvering to avoid future disasters. Finally, Machiavelli returns to his theme of self-sufficiency: Relying on others is always a mistake, because others are out of your control. Only by controlling your own resources can you be really secure. Machiavelli takes up this theme more fully in Chapter 25. Glossary Philip of Macedon Philip V , king of Macedon. He was defeated in 197 B.C. by Titus Quintus Flaminius, a Roman general, at Cynoscephalae.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_2_chapters_1_to_4.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_1_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 2.chapters 1-4

book 2 chapters 1-4

{"name": "Book II: Chapters 1-4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-1-book-ii-chapters-14", "summary": "On the day scheduled for the meeting between the Karamazovs and the elder, Zossima, Fyodor and Ivan arrive accompanied by a former guardian of Dmitri, Miusov, and a relative of Miusov, Kalganov. Dmitri Karamazov, however, is not at the monastery, and all wonder, naturally, whether he will come; he was certainly notified only the previous day. The meeting takes on an air of mystery. A very old monk emerges, greets the guests, and then leads them to Father Zossima's cell. All are invited to have lunch with the Father Superior following the interview, he says. First, however, they must wait for Zossima. The wait, though not long, seems interminable to Miusov. Uncontrollably, he finds himself growing increasingly irritated at the crude jokes that Fyodor Karamazov unleashes concerning the monastic life. Father Zossima at last arrives, accompanied by Alyosha, two other monks, and Rakitin, a divinity student living under the protection of the monastery. The monks bow and kiss Zossima's hand and receive his blessings; the guests, however, merely bow politely to the elder. Deeply embarrassed by his family's austerity, Alyosha trembles. Now, more than ever, he fears that the meeting will be calamitous. Karamazov apologizes for Dmitri's absence, and then nervously begins a nonstop monolog of coarse anecdotes. At this, Alyosha is even more deeply embarrassed; in fact, everyone except the elder is distressed. The tension mounts, and when Karamazov falls climactically to his knees and begs the elder, \"What must I do to gain eternal life?\" it is difficult to tell whether or not he is still playing the loudmouth clown. No one but Zossima dares to speak. The elder tells Karamazov that he must cease lying and, above all, he must cease lying to himself. At first, Fyodor is impressed by the advice but then resumes his joking and clowning until Zossima excuses himself. He must meet with an assembly of people outside the monastery. The group outside are all peasant women -- all but two. At one side, in a section reserved for the wealthy, are Madame Hohlakov and her partially paralyzed daughter, Lise, waiting to be blessed by the elder and to receive his advice on their problems. Zossima moves among the peasant women listening to their problems and offering them advice, emphasizing always the healing effect of the love of God. \"Love is such a priceless treasure,\" he says, \"that you can redeem the world by it and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others.\" Madame Hohlakov confesses to Zossima that, for her part, she suffers from a lack of faith; she can grasp neither the Christian idea of immortality nor any type of life beyond the grave. She says furthermore that if she does a charitable act, she wants to receive thanks and praise for it. Zossima tells her that if she practices active, honest love, she will grow to understand the reality of God and the immortality of her soul. \"Attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor,\" he counsels her, \"then you will believe without doubt.\" Ending the interview, he promises her that he will send Alyosha to visit Lise.", "analysis": "Book II is largely devoted to a study of Zossima and his teachings. This saintly ascetic influences all of Alyosha's actions, and to thoroughly understand this youngest member of the Karamazov clan, one must understand the man to whom he zealously attaches himself. Zossima seems to have come to terms with life; he lives with perfect contentment and understanding -- basically, a quiet and reserved man. He is not, for instance, visibly disturbed by Fyodor Karamazov's buffoonery; his quiet mien allows him to see deeply into the personality of Karamazov -- of any person with whom he speaks. With Karamazov, he knows that the old man is intentionally trying to overact, to clown, and, later, with Madame Hohlakov, he knows that she makes her confession in order to gain his personal approbation for her frankness. A large part of Father Zossima's greatness, therefore, is this perceptive understanding of mankind, his comprehension of the psychological factors and motivations that prompt human actions; his advice is therefore unusually sound. Zossima's dignity is unique and, coupled with his extreme humility, most readily impresses a visitor. Alyosha, in contrast, is embarrassed when the Karamazovs do not ask for the elder's blessing, but Zossima shows no outward concern. He merely asks his guests to conduct themselves naturally and to be comfortable; their lack of reverence and discretion in no way offends him. His wisdom encompasses all aspects of life. In general, Zossima's philosophy is based on the positive rather than on the negative. This is not immediately evident, however, for he tells Karamazov, in terms of negatives, to avoid drunkenness and incontinence, to defy sensual lust, and to realistically value the ruble. But Zossima also offers Karamazov a thoroughly positive view of living, the very simplicity of which should not mislead the reader into thinking that Dostoevsky is being oversimple. Extreme simplicity, in fact, is the key to Zossima's way of life. His is a philosophy founded on a simplicity so basic that it consists of only two concepts: the value of loving and the value of being honest and respecting oneself. Zossima tells Fyodor, \"Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie eventually comes to such a pass that he neither distinguishes the truth within him nor around him and so loses all respect for himself and for others.\" Later, he tells Madame Hohlakov that she cannot be helped so long as she speaks only to impress. \"Above all,\" he says to her, \"avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially to yourself.\" Zossima is convinced that if man is completely honest with himself, he can evaluate the evils within himself and overcome all such propensities, but when a person is dishonest, he is unable to detect good and righteous impulses; as a consequence, such a man ceases to have any respect for himself and begins, like Karamazov, to play the part of a ridiculous clown. In time, such a man will lose all dignity. He will be of no value to himself or to others. The high premium Zossima places on love is at the heart of this philosophy concerning honesty. When a person ceases to respect himself, he also ceases to love; he \"sinks to bestiality in passions and coarse pleasures.\" Only through love, Zossima believes, can man gain the much-sought-after peace that makes life vibrant. This is essentially Zossima's message to the peasant women. He sends them home with the admonition that \"love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others.\" To Madame Hohlakov, who has trouble understanding the concept of immortality, he says, \"by the experience of active love\" man can be convinced of an afterlife -- \"strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul.\" If a person, he concludes, devotes himself completely to love -- love of God, love of the individual -- then that man can learn to believe in immortality without doubts. While such summary statements of Zossima's views seem, on the surface, to be simple, they echo in large degree the teachings of Jesus and the concepts by which Alyosha tries to live. Throughout the remainder of the novel, Alyosha attempts to practice Zossima's concept of love; he responds lovingly to every character and possesses no animosity for any -- not for the small children who ridicule him or even for Lise, who delights in tormenting him. Moreover, Zossima knows that Alyosha is the one person who can put into practice all of his teachings. And, as the elder sees that Katerina has sent a note for Alyosha and that Lise needs him to come visit her, it is such requests as these that support his decision to send Alyosha to live in the world rather than in the cloister."}

Book II. An Unfortunate Gathering Chapter I. They Arrive At The Monastery It was a warm, bright day at the end of August. The interview with the elder had been fixed for half-past eleven, immediately after late mass. Our visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it was over. First an elegant open carriage, drawn by two valuable horses, drove up with Miuesov and a distant relative of his, a young man of twenty, called Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov. This young man was preparing to enter the university. Miuesov, with whom he was staying for the time, was trying to persuade him to go abroad to the university of Zurich or Jena. The young man was still undecided. He was thoughtful and absent-minded. He was nice- looking, strongly built, and rather tall. There was a strange fixity in his gaze at times. Like all very absent-minded people he would sometimes stare at a person without seeing him. He was silent and rather awkward, but sometimes, when he was alone with any one, he became talkative and effusive, and would laugh at anything or nothing. But his animation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He was always well and even elaborately dressed; he had already some independent fortune and expectations of much more. He was a friend of Alyosha's. In an ancient, jolting, but roomy, hired carriage, with a pair of old pinkish-gray horses, a long way behind Miuesov's carriage, came Fyodor Pavlovitch, with his son Ivan. Dmitri was late, though he had been informed of the time the evening before. The visitors left their carriage at the hotel, outside the precincts, and went to the gates of the monastery on foot. Except Fyodor Pavlovitch, none of the party had ever seen the monastery, and Miuesov had probably not even been to church for thirty years. He looked about him with curiosity, together with assumed ease. But, except the church and the domestic buildings, though these too were ordinary enough, he found nothing of interest in the interior of the monastery. The last of the worshippers were coming out of the church, bareheaded and crossing themselves. Among the humbler people were a few of higher rank--two or three ladies and a very old general. They were all staying at the hotel. Our visitors were at once surrounded by beggars, but none of them gave them anything, except young Kalganov, who took a ten- copeck piece out of his purse, and, nervous and embarrassed--God knows why!--hurriedly gave it to an old woman, saying: "Divide it equally." None of his companions made any remark upon it, so that he had no reason to be embarrassed; but, perceiving this, he was even more overcome. It was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and that they were not received with special honor, though one of them had recently made a donation of a thousand roubles, while another was a very wealthy and highly cultured landowner, upon whom all in the monastery were in a sense dependent, as a decision of the lawsuit might at any moment put their fishing rights in his hands. Yet no official personage met them. Miuesov looked absent-mindedly at the tombstones round the church, and was on the point of saying that the dead buried here must have paid a pretty penny for the right of lying in this "holy place," but refrained. His liberal irony was rapidly changing almost into anger. "Who the devil is there to ask in this imbecile place? We must find out, for time is passing," he observed suddenly, as though speaking to himself. All at once there came up a bald-headed, elderly man with ingratiating little eyes, wearing a full, summer overcoat. Lifting his hat, he introduced himself with a honeyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner of Tula. He at once entered into our visitors' difficulty. "Father Zossima lives in the hermitage, apart, four hundred paces from the monastery, the other side of the copse." "I know it's the other side of the copse," observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but we don't remember the way. It is a long time since we've been here." "This way, by this gate, and straight across the copse ... the copse. Come with me, won't you? I'll show you. I have to go.... I am going myself. This way, this way." They came out of the gate and turned towards the copse. Maximov, a man of sixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them all, with an incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of his head. "You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own," observed Miuesov severely. "That personage has granted us an audience, so to speak, and so, though we thank you for showing us the way, we cannot ask you to accompany us." "I've been there. I've been already; _un chevalier parfait_," and Maximov snapped his fingers in the air. "Who is a _chevalier_?" asked Miuesov. "The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honor and glory of the monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!" But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan-looking monk of medium height, wearing a monk's cap, who overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovitch and Miuesov stopped. The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced: "The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him after your visit to the hermitage. At one o'clock, not later. And you also," he added, addressing Maximov. "That I certainly will, without fail," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, hugely delighted at the invitation. "And, believe me, we've all given our word to behave properly here.... And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, will you go, too?" "Yes, of course. What have I come for but to study all the customs here? The only obstacle to me is your company...." "Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovitch is non-existent as yet." "It would be a capital thing if he didn't turn up. Do you suppose I like all this business, and in your company, too? So we will come to dinner. Thank the Father Superior," he said to the monk. "No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder," answered the monk. "If so I'll go straight to the Father Superior--to the Father Superior," babbled Maximov. "The Father Superior is engaged just now. But as you please--" the monk hesitated. "Impertinent old man!" Miuesov observed aloud, while Maximov ran back to the monastery. "He's like von Sohn," Fyodor Pavlovitch said suddenly. "Is that all you can think of?... In what way is he like von Sohn? Have you ever seen von Sohn?" "I've seen his portrait. It's not the features, but something indefinable. He's a second von Sohn. I can always tell from the physiognomy." "Ah, I dare say you are a connoisseur in that. But, look here, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you said just now that we had given our word to behave properly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself. But, if you begin to play the fool I don't intend to be associated with you here.... You see what a man he is"--he turned to the monk--"I'm afraid to go among decent people with him." A fine smile, not without a certain slyness, came on to the pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made no reply, and was evidently silent from a sense of his own dignity. Miuesov frowned more than ever. "Oh, devil take them all! An outer show elaborated through centuries, and nothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath," flashed through Miuesov's mind. "Here's the hermitage. We've arrived," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "The gates are shut." And he repeatedly made the sign of the cross to the saints painted above and on the sides of the gates. "When you go to Rome you must do as the Romans do. Here in this hermitage there are twenty-five saints being saved. They look at one another, and eat cabbages. And not one woman goes in at this gate. That's what is remarkable. And that really is so. But I did hear that the elder receives ladies," he remarked suddenly to the monk. "Women of the people are here too now, lying in the portico there waiting. But for ladies of higher rank two rooms have been built adjoining the portico, but outside the precincts--you can see the windows--and the elder goes out to them by an inner passage when he is well enough. They are always outside the precincts. There is a Harkov lady, Madame Hohlakov, waiting there now with her sick daughter. Probably he has promised to come out to her, though of late he has been so weak that he has hardly shown himself even to the people." "So then there are loopholes, after all, to creep out of the hermitage to the ladies. Don't suppose, holy father, that I mean any harm. But do you know that at Athos not only the visits of women are not allowed, but no creature of the female sex--no hens, nor turkey-hens, nor cows." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, I warn you I shall go back and leave you here. They'll turn you out when I'm gone." "But I'm not interfering with you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Look," he cried suddenly, stepping within the precincts, "what a vale of roses they live in!" Though there were no roses now, there were numbers of rare and beautiful autumn flowers growing wherever there was space for them, and evidently tended by a skillful hand; there were flower-beds round the church, and between the tombs; and the one-storied wooden house where the elder lived was also surrounded with flowers. "And was it like this in the time of the last elder, Varsonofy? He didn't care for such elegance. They say he used to jump up and thrash even ladies with a stick," observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, as he went up the steps. "The elder Varsonofy did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great deal that's told is foolishness. He never thrashed any one," answered the monk. "Now, gentlemen, if you will wait a minute I will announce you." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the last time, your compact, do you hear? Behave properly or I will pay you out!" Miuesov had time to mutter again. "I can't think why you are so agitated," Fyodor Pavlovitch observed sarcastically. "Are you uneasy about your sins? They say he can tell by one's eyes what one has come about. And what a lot you think of their opinion! you, a Parisian, and so advanced. I'm surprised at you." But Miuesov had no time to reply to this sarcasm. They were asked to come in. He walked in, somewhat irritated. "Now, I know myself, I am annoyed, I shall lose my temper and begin to quarrel--and lower myself and my ideas," he reflected. Chapter II. The Old Buffoon They entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in from his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the elder, two monks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the other Father Paissy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health, though not old. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two and twenty, standing in the corner throughout the interview. He had a broad, fresh face, and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, and was wearing ordinary dress. He was a divinity student, living under the protection of the monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning, but self-respecting, reverence. Being in a subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an equality with the guests, he did not greet them with a bow. Father Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The two monks rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground with their fingers; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the elder replied with as deep a reverence to them, and asked their blessing. The whole ceremony was performed very seriously and with an appearance of feeling, not like an everyday rite. But Miuesov fancied that it was all done with intentional impressiveness. He stood in front of the other visitors. He ought--he had reflected upon it the evening before--from simple politeness, since it was the custom here, to have gone up to receive the elder's blessing, even if he did not kiss his hand. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing on the part of the monks he instantly changed his mind. With dignified gravity he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a chair. Fyodor Pavlovitch did the same, mimicking Miuesov like an ape. Ivan bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The elder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again, asked them all to sit down. The blood rushed to Alyosha's cheeks. He was ashamed. His forebodings were coming true. Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite wall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather. The monks sat, one at the door and the other at the window. The divinity student, the novice, and Alyosha remained standing. The cell was not very large and had a faded look. It contained nothing but the most necessary furniture, of coarse and poor quality. There were two pots of flowers in the window, and a number of holy pictures in the corner. Before one huge ancient ikon of the Virgin a lamp was burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in shining settings, and, next them, carved cherubims, china eggs, a Catholic cross of ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to these costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the fairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and present. Miuesov took a cursory glance at all these "conventional" surroundings and bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his own insight, a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a clever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking himself rather seriously. At the first moment he did not like Zossima. There was, indeed, something in the elder's face which many people besides Miuesov might not have liked. He was a short, bent, little man, with very weak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he looked at least ten years older. His face was very thin and covered with a network of fine wrinkles, particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, light-colored, quick, and shining like two bright points. He had a sprinkling of gray hair about his temples. His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads. His nose was not long, but sharp, like a bird's beak. "To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride," thought Miuesov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position. A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to begin the conversation. "Precisely to our time," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but no sign of my son, Dmitri. I apologize for him, sacred elder!" (Alyosha shuddered all over at "sacred elder.") "I am always punctual myself, minute for minute, remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings...." "But you are not a king, anyway," Miuesov muttered, losing his self- restraint at once. "Yes; that's true. I'm not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always say the wrong thing. Your reverence," he cried, with sudden pathos, "you behold before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such. It's an old habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place it's with an object, with the object of amusing people and making myself agreeable. One must be agreeable, mustn't one? I was seven years ago in a little town where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We went to the captain of police because we had to see him about something, and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases. It's their liver. I went straight up to him, and with the ease of a man of the world, you know, 'Mr. Ispravnik,' said I, 'be our Napravnik.' 'What do you mean by Napravnik?' said he. I saw, at the first half-second, that it had missed fire. He stood there so glum. 'I wanted to make a joke,' said I, 'for the general diversion, as Mr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and what we need for the harmony of our undertaking is some one of that sort.' And I explained my comparison very reasonably, didn't I? 'Excuse me,' said he, 'I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.' He turned and walked away. I followed him, shouting, 'Yes, yes, you are an Ispravnik, not a Napravnik.' 'No,' he said, 'since you called me a Napravnik I am one.' And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And I'm always like that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my politeness. Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: 'Your wife is a ticklish lady,' in an honorable sense, of the moral qualities, so to speak. But he asked me, 'Why, have you tickled her?' I thought I'd be polite, so I couldn't help saying, 'Yes,' and he gave me a fine tickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I'm not ashamed to tell the story. I'm always injuring myself like that." "You're doing it now," muttered Miuesov, with disgust. Father Zossima scrutinized them both in silence. "Am I? Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, and let me tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon as I began to speak. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you'd be the first to remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn't coming off, your reverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the lower jaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That's been so since I was young, when I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen's families. I am an inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your reverence, it's as though it were a craze in me. I dare say it's a devil within me. But only a little one. A more serious one would have chosen another lodging. But not your soul, Pyotr Alexandrovitch; you're not a lodging worth having either. But I do believe--I believe in God, though I have had doubts of late. But now I sit and await words of wisdom. I'm like the philosopher, Diderot, your reverence. Did you ever hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot went to see the Metropolitan Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine? He went in and said straight out, 'There is no God.' To which the great bishop lifted up his finger and answered, 'The fool hath said in his heart there is no God.' And he fell down at his feet on the spot. 'I believe,' he cried, 'and will be christened.' And so he was. Princess Dashkov was his godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather." "Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you're telling lies and that that stupid anecdote isn't true. Why are you playing the fool?" cried Miuesov in a shaking voice. "I suspected all my life that it wasn't true," Fyodor Pavlovitch cried with conviction. "But I'll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot's christening I made up just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I really don't know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for Diderot, I heard as far as 'the fool hath said in his heart' twenty times from the gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that the infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan Platon...." Miuesov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious, and conscious of being ridiculous. What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered that cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration. Almost every one admitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being shown him. Many remained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those visitors, many had been men of high rank and learning, some even freethinkers, attracted by curiosity, but all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence and delicacy, for here there was no question of money, but only, on the one side love and kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to decide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed and bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with unchanged countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the elder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like Miuesov. Alyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears. What seemed to him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had rested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his father that he could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes, apparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had nothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to look at Rakitin, the divinity student, whom he knew almost intimately. He alone in the monastery knew Rakitin's thoughts. "Forgive me," began Miuesov, addressing Father Zossima, "for perhaps I seem to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would understand what was due on a visit to so honored a personage. I did not suppose I should have to apologize simply for having come with him...." Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the room, overwhelmed with confusion. "Don't distress yourself, I beg." The elder got on to his feeble legs, and taking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down again. "I beg you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my guest." And with a bow he went back and sat down again on his little sofa. "Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as though ready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavorable. "I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to be uneasy," the elder said impressively. "Do not trouble. Make yourself quite at home. And, above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all." "Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed Father, you'd better not invite me to be my natural self. Don't risk it.... I will not go so far as that myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is still plunged in the mists of uncertainty, though there are people who'd be pleased to describe me for you. I mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for you, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy." He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, "Blessed be the womb that bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck--the paps especially. When you said just now, 'Don't be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all,' you pierced right through me by that remark, and read me to the core. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon. So I say, 'Let me really play the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for you are every one of you worse than I am.' That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame, great elder, from shame; it's simply over-sensitiveness that makes me rowdy. If I had only been sure that every one would accept me as the kindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been then! Teacher!" he fell suddenly on his knees, "what must I do to gain eternal life?" It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved. Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile: "You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough: don't give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; don't give way to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And close your taverns. If you can't close all, at least two or three. And, above all--don't lie." "You mean about Diderot?" "No, not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill--he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing...." "Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss." Fyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elder's thin hand. "It is, it is pleasant to take offense. You said that so well, as I never heard it before. Yes, I have been all my life taking offense, to please myself, taking offense on esthetic grounds, for it is not so much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insulted--that you had forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished! I shall make a note of that. But I have been lying, lying positively my whole life long, every day and hour of it. Of a truth, I am a lie, and the father of lies. Though I believe I am not the father of lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say, the son of lies, and that will be enough. Only ... my angel ... I may sometimes talk about Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a word will do harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me. Here is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is told somewhere in the _Lives of the Saints_ of a holy saint martyred for his faith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his head, and, 'courteously kissing it,' walked a long way, carrying it in his hands. Is that true or not, honored Father?" "No, it is untrue," said the elder. "There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What saint do you say the story is told of?" asked the Father Librarian. "I do not know what saint. I do not know, and can't tell. I was deceived. I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who told it? Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov here, who was so angry just now about Diderot. He it was who told the story." "I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all." "It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you shook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You knew nothing of it, but I went home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken ever since. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a great fall. That was not a Diderot!" Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear to every one by now that he was playing a part again. Yet Miuesov was stung by his words. "What nonsense, and it is all nonsense," he muttered. "I may really have told it, some time or other ... but not to you. I was told it myself. I heard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it was read at our mass from the _Lives of the Saints_ ... he was a very learned man who had made a special study of Russian statistics and had lived a long time in Russia.... I have not read the _Lives of the Saints_ myself, and I am not going to read them ... all sorts of things are said at dinner--we were dining then." "Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, mimicking him. "What do I care for your faith?" Miuesov was on the point of shouting, but he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, "You defile everything you touch." The elder suddenly rose from his seat. "Excuse me, gentlemen, for leaving you a few minutes," he said, addressing all his guests. "I have visitors awaiting me who arrived before you. But don't you tell lies all the same," he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a good-humored face. He went out of the cell. Alyosha and the novice flew to escort him down the steps. Alyosha was breathless: he was glad to get away, but he was glad, too, that the elder was good-humored and not offended. Father Zossima was going towards the portico to bless the people waiting for him there. But Fyodor Pavlovitch persisted in stopping him at the door of the cell. "Blessed man!" he cried, with feeling. "Allow me to kiss your hand once more. Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on. Do you think I always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I have been acting like this all the time on purpose to try you. I have been testing you all the time to see whether I could get on with you. Is there room for my humility beside your pride? I am ready to give you a testimonial that one can get on with you! But now, I'll be quiet; I will keep quiet all the time. I'll sit in a chair and hold my tongue. Now it is for you to speak, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal person left now--for ten minutes." Chapter III. Peasant Women Who Have Faith Near the wooden portico below, built on to the outer wall of the precinct, there was a crowd of about twenty peasant women. They had been told that the elder was at last coming out, and they had gathered together in anticipation. Two ladies, Madame Hohlakov and her daughter, had also come out into the portico to wait for the elder, but in a separate part of it set aside for women of rank. Madame Hohlakov was a wealthy lady, still young and attractive, and always dressed with taste. She was rather pale, and had lively black eyes. She was not more than thirty-three, and had been five years a widow. Her daughter, a girl of fourteen, was partially paralyzed. The poor child had not been able to walk for the last six months, and was wheeled about in a long reclining chair. She had a charming little face, rather thin from illness, but full of gayety. There was a gleam of mischief in her big dark eyes with their long lashes. Her mother had been intending to take her abroad ever since the spring, but they had been detained all the summer by business connected with their estate. They had been staying a week in our town, where they had come more for purposes of business than devotion, but had visited Father Zossima once already, three days before. Though they knew that the elder scarcely saw any one, they had now suddenly turned up again, and urgently entreated "the happiness of looking once again on the great healer." The mother was sitting on a chair by the side of her daughter's invalid carriage, and two paces from her stood an old monk, not one of our monastery, but a visitor from an obscure religious house in the far north. He too sought the elder's blessing. But Father Zossima, on entering the portico, went first straight to the peasants who were crowded at the foot of the three steps that led up into the portico. Father Zossima stood on the top step, put on his stole, and began blessing the women who thronged about him. One crazy woman was led up to him. As soon as she caught sight of the elder she began shrieking and writhing as though in the pains of childbirth. Laying the stole on her forehead, he read a short prayer over her, and she was at once soothed and quieted. I do not know how it may be now, but in my childhood I often happened to see and hear these "possessed" women in the villages and monasteries. They used to be brought to mass; they would squeal and bark like a dog so that they were heard all over the church. But when the sacrament was carried in and they were led up to it, at once the "possession" ceased, and the sick women were always soothed for a time. I was greatly impressed and amazed at this as a child; but then I heard from country neighbors and from my town teachers that the whole illness was simulated to avoid work, and that it could always be cured by suitable severity; various anecdotes were told to confirm this. But later on I learnt with astonishment from medical specialists that there is no pretense about it, that it is a terrible illness to which women are subject, specially prevalent among us in Russia, and that it is due to the hard lot of the peasant women. It is a disease, I was told, arising from exhausting toil too soon after hard, abnormal and unassisted labor in childbirth, and from the hopeless misery, from beatings, and so on, which some women were not able to endure like others. The strange and instant healing of the frantic and struggling woman as soon as she was led up to the holy sacrament, which had been explained to me as due to malingering and the trickery of the "clericals," arose probably in the most natural manner. Both the women who supported her and the invalid herself fully believed as a truth beyond question that the evil spirit in possession of her could not hold out if the sick woman were brought to the sacrament and made to bow down before it. And so, with a nervous and psychically deranged woman, a sort of convulsion of the whole organism always took place, and was bound to take place, at the moment of bowing down to the sacrament, aroused by the expectation of the miracle of healing and the implicit belief that it would come to pass; and it did come to pass, though only for a moment. It was exactly the same now as soon as the elder touched the sick woman with the stole. Many of the women in the crowd were moved to tears of ecstasy by the effect of the moment: some strove to kiss the hem of his garment, others cried out in sing-song voices. He blessed them all and talked with some of them. The "possessed" woman he knew already. She came from a village only six versts from the monastery, and had been brought to him before. "But here is one from afar." He pointed to a woman by no means old but very thin and wasted, with a face not merely sunburnt but almost blackened by exposure. She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare at the elder; there was something almost frenzied in her eyes. "From afar off, Father, from afar off! From two hundred miles from here. From afar off, Father, from afar off!" the woman began in a sing-song voice as though she were chanting a dirge, swaying her head from side to side with her cheek resting in her hand. There is silent and long-suffering sorrow to be met with among the peasantry. It withdraws into itself and is still. But there is a grief that breaks out, and from that minute it bursts into tears and finds vent in wailing. This is particularly common with women. But it is no lighter a grief than the silent. Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart still more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense of its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to reopen the wound. "You are of the tradesman class?" said Father Zossima, looking curiously at her. "Townfolk we are, Father, townfolk. Yet we are peasants though we live in the town. I have come to see you, O Father! We heard of you, Father, we heard of you. I have buried my little son, and I have come on a pilgrimage. I have been in three monasteries, but they told me, 'Go, Nastasya, go to them'--that is to you. I have come; I was yesterday at the service, and to-day I have come to you." "What are you weeping for?" "It's my little son I'm grieving for, Father. He was three years old--three years all but three months. For my little boy, Father, I'm in anguish, for my little boy. He was the last one left. We had four, my Nikita and I, and now we've no children, our dear ones have all gone. I buried the first three without grieving overmuch, and now I have buried the last I can't forget him. He seems always standing before me. He never leaves me. He has withered my heart. I look at his little clothes, his little shirt, his little boots, and I wail. I lay out all that is left of him, all his little things. I look at them and wail. I say to Nikita, my husband, 'Let me go on a pilgrimage, master.' He is a driver. We're not poor people, Father, not poor; he drives our own horse. It's all our own, the horse and the carriage. And what good is it all to us now? My Nikita has begun drinking while I am away. He's sure to. It used to be so before. As soon as I turn my back he gives way to it. But now I don't think about him. It's three months since I left home. I've forgotten him. I've forgotten everything. I don't want to remember. And what would our life be now together? I've done with him, I've done. I've done with them all. I don't care to look upon my house and my goods. I don't care to see anything at all!" "Listen, mother," said the elder. "Once in olden times a holy saint saw in the Temple a mother like you weeping for her little one, her only one, whom God had taken. 'Knowest thou not,' said the saint to her, 'how bold these little ones are before the throne of God? Verily there are none bolder than they in the Kingdom of Heaven. "Thou didst give us life, O Lord," they say, "and scarcely had we looked upon it when Thou didst take it back again." And so boldly they ask and ask again that God gives them at once the rank of angels. Therefore,' said the saint, 'thou, too, O mother, rejoice and weep not, for thy little son is with the Lord in the fellowship of the angels.' That's what the saint said to the weeping mother of old. He was a great saint and he could not have spoken falsely. Therefore you too, mother, know that your little one is surely before the throne of God, is rejoicing and happy, and praying to God for you, and therefore weep not, but rejoice." The woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand. She sighed deeply. "My Nikita tried to comfort me with the same words as you. 'Foolish one,' he said, 'why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before God.' He says that to me, but he weeps himself. I see that he cries like me. 'I know, Nikita,' said I. 'Where could he be if not with the Lord God? Only, here with us now he is not as he used to sit beside us before.' And if only I could look upon him one little time, if only I could peep at him one little time, without going up to him, without speaking, if I could be hidden in a corner and only see him for one little minute, hear him playing in the yard, calling in his little voice, 'Mammy, where are you?' If only I could hear him pattering with his little feet about the room just once, only once; for so often, so often I remember how he used to run to me and shout and laugh, if only I could hear his little feet I should know him! But he's gone, Father, he's gone, and I shall never hear him again. Here's his little sash, but him I shall never see or hear now." She drew out of her bosom her boy's little embroidered sash, and as soon as she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes with her fingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream. "It is Rachel of old," said the elder, "weeping for her children, and will not be comforted because they are not. Such is the lot set on earth for you mothers. Be not comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep and be not consoled, but weep. Only every time that you weep be sure to remember that your little son is one of the angels of God, that he looks down from there at you and sees you, and rejoices at your tears, and points at them to the Lord God; and a long while yet will you keep that great mother's grief. But it will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your bitter tears will be only tears of tender sorrow that purifies the heart and delivers it from sin. And I shall pray for the peace of your child's soul. What was his name?" "Alexey, Father." "A sweet name. After Alexey, the man of God?" "Yes, Father." "What a saint he was! I will remember him, mother, and your grief in my prayers, and I will pray for your husband's health. It is a sin for you to leave him. Your little one will see from heaven that you have forsaken his father, and will weep over you. Why do you trouble his happiness? He is living, for the soul lives for ever, and though he is not in the house he is near you, unseen. How can he go into the house when you say that the house is hateful to you? To whom is he to go if he find you not together, his father and mother? He comes to you in dreams now, and you grieve. But then he will send you gentle dreams. Go to your husband, mother; go this very day." "I will go, Father, at your word. I will go. You've gone straight to my heart. My Nikita, my Nikita, you are waiting for me," the woman began in a sing-song voice; but the elder had already turned away to a very old woman, dressed like a dweller in the town, not like a pilgrim. Her eyes showed that she had come with an object, and in order to say something. She said she was the widow of a non-commissioned officer, and lived close by in the town. Her son Vasenka was in the commissariat service, and had gone to Irkutsk in Siberia. He had written twice from there, but now a year had passed since he had written. She did inquire about him, but she did not know the proper place to inquire. "Only the other day Stepanida Ilyinishna--she's a rich merchant's wife--said to me, 'You go, Prohorovna, and put your son's name down for prayer in the church, and pray for the peace of his soul as though he were dead. His soul will be troubled,' she said, 'and he will write you a letter.' And Stepanida Ilyinishna told me it was a certain thing which had been many times tried. Only I am in doubt.... Oh, you light of ours! is it true or false, and would it be right?" "Don't think of it. It's shameful to ask the question. How is it possible to pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother too! It's a great sin, akin to sorcery. Only for your ignorance it is forgiven you. Better pray to the Queen of Heaven, our swift defense and help, for his good health, and that she may forgive you for your error. And another thing I will tell you, Prohorovna. Either he will soon come back to you, your son, or he will be sure to send a letter. Go, and henceforward be in peace. Your son is alive, I tell you." "Dear Father, God reward you, our benefactor, who prays for all of us and for our sins!" But the elder had already noticed in the crowd two glowing eyes fixed upon him. An exhausted, consumptive-looking, though young peasant woman was gazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but she seemed afraid to approach. "What is it, my child?" "Absolve my soul, Father," she articulated softly, and slowly sank on her knees and bowed down at his feet. "I have sinned, Father. I am afraid of my sin." The elder sat down on the lower step. The woman crept closer to him, still on her knees. "I am a widow these three years," she began in a half-whisper, with a sort of shudder. "I had a hard life with my husband. He was an old man. He used to beat me cruelly. He lay ill; I thought looking at him, if he were to get well, if he were to get up again, what then? And then the thought came to me--" "Stay!" said the elder, and he put his ear close to her lips. The woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost impossible to catch anything. She had soon done. "Three years ago?" asked the elder. "Three years. At first I didn't think about it, but now I've begun to be ill, and the thought never leaves me." "Have you come from far?" "Over three hundred miles away." "Have you told it in confession?" "I have confessed it. Twice I have confessed it." "Have you been admitted to Communion?" "Yes. I am afraid. I am afraid to die." "Fear nothing and never be afraid; and don't fret. If only your penitence fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there can be no sin on all the earth, which the Lord will not forgive to the truly repentant! Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God. Can there be a sin which could exceed the love of God? Think only of repentance, continual repentance, but dismiss fear altogether. Believe that God loves you as you cannot conceive; that He loves you with your sin, in your sin. It has been said of old that over one repentant sinner there is more joy in heaven than over ten righteous men. Go, and fear not. Be not bitter against men. Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the dead man in your heart what wrong he did you. Be reconciled with him in truth. If you are penitent, you love. And if you love you are of God. All things are atoned for, all things are saved by love. If I, a sinner, even as you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will God. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it, and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others." He signed her three times with the cross, took from his own neck a little ikon and put it upon her. She bowed down to the earth without speaking. He got up and looked cheerfully at a healthy peasant woman with a tiny baby in her arms. "From Vyshegorye, dear Father." "Five miles you have dragged yourself with the baby. What do you want?" "I've come to look at you. I have been to you before--or have you forgotten? You've no great memory if you've forgotten me. They told us you were ill. Thinks I, I'll go and see him for myself. Now I see you, and you're not ill! You'll live another twenty years. God bless you! There are plenty to pray for you; how should you be ill?" "I thank you for all, daughter." "By the way, I have a thing to ask, not a great one. Here are sixty copecks. Give them, dear Father, to some one poorer than me. I thought as I came along, better give through him. He'll know whom to give to." "Thanks, my dear, thanks! You are a good woman. I love you. I will do so certainly. Is that your little girl?" "My little girl, Father, Lizaveta." "May the Lord bless you both, you and your babe Lizaveta! You have gladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children, farewell, dear ones." He blessed them all and bowed low to them. Chapter IV. A Lady Of Little Faith A visitor looking on the scene of his conversation with the peasants and his blessing them shed silent tears and wiped them away with her handkerchief. She was a sentimental society lady of genuinely good disposition in many respects. When the elder went up to her at last she met him enthusiastically. "Ah, what I have been feeling, looking on at this touching scene!..." She could not go on for emotion. "Oh, I understand the people's love for you. I love the people myself. I want to love them. And who could help loving them, our splendid Russian people, so simple in their greatness!" "How is your daughter's health? You wanted to talk to me again?" "Oh, I have been urgently begging for it, I have prayed for it! I was ready to fall on my knees and kneel for three days at your windows until you let me in. We have come, great healer, to express our ardent gratitude. You have healed my Lise, healed her completely, merely by praying over her last Thursday and laying your hands upon her. We have hastened here to kiss those hands, to pour out our feelings and our homage." "What do you mean by healed? But she is still lying down in her chair." "But her night fevers have entirely ceased ever since Thursday," said the lady with nervous haste. "And that's not all. Her legs are stronger. This morning she got up well; she had slept all night. Look at her rosy cheeks, her bright eyes! She used to be always crying, but now she laughs and is gay and happy. This morning she insisted on my letting her stand up, and she stood up for a whole minute without any support. She wagers that in a fortnight she'll be dancing a quadrille. I've called in Doctor Herzenstube. He shrugged his shoulders and said, 'I am amazed; I can make nothing of it.' And would you have us not come here to disturb you, not fly here to thank you? Lise, thank him--thank him!" Lise's pretty little laughing face became suddenly serious. She rose in her chair as far as she could and, looking at the elder, clasped her hands before him, but could not restrain herself and broke into laughter. "It's at him," she said, pointing to Alyosha, with childish vexation at herself for not being able to repress her mirth. If any one had looked at Alyosha standing a step behind the elder, he would have caught a quick flush crimsoning his cheeks in an instant. His eyes shone and he looked down. "She has a message for you, Alexey Fyodorovitch. How are you?" the mother went on, holding out her exquisitely gloved hand to Alyosha. The elder turned round and all at once looked attentively at Alyosha. The latter went nearer to Lise and, smiling in a strangely awkward way, held out his hand to her too. Lise assumed an important air. "Katerina Ivanovna has sent you this through me." She handed him a little note. "She particularly begs you to go and see her as soon as possible; that you will not fail her, but will be sure to come." "She asks me to go and see her? Me? What for?" Alyosha muttered in great astonishment. His face at once looked anxious. "Oh, it's all to do with Dmitri Fyodorovitch and--what has happened lately," the mother explained hurriedly. "Katerina Ivanovna has made up her mind, but she must see you about it.... Why, of course, I can't say. But she wants to see you at once. And you will go to her, of course. It is a Christian duty." "I have only seen her once," Alyosha protested with the same perplexity. "Oh, she is such a lofty, incomparable creature! If only for her suffering.... Think what she has gone through, what she is enduring now! Think what awaits her! It's all terrible, terrible!" "Very well, I will come," Alyosha decided, after rapidly scanning the brief, enigmatic note, which consisted of an urgent entreaty that he would come, without any sort of explanation. "Oh, how sweet and generous that would be of you!" cried Lise with sudden animation. "I told mamma you'd be sure not to go. I said you were saving your soul. How splendid you are! I've always thought you were splendid. How glad I am to tell you so!" "Lise!" said her mother impressively, though she smiled after she had said it. "You have quite forgotten us, Alexey Fyodorovitch," she said; "you never come to see us. Yet Lise has told me twice that she is never happy except with you." Alyosha raised his downcast eyes and again flushed, and again smiled without knowing why. But the elder was no longer watching him. He had begun talking to a monk who, as mentioned before, had been awaiting his entrance by Lise's chair. He was evidently a monk of the humblest, that is of the peasant, class, of a narrow outlook, but a true believer, and, in his own way, a stubborn one. He announced that he had come from the far north, from Obdorsk, from Saint Sylvester, and was a member of a poor monastery, consisting of only ten monks. The elder gave him his blessing and invited him to come to his cell whenever he liked. "How can you presume to do such deeds?" the monk asked suddenly, pointing solemnly and significantly at Lise. He was referring to her "healing." "It's too early, of course, to speak of that. Relief is not complete cure, and may proceed from different causes. But if there has been any healing, it is by no power but God's will. It's all from God. Visit me, Father," he added to the monk. "It's not often I can see visitors. I am ill, and I know that my days are numbered." "Oh, no, no! God will not take you from us. You will live a long, long time yet," cried the lady. "And in what way are you ill? You look so well, so gay and happy." "I am extraordinarily better to-day. But I know that it's only for a moment. I understand my disease now thoroughly. If I seem so happy to you, you could never say anything that would please me so much. For men are made for happiness, and any one who is completely happy has a right to say to himself, 'I am doing God's will on earth.' All the righteous, all the saints, all the holy martyrs were happy." "Oh, how you speak! What bold and lofty words!" cried the lady. "You seem to pierce with your words. And yet--happiness, happiness--where is it? Who can say of himself that he is happy? Oh, since you have been so good as to let us see you once more to-day, let me tell you what I could not utter last time, what I dared not say, all I am suffering and have been for so long! I am suffering! Forgive me! I am suffering!" And in a rush of fervent feeling she clasped her hands before him. "From what specially?" "I suffer ... from lack of faith." "Lack of faith in God?" "Oh, no, no! I dare not even think of that. But the future life--it is such an enigma! And no one, no one can solve it. Listen! You are a healer, you are deeply versed in the human soul, and of course I dare not expect you to believe me entirely, but I assure you on my word of honor that I am not speaking lightly now. The thought of the life beyond the grave distracts me to anguish, to terror. And I don't know to whom to appeal, and have not dared to all my life. And now I am so bold as to ask you. Oh, God! What will you think of me now?" She clasped her hands. "Don't distress yourself about my opinion of you," said the elder. "I quite believe in the sincerity of your suffering." "Oh, how thankful I am to you! You see, I shut my eyes and ask myself if every one has faith, where did it come from? And then they do say that it all comes from terror at the menacing phenomena of nature, and that none of it's real. And I say to myself, 'What if I've been believing all my life, and when I come to die there's nothing but the burdocks growing on my grave?' as I read in some author. It's awful! How--how can I get back my faith? But I only believed when I was a little child, mechanically, without thinking of anything. How, how is one to prove it? I have come now to lay my soul before you and to ask you about it. If I let this chance slip, no one all my life will answer me. How can I prove it? How can I convince myself? Oh, how unhappy I am! I stand and look about me and see that scarcely any one else cares; no one troubles his head about it, and I'm the only one who can't stand it. It's deadly--deadly!" "No doubt. But there's no proving it, though you can be convinced of it." "How?" "By the experience of active love. Strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul. If you attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor, then you will believe without doubt, and no doubt can possibly enter your soul. This has been tried. This is certain." "In active love? There's another question--and such a question! You see, I so love humanity that--would you believe it?--I often dream of forsaking all that I have, leaving Lise, and becoming a sister of mercy. I close my eyes and think and dream, and at that moment I feel full of strength to overcome all obstacles. No wounds, no festering sores could at that moment frighten me. I would bind them up and wash them with my own hands. I would nurse the afflicted. I would be ready to kiss such wounds." "It is much, and well that your mind is full of such dreams and not others. Sometime, unawares, you may do a good deed in reality." "Yes. But could I endure such a life for long?" the lady went on fervently, almost frantically. "That's the chief question--that's my most agonizing question. I shut my eyes and ask myself, 'Would you persevere long on that path? And if the patient whose wounds you are washing did not meet you with gratitude, but worried you with his whims, without valuing or remarking your charitable services, began abusing you and rudely commanding you, and complaining to the superior authorities of you (which often happens when people are in great suffering)--what then? Would you persevere in your love, or not?' And do you know, I came with horror to the conclusion that, if anything could dissipate my love to humanity, it would be ingratitude. In short, I am a hired servant, I expect my payment at once--that is, praise, and the repayment of love with love. Otherwise I am incapable of loving any one." She was in a very paroxysm of self-castigation, and, concluding, she looked with defiant resolution at the elder. "It's just the same story as a doctor once told me," observed the elder. "He was a man getting on in years, and undoubtedly clever. He spoke as frankly as you, though in jest, in bitter jest. 'I love humanity,' he said, 'but I wonder at myself. The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular. In my dreams,' he said, 'I have often come to making enthusiastic schemes for the service of humanity, and perhaps I might actually have faced crucifixion if it had been suddenly necessary; and yet I am incapable of living in the same room with any one for two days together, as I know by experience. As soon as any one is near me, his personality disturbs my self-complacency and restricts my freedom. In twenty-four hours I begin to hate the best of men: one because he's too long over his dinner; another because he has a cold and keeps on blowing his nose. I become hostile to people the moment they come close to me. But it has always happened that the more I detest men individually the more ardent becomes my love for humanity.' " "But what's to be done? What can one do in such a case? Must one despair?" "No. It is enough that you are distressed at it. Do what you can, and it will be reckoned unto you. Much is done already in you since you can so deeply and sincerely know yourself. If you have been talking to me so sincerely, simply to gain approbation for your frankness, as you did from me just now, then of course you will not attain to anything in the achievement of real love; it will all get no further than dreams, and your whole life will slip away like a phantom. In that case you will naturally cease to think of the future life too, and will of yourself grow calmer after a fashion in the end." "You have crushed me! Only now, as you speak, I understand that I was really only seeking your approbation for my sincerity when I told you I could not endure ingratitude. You have revealed me to myself. You have seen through me and explained me to myself!" "Are you speaking the truth? Well, now, after such a confession, I believe that you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain happiness, always remember that you are on the right road, and try not to leave it. Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially falseness to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and look into it every hour, every minute. Avoid being scornful, both to others and to yourself. What seems to you bad within you will grow purer from the very fact of your observing it in yourself. Avoid fear, too, though fear is only the consequence of every sort of falsehood. Never be frightened at your own faint-heartedness in attaining love. Don't be frightened overmuch even at your evil actions. I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in the sight of all. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last long but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on the stage. But active love is labor and fortitude, and for some people too, perhaps, a complete science. But I predict that just when you see with horror that in spite of all your efforts you are getting farther from your goal instead of nearer to it--at that very moment I predict that you will reach it and behold clearly the miraculous power of the Lord who has been all the time loving and mysteriously guiding you. Forgive me for not being able to stay longer with you. They are waiting for me. Good-by." The lady was weeping. "Lise, Lise! Bless her--bless her!" she cried, starting up suddenly. "She does not deserve to be loved. I have seen her naughtiness all along," the elder said jestingly. "Why have you been laughing at Alexey?" Lise had in fact been occupied in mocking at him all the time. She had noticed before that Alyosha was shy and tried not to look at her, and she found this extremely amusing. She waited intently to catch his eye. Alyosha, unable to endure her persistent stare, was irresistibly and suddenly drawn to glance at her, and at once she smiled triumphantly in his face. Alyosha was even more disconcerted and vexed. At last he turned away from her altogether and hid behind the elder's back. After a few minutes, drawn by the same irresistible force, he turned again to see whether he was being looked at or not, and found Lise almost hanging out of her chair to peep sideways at him, eagerly waiting for him to look. Catching his eye, she laughed so that the elder could not help saying, "Why do you make fun of him like that, naughty girl?" Lise suddenly and quite unexpectedly blushed. Her eyes flashed and her face became quite serious. She began speaking quickly and nervously in a warm and resentful voice: "Why has he forgotten everything, then? He used to carry me about when I was little. We used to play together. He used to come to teach me to read, do you know. Two years ago, when he went away, he said that he would never forget me, that we were friends for ever, for ever, for ever! And now he's afraid of me all at once. Am I going to eat him? Why doesn't he want to come near me? Why doesn't he talk? Why won't he come and see us? It's not that you won't let him. We know that he goes everywhere. It's not good manners for me to invite him. He ought to have thought of it first, if he hasn't forgotten me. No, now he's saving his soul! Why have you put that long gown on him? If he runs he'll fall." And suddenly she hid her face in her hand and went off into irresistible, prolonged, nervous, inaudible laughter. The elder listened to her with a smile, and blessed her tenderly. As she kissed his hand she suddenly pressed it to her eyes and began crying. "Don't be angry with me. I'm silly and good for nothing ... and perhaps Alyosha's right, quite right, in not wanting to come and see such a ridiculous girl." "I will certainly send him," said the elder.

Book II: Chapters 1-4

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On the day scheduled for the meeting between the Karamazovs and the elder, Zossima, Fyodor and Ivan arrive accompanied by a former guardian of Dmitri, Miusov, and a relative of Miusov, Kalganov. Dmitri Karamazov, however, is not at the monastery, and all wonder, naturally, whether he will come; he was certainly notified only the previous day. The meeting takes on an air of mystery. A very old monk emerges, greets the guests, and then leads them to Father Zossima's cell. All are invited to have lunch with the Father Superior following the interview, he says. First, however, they must wait for Zossima. The wait, though not long, seems interminable to Miusov. Uncontrollably, he finds himself growing increasingly irritated at the crude jokes that Fyodor Karamazov unleashes concerning the monastic life. Father Zossima at last arrives, accompanied by Alyosha, two other monks, and Rakitin, a divinity student living under the protection of the monastery. The monks bow and kiss Zossima's hand and receive his blessings; the guests, however, merely bow politely to the elder. Deeply embarrassed by his family's austerity, Alyosha trembles. Now, more than ever, he fears that the meeting will be calamitous. Karamazov apologizes for Dmitri's absence, and then nervously begins a nonstop monolog of coarse anecdotes. At this, Alyosha is even more deeply embarrassed; in fact, everyone except the elder is distressed. The tension mounts, and when Karamazov falls climactically to his knees and begs the elder, "What must I do to gain eternal life?" it is difficult to tell whether or not he is still playing the loudmouth clown. No one but Zossima dares to speak. The elder tells Karamazov that he must cease lying and, above all, he must cease lying to himself. At first, Fyodor is impressed by the advice but then resumes his joking and clowning until Zossima excuses himself. He must meet with an assembly of people outside the monastery. The group outside are all peasant women -- all but two. At one side, in a section reserved for the wealthy, are Madame Hohlakov and her partially paralyzed daughter, Lise, waiting to be blessed by the elder and to receive his advice on their problems. Zossima moves among the peasant women listening to their problems and offering them advice, emphasizing always the healing effect of the love of God. "Love is such a priceless treasure," he says, "that you can redeem the world by it and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others." Madame Hohlakov confesses to Zossima that, for her part, she suffers from a lack of faith; she can grasp neither the Christian idea of immortality nor any type of life beyond the grave. She says furthermore that if she does a charitable act, she wants to receive thanks and praise for it. Zossima tells her that if she practices active, honest love, she will grow to understand the reality of God and the immortality of her soul. "Attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor," he counsels her, "then you will believe without doubt." Ending the interview, he promises her that he will send Alyosha to visit Lise.

Book II is largely devoted to a study of Zossima and his teachings. This saintly ascetic influences all of Alyosha's actions, and to thoroughly understand this youngest member of the Karamazov clan, one must understand the man to whom he zealously attaches himself. Zossima seems to have come to terms with life; he lives with perfect contentment and understanding -- basically, a quiet and reserved man. He is not, for instance, visibly disturbed by Fyodor Karamazov's buffoonery; his quiet mien allows him to see deeply into the personality of Karamazov -- of any person with whom he speaks. With Karamazov, he knows that the old man is intentionally trying to overact, to clown, and, later, with Madame Hohlakov, he knows that she makes her confession in order to gain his personal approbation for her frankness. A large part of Father Zossima's greatness, therefore, is this perceptive understanding of mankind, his comprehension of the psychological factors and motivations that prompt human actions; his advice is therefore unusually sound. Zossima's dignity is unique and, coupled with his extreme humility, most readily impresses a visitor. Alyosha, in contrast, is embarrassed when the Karamazovs do not ask for the elder's blessing, but Zossima shows no outward concern. He merely asks his guests to conduct themselves naturally and to be comfortable; their lack of reverence and discretion in no way offends him. His wisdom encompasses all aspects of life. In general, Zossima's philosophy is based on the positive rather than on the negative. This is not immediately evident, however, for he tells Karamazov, in terms of negatives, to avoid drunkenness and incontinence, to defy sensual lust, and to realistically value the ruble. But Zossima also offers Karamazov a thoroughly positive view of living, the very simplicity of which should not mislead the reader into thinking that Dostoevsky is being oversimple. Extreme simplicity, in fact, is the key to Zossima's way of life. His is a philosophy founded on a simplicity so basic that it consists of only two concepts: the value of loving and the value of being honest and respecting oneself. Zossima tells Fyodor, "Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie eventually comes to such a pass that he neither distinguishes the truth within him nor around him and so loses all respect for himself and for others." Later, he tells Madame Hohlakov that she cannot be helped so long as she speaks only to impress. "Above all," he says to her, "avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially to yourself." Zossima is convinced that if man is completely honest with himself, he can evaluate the evils within himself and overcome all such propensities, but when a person is dishonest, he is unable to detect good and righteous impulses; as a consequence, such a man ceases to have any respect for himself and begins, like Karamazov, to play the part of a ridiculous clown. In time, such a man will lose all dignity. He will be of no value to himself or to others. The high premium Zossima places on love is at the heart of this philosophy concerning honesty. When a person ceases to respect himself, he also ceases to love; he "sinks to bestiality in passions and coarse pleasures." Only through love, Zossima believes, can man gain the much-sought-after peace that makes life vibrant. This is essentially Zossima's message to the peasant women. He sends them home with the admonition that "love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others." To Madame Hohlakov, who has trouble understanding the concept of immortality, he says, "by the experience of active love" man can be convinced of an afterlife -- "strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul." If a person, he concludes, devotes himself completely to love -- love of God, love of the individual -- then that man can learn to believe in immortality without doubts. While such summary statements of Zossima's views seem, on the surface, to be simple, they echo in large degree the teachings of Jesus and the concepts by which Alyosha tries to live. Throughout the remainder of the novel, Alyosha attempts to practice Zossima's concept of love; he responds lovingly to every character and possesses no animosity for any -- not for the small children who ridicule him or even for Lise, who delights in tormenting him. Moreover, Zossima knows that Alyosha is the one person who can put into practice all of his teachings. And, as the elder sees that Katerina has sent a note for Alyosha and that Lise needs him to come visit her, it is such requests as these that support his decision to send Alyosha to live in the world rather than in the cloister.

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The Brothers Karamazov.book 4.chapter 2

book 4, chapter 2

{"name": "Book 4, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-4-chapter-2", "summary": "After leaving the monastery that morning, Alyosha heads straight to his father's, who's in a grumpy mood. Fyodor goes off on a tirade about how everyone is evil; it's just that he lives his evil openly. Fyodor then explains to Alyosha that the reason that he won't press charges against Dmitri is because he knows that would make Dmitri sympathetic in Grushenka's eyes. Fyodor then remarks that Ivan's a cold fish who loves no one. He asks Alyosha to ask Dmitri if Dmitri would leave Grushenka alone for one or two thousand rubles. Alyosha hesitatingly agrees, but Fyodor quickly takes the offer back spitefully. Alyosha gets up to leave and kisses his father goodbye. Fyodor is surprised by the gesture and wonders if he'll see Alyosha again, but Alyosha reassures him that it's just a simple goodbye. After Alyosha leaves, Fyodor goes to his bedroom to sleep.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter II. At His Father's First of all, Alyosha went to his father. On the way he remembered that his father had insisted the day before that he should come without his brother Ivan seeing him. "Why so?" Alyosha wondered suddenly. "Even if my father has something to say to me alone, why should I go in unseen? Most likely in his excitement yesterday he meant to say something different," he decided. Yet he was very glad when Marfa Ignatyevna, who opened the garden gate to him (Grigory, it appeared, was ill in bed in the lodge), told him in answer to his question that Ivan Fyodorovitch had gone out two hours ago. "And my father?" "He is up, taking his coffee," Marfa answered somewhat dryly. Alyosha went in. The old man was sitting alone at the table wearing slippers and a little old overcoat. He was amusing himself by looking through some accounts, rather inattentively however. He was quite alone in the house, for Smerdyakov too had gone out marketing. Though he had got up early and was trying to put a bold face on it, he looked tired and weak. His forehead, upon which huge purple bruises had come out during the night, was bandaged with a red handkerchief; his nose too had swollen terribly in the night, and some smaller bruises covered it in patches, giving his whole face a peculiarly spiteful and irritable look. The old man was aware of this, and turned a hostile glance on Alyosha as he came in. "The coffee is cold," he cried harshly; "I won't offer you any. I've ordered nothing but a Lenten fish soup to-day, and I don't invite any one to share it. Why have you come?" "To find out how you are," said Alyosha. "Yes. Besides, I told you to come yesterday. It's all of no consequence. You need not have troubled. But I knew you'd come poking in directly." He said this with almost hostile feeling. At the same time he got up and looked anxiously in the looking-glass (perhaps for the fortieth time that morning) at his nose. He began, too, binding his red handkerchief more becomingly on his forehead. "Red's better. It's just like the hospital in a white one," he observed sententiously. "Well, how are things over there? How is your elder?" "He is very bad; he may die to-day," answered Alyosha. But his father had not listened, and had forgotten his own question at once. "Ivan's gone out," he said suddenly. "He is doing his utmost to carry off Mitya's betrothed. That's what he is staying here for," he added maliciously, and, twisting his mouth, looked at Alyosha. "Surely he did not tell you so?" asked Alyosha. "Yes, he did, long ago. Would you believe it, he told me three weeks ago? You don't suppose he too came to murder me, do you? He must have had some object in coming." "What do you mean? Why do you say such things?" said Alyosha, troubled. "He doesn't ask for money, it's true, but yet he won't get a farthing from me. I intend living as long as possible, you may as well know, my dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, and so I need every farthing, and the longer I live, the more I shall need it," he continued, pacing from one corner of the room to the other, keeping his hands in the pockets of his loose greasy overcoat made of yellow cotton material. "I can still pass for a man at five and fifty, but I want to pass for one for another twenty years. As I get older, you know, I shan't be a pretty object. The wenches won't come to me of their own accord, so I shall want my money. So I am saving up more and more, simply for myself, my dear son Alexey Fyodorovitch. You may as well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to the end, let me tell you. For sin is sweet; all abuse it, but all men live in it, only others do it on the sly, and I openly. And so all the other sinners fall upon me for being so simple. And your paradise, Alexey Fyodorovitch, is not to my taste, let me tell you that; and it's not the proper place for a gentleman, your paradise, even if it exists. I believe that I fall asleep and don't wake up again, and that's all. You can pray for my soul if you like. And if you don't want to, don't, damn you! That's my philosophy. Ivan talked well here yesterday, though we were all drunk. Ivan is a conceited coxcomb, but he has no particular learning ... nor education either. He sits silent and smiles at one without speaking--that's what pulls him through." Alyosha listened to him in silence. "Why won't he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself airs. Your Ivan is a scoundrel! And I'll marry Grushenka in a minute if I want to. For if you've money, Alexey Fyodorovitch, you have only to want a thing and you can have it. That's what Ivan is afraid of, he is on the watch to prevent me getting married and that's why he is egging on Mitya to marry Grushenka himself. He hopes to keep me from Grushenka by that (as though I should leave him my money if I don't marry her!). Besides if Mitya marries Grushenka, Ivan will carry off his rich betrothed, that's what he's reckoning on! He is a scoundrel, your Ivan!" "How cross you are! It's because of yesterday; you had better lie down," said Alyosha. "There! you say that," the old man observed suddenly, as though it had struck him for the first time, "and I am not angry with you. But if Ivan said it, I should be angry with him. It is only with you I have good moments, else you know I am an ill-natured man." "You are not ill-natured, but distorted," said Alyosha with a smile. "Listen. I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitya locked up and I don't know now what I shall decide about it. Of course in these fashionable days fathers and mothers are looked upon as a prejudice, but even now the law does not allow you to drag your old father about by the hair, to kick him in the face in his own house, and brag of murdering him outright--all in the presence of witnesses. If I liked, I could crush him and could have him locked up at once for what he did yesterday." "Then you don't mean to take proceedings?" "Ivan has dissuaded me. I shouldn't care about Ivan, but there's another thing." And bending down to Alyosha, he went on in a confidential half-whisper. "If I send the ruffian to prison, she'll hear of it and run to see him at once. But if she hears that he has beaten me, a weak old man, within an inch of my life, she may give him up and come to me.... For that's her way, everything by contraries. I know her through and through! Won't you have a drop of brandy? Take some cold coffee and I'll pour a quarter of a glass of brandy into it, it's delicious, my boy." "No, thank you. I'll take that roll with me if I may," said Alyosha, and taking a halfpenny French roll he put it in the pocket of his cassock. "And you'd better not have brandy, either," he suggested apprehensively, looking into the old man's face. "You are quite right, it irritates my nerves instead of soothing them. Only one little glass. I'll get it out of the cupboard." He unlocked the cupboard, poured out a glass, drank it, then locked the cupboard and put the key back in his pocket. "That's enough. One glass won't kill me." "You see you are in a better humor now," said Alyosha, smiling. "Um! I love you even without the brandy, but with scoundrels I am a scoundrel. Ivan is not going to Tchermashnya--why is that? He wants to spy how much I give Grushenka if she comes. They are all scoundrels! But I don't recognize Ivan, I don't know him at all. Where does he come from? He is not one of us in soul. As though I'd leave him anything! I shan't leave a will at all, you may as well know. And I'll crush Mitya like a beetle. I squash black-beetles at night with my slipper; they squelch when you tread on them. And your Mitya will squelch too. _Your_ Mitya, for you love him. Yes, you love him and I am not afraid of your loving him. But if Ivan loved him I should be afraid for myself at his loving him. But Ivan loves nobody. Ivan is not one of us. People like Ivan are not our sort, my boy. They are like a cloud of dust. When the wind blows, the dust will be gone.... I had a silly idea in my head when I told you to come to-day; I wanted to find out from you about Mitya. If I were to hand him over a thousand or maybe two now, would the beggarly wretch agree to take himself off altogether for five years or, better still, thirty-five, and without Grushenka, and give her up once for all, eh?" "I--I'll ask him," muttered Alyosha. "If you would give him three thousand, perhaps he--" "That's nonsense! You needn't ask him now, no need! I've changed my mind. It was a nonsensical idea of mine. I won't give him anything, not a penny, I want my money myself," cried the old man, waving his hand. "I'll crush him like a beetle without it. Don't say anything to him or else he will begin hoping. There's nothing for you to do here, you needn't stay. Is that betrothed of his, Katerina Ivanovna, whom he has kept so carefully hidden from me all this time, going to marry him or not? You went to see her yesterday, I believe?" "Nothing will induce her to abandon him." "There you see how dearly these fine young ladies love a rake and a scoundrel. They are poor creatures I tell you, those pale young ladies, very different from--Ah, if I had his youth and the looks I had then (for I was better-looking than he at eight and twenty) I'd have been a conquering hero just as he is. He is a low cad! But he shan't have Grushenka, anyway, he shan't! I'll crush him!" His anger had returned with the last words. "You can go. There's nothing for you to do here to-day," he snapped harshly. Alyosha went up to say good-by to him, and kissed him on the shoulder. "What's that for?" The old man was a little surprised. "We shall see each other again, or do you think we shan't?" "Not at all, I didn't mean anything." "Nor did I, I did not mean anything," said the old man, looking at him. "Listen, listen," he shouted after him, "make haste and come again and I'll have a fish soup for you, a fine one, not like to-day. Be sure to come! Come to-morrow, do you hear, to-morrow!" And as soon as Alyosha had gone out of the door, he went to the cupboard again and poured out another half-glass. "I won't have more!" he muttered, clearing his throat, and again he locked the cupboard and put the key in his pocket. Then he went into his bedroom, lay down on the bed, exhausted, and in one minute he was asleep.

Book 4, Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-4-chapter-2

After leaving the monastery that morning, Alyosha heads straight to his father's, who's in a grumpy mood. Fyodor goes off on a tirade about how everyone is evil; it's just that he lives his evil openly. Fyodor then explains to Alyosha that the reason that he won't press charges against Dmitri is because he knows that would make Dmitri sympathetic in Grushenka's eyes. Fyodor then remarks that Ivan's a cold fish who loves no one. He asks Alyosha to ask Dmitri if Dmitri would leave Grushenka alone for one or two thousand rubles. Alyosha hesitatingly agrees, but Fyodor quickly takes the offer back spitefully. Alyosha gets up to leave and kisses his father goodbye. Fyodor is surprised by the gesture and wonders if he'll see Alyosha again, but Alyosha reassures him that it's just a simple goodbye. After Alyosha leaves, Fyodor goes to his bedroom to sleep.

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The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 7

book 11, chapter 7

{"name": "Book 11, Chapter 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-7", "summary": "By the time of Ivan's second visit, Smerdyakov is holed up with Maria Kondratievna, who is now his fiancee. In contrast to the first visit, Smerdyakov seems quite well, and he seems to be studying when Ivan walks in on him. Ivan again confronts Smerdyakov, this time about Smerdyakov's suggestion that he won't tell the authorities about the \"whole\" of their conversation. This time Smerdyakov is at his most direct and accuses Ivan of being as good as responsible for their father's murder. If Ivan suspected Smerdyakov of planning their father's murder, he did nothing to prevent it or to protect him, making him indirectly guilty. Ivan goes so far as to punch Smerdyakov in the shoulder, but when he leaves, he's crazed with doubt and guilt. He goes straight to Katerina's and tells her about his conversation with Smerdyakov. She pulls out a letter from Dmitri, which Dmitri had written after Katerina's encounter with Grushenka . In this letter Dmitri vowed that if he was unable to find someone to loan him 3,000 roubles, he would kill his father and steal the money from him. This letter reassures Ivan and calms his fears. And yet, perhaps because he sees some truth in Smerdyakov's sly suggestion that he wants Dmitri convicted so he can have more of his father's inheritance, he visits Dmitri ten days before his trial and offers him 30,000 roubles toward his escape. Finally the novel catches up to the present moment. Surprised that Katerina had been to visit Smerdyakov, Ivan decides to visit him a third time.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VII. The Second Visit To Smerdyakov By that time Smerdyakov had been discharged from the hospital. Ivan knew his new lodging, the dilapidated little wooden house, divided in two by a passage on one side of which lived Marya Kondratyevna and her mother, and on the other, Smerdyakov. No one knew on what terms he lived with them, whether as a friend or as a lodger. It was supposed afterwards that he had come to stay with them as Marya Kondratyevna's betrothed, and was living there for a time without paying for board or lodging. Both mother and daughter had the greatest respect for him and looked upon him as greatly superior to themselves. Ivan knocked, and, on the door being opened, went straight into the passage. By Marya Kondratyevna's directions he went straight to the better room on the left, occupied by Smerdyakov. There was a tiled stove in the room and it was extremely hot. The walls were gay with blue paper, which was a good deal used however, and in the cracks under it cockroaches swarmed in amazing numbers, so that there was a continual rustling from them. The furniture was very scanty: two benches against each wall and two chairs by the table. The table of plain wood was covered with a cloth with pink patterns on it. There was a pot of geranium on each of the two little windows. In the corner there was a case of ikons. On the table stood a little copper samovar with many dents in it, and a tray with two cups. But Smerdyakov had finished tea and the samovar was out. He was sitting at the table on a bench. He was looking at an exercise-book and slowly writing with a pen. There was a bottle of ink by him and a flat iron candlestick, but with a composite candle. Ivan saw at once from Smerdyakov's face that he had completely recovered from his illness. His face was fresher, fuller, his hair stood up jauntily in front, and was plastered down at the sides. He was sitting in a parti-colored, wadded dressing-gown, rather dirty and frayed, however. He had spectacles on his nose, which Ivan had never seen him wearing before. This trifling circumstance suddenly redoubled Ivan's anger: "A creature like that and wearing spectacles!" Smerdyakov slowly raised his head and looked intently at his visitor through his spectacles; then he slowly took them off and rose from the bench, but by no means respectfully, almost lazily, doing the least possible required by common civility. All this struck Ivan instantly; he took it all in and noted it at once--most of all the look in Smerdyakov's eyes, positively malicious, churlish and haughty. "What do you want to intrude for?" it seemed to say; "we settled everything then; why have you come again?" Ivan could scarcely control himself. "It's hot here," he said, still standing, and unbuttoned his overcoat. "Take off your coat," Smerdyakov conceded. Ivan took off his coat and threw it on a bench with trembling hands. He took a chair, moved it quickly to the table and sat down. Smerdyakov managed to sit down on his bench before him. "To begin with, are we alone?" Ivan asked sternly and impulsively. "Can they overhear us in there?" "No one can hear anything. You've seen for yourself: there's a passage." "Listen, my good fellow; what was that you babbled, as I was leaving the hospital, that if I said nothing about your faculty of shamming fits, you wouldn't tell the investigating lawyer all our conversation at the gate? What do you mean by _all_? What could you mean by it? Were you threatening me? Have I entered into some sort of compact with you? Do you suppose I am afraid of you?" Ivan said this in a perfect fury, giving him to understand with obvious intention that he scorned any subterfuge or indirectness and meant to show his cards. Smerdyakov's eyes gleamed resentfully, his left eye winked, and he at once gave his answer, with his habitual composure and deliberation. "You want to have everything above-board; very well, you shall have it," he seemed to say. "This is what I meant then, and this is why I said that, that you, knowing beforehand of this murder of your own parent, left him to his fate, and that people mightn't after that conclude any evil about your feelings and perhaps of something else, too--that's what I promised not to tell the authorities." Though Smerdyakov spoke without haste and obviously controlling himself, yet there was something in his voice, determined and emphatic, resentful and insolently defiant. He stared impudently at Ivan. A mist passed before Ivan's eyes for the first moment. "How? What? Are you out of your mind?" "I'm perfectly in possession of all my faculties." "Do you suppose I _knew_ of the murder?" Ivan cried at last, and he brought his fist violently on the table. "What do you mean by 'something else, too'? Speak, scoundrel!" Smerdyakov was silent and still scanned Ivan with the same insolent stare. "Speak, you stinking rogue, what is that 'something else, too'?" "The 'something else' I meant was that you probably, too, were very desirous of your parent's death." Ivan jumped up and struck him with all his might on the shoulder, so that he fell back against the wall. In an instant his face was bathed in tears. Saying, "It's a shame, sir, to strike a sick man," he dried his eyes with a very dirty blue check handkerchief and sank into quiet weeping. A minute passed. "That's enough! Leave off," Ivan said peremptorily, sitting down again. "Don't put me out of all patience." Smerdyakov took the rag from his eyes. Every line of his puckered face reflected the insult he had just received. "So you thought then, you scoundrel, that together with Dmitri I meant to kill my father?" "I didn't know what thoughts were in your mind then," said Smerdyakov resentfully; "and so I stopped you then at the gate to sound you on that very point." "To sound what, what?" "Why, that very circumstance, whether you wanted your father to be murdered or not." What infuriated Ivan more than anything was the aggressive, insolent tone to which Smerdyakov persistently adhered. "It was you murdered him?" he cried suddenly. Smerdyakov smiled contemptuously. "You know of yourself, for a fact, that it wasn't I murdered him. And I should have thought that there was no need for a sensible man to speak of it again." "But why, why had you such a suspicion about me at the time?" "As you know already, it was simply from fear. For I was in such a position, shaking with fear, that I suspected every one. I resolved to sound you, too, for I thought if you wanted the same as your brother, then the business was as good as settled and I should be crushed like a fly, too." "Look here, you didn't say that a fortnight ago." "I meant the same when I talked to you in the hospital, only I thought you'd understand without wasting words, and that being such a sensible man you wouldn't care to talk of it openly." "What next! Come answer, answer, I insist: what was it ... what could I have done to put such a degrading suspicion into your mean soul?" "As for the murder, you couldn't have done that and didn't want to, but as for wanting some one else to do it, that was just what you did want." "And how coolly, how coolly he speaks! But why should I have wanted it; what grounds had I for wanting it?" "What grounds had you? What about the inheritance?" said Smerdyakov sarcastically, and, as it were, vindictively. "Why, after your parent's death there was at least forty thousand to come to each of you, and very likely more, but if Fyodor Pavlovitch got married then to that lady, Agrafena Alexandrovna, she would have had all his capital made over to her directly after the wedding, for she's plenty of sense, so that your parent would not have left you two roubles between the three of you. And were they far from a wedding, either? Not a hair's-breadth: that lady had only to lift her little finger and he would have run after her to church, with his tongue out." Ivan restrained himself with painful effort. "Very good," he commented at last. "You see, I haven't jumped up, I haven't knocked you down, I haven't killed you. Speak on. So, according to you, I had fixed on Dmitri to do it; I was reckoning on him?" "How could you help reckoning on him? If he killed him, then he would lose all the rights of a nobleman, his rank and property, and would go off to exile; so his share of the inheritance would come to you and your brother Alexey Fyodorovitch in equal parts; so you'd each have not forty, but sixty thousand each. There's not a doubt you did reckon on Dmitri Fyodorovitch." "What I put up with from you! Listen, scoundrel, if I had reckoned on any one then, it would have been on you, not on Dmitri, and I swear I did expect some wickedness from you ... at the time.... I remember my impression!" "I thought, too, for a minute, at the time, that you were reckoning on me as well," said Smerdyakov, with a sarcastic grin. "So that it was just by that more than anything you showed me what was in your mind. For if you had a foreboding about me and yet went away, you as good as said to me, 'You can murder my parent, I won't hinder you!' " "You scoundrel! So that's how you understood it!" "It was all that going to Tchermashnya. Why! You were meaning to go to Moscow and refused all your father's entreaties to go to Tchermashnya--and simply at a foolish word from me you consented at once! What reason had you to consent to Tchermashnya? Since you went to Tchermashnya with no reason, simply at my word, it shows that you must have expected something from me." "No, I swear I didn't!" shouted Ivan, grinding his teeth. "You didn't? Then you ought, as your father's son, to have had me taken to the lock-up and thrashed at once for my words then ... or at least, to have given me a punch in the face on the spot, but you were not a bit angry, if you please, and at once in a friendly way acted on my foolish word and went away, which was utterly absurd, for you ought to have stayed to save your parent's life. How could I help drawing my conclusions?" Ivan sat scowling, both his fists convulsively pressed on his knees. "Yes, I am sorry I didn't punch you in the face," he said with a bitter smile. "I couldn't have taken you to the lock-up just then. Who would have believed me and what charge could I bring against you? But the punch in the face ... oh, I'm sorry I didn't think of it. Though blows are forbidden, I should have pounded your ugly face to a jelly." Smerdyakov looked at him almost with relish. "In the ordinary occasions of life," he said in the same complacent and sententious tone in which he had taunted Grigory and argued with him about religion at Fyodor Pavlovitch's table, "in the ordinary occasions of life, blows on the face are forbidden nowadays by law, and people have given them up, but in exceptional occasions of life people still fly to blows, not only among us but all over the world, be it even the fullest Republic of France, just as in the time of Adam and Eve, and they never will leave off, but you, even in an exceptional case, did not dare." "What are you learning French words for?" Ivan nodded towards the exercise-book lying on the table. "Why shouldn't I learn them so as to improve my education, supposing that I may myself chance to go some day to those happy parts of Europe?" "Listen, monster." Ivan's eyes flashed and he trembled all over. "I am not afraid of your accusations; you can say what you like about me, and if I don't beat you to death, it's simply because I suspect you of that crime and I'll drag you to justice. I'll unmask you." "To my thinking, you'd better keep quiet, for what can you accuse me of, considering my absolute innocence? and who would believe you? Only if you begin, I shall tell everything, too, for I must defend myself." "Do you think I am afraid of you now?" "If the court doesn't believe all I've said to you just now, the public will, and you will be ashamed." "That's as much as to say, 'It's always worth while speaking to a sensible man,' eh?" snarled Ivan. "You hit the mark, indeed. And you'd better be sensible." Ivan got up, shaking all over with indignation, put on his coat, and without replying further to Smerdyakov, without even looking at him, walked quickly out of the cottage. The cool evening air refreshed him. There was a bright moon in the sky. A nightmare of ideas and sensations filled his soul. "Shall I go at once and give information against Smerdyakov? But what information can I give? He is not guilty, anyway. On the contrary, he'll accuse me. And in fact, why did I set off for Tchermashnya then? What for? What for?" Ivan asked himself. "Yes, of course, I was expecting something and he is right...." And he remembered for the hundredth time how, on the last night in his father's house, he had listened on the stairs. But he remembered it now with such anguish that he stood still on the spot as though he had been stabbed. "Yes, I expected it then, that's true! I wanted the murder, I did want the murder! Did I want the murder? Did I want it? I must kill Smerdyakov! If I don't dare kill Smerdyakov now, life is not worth living!" Ivan did not go home, but went straight to Katerina Ivanovna and alarmed her by his appearance. He was like a madman. He repeated all his conversation with Smerdyakov, every syllable of it. He couldn't be calmed, however much she tried to soothe him: he kept walking about the room, speaking strangely, disconnectedly. At last he sat down, put his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hands and pronounced this strange sentence: "If it's not Dmitri, but Smerdyakov who's the murderer, I share his guilt, for I put him up to it. Whether I did, I don't know yet. But if he is the murderer, and not Dmitri, then, of course, I am the murderer, too." When Katerina Ivanovna heard that, she got up from her seat without a word, went to her writing-table, opened a box standing on it, took out a sheet of paper and laid it before Ivan. This was the document of which Ivan spoke to Alyosha later on as a "conclusive proof" that Dmitri had killed his father. It was the letter written by Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna when he was drunk, on the very evening he met Alyosha at the crossroads on the way to the monastery, after the scene at Katerina Ivanovna's, when Grushenka had insulted her. Then, parting from Alyosha, Mitya had rushed to Grushenka. I don't know whether he saw her, but in the evening he was at the "Metropolis," where he got thoroughly drunk. Then he asked for pen and paper and wrote a document of weighty consequences to himself. It was a wordy, disconnected, frantic letter, a drunken letter in fact. It was like the talk of a drunken man, who, on his return home, begins with extraordinary heat telling his wife or one of his household how he has just been insulted, what a rascal had just insulted him, what a fine fellow he is on the other hand, and how he will pay that scoundrel out; and all that at great length, with great excitement and incoherence, with drunken tears and blows on the table. The letter was written on a dirty piece of ordinary paper of the cheapest kind. It had been provided by the tavern and there were figures scrawled on the back of it. There was evidently not space enough for his drunken verbosity and Mitya not only filled the margins but had written the last line right across the rest. The letter ran as follows: FATAL KATYA: To-morrow I will get the money and repay your three thousand and farewell, woman of great wrath, but farewell, too, my love! Let us make an end! To-morrow I shall try and get it from every one, and if I can't borrow it, I give you my word of honor I shall go to my father and break his skull and take the money from under the pillow, if only Ivan has gone. If I have to go to Siberia for it, I'll give you back your three thousand. And farewell. I bow down to the ground before you, for I've been a scoundrel to you. Forgive me! No, better not forgive me, you'll be happier and so shall I! Better Siberia than your love, for I love another woman and you got to know her too well to-day, so how can you forgive? I will murder the man who's robbed me! I'll leave you all and go to the East so as to see no one again. Not _her_ either, for you are not my only tormentress; she is too. Farewell! P.S.--I write my curse, but I adore you! I hear it in my heart. One string is left, and it vibrates. Better tear my heart in two! I shall kill myself, but first of all that cur. I shall tear three thousand from him and fling it to you. Though I've been a scoundrel to you, I am not a thief! You can expect three thousand. The cur keeps it under his mattress, in pink ribbon. I am not a thief, but I'll murder my thief. Katya, don't look disdainful. Dmitri is not a thief! but a murderer! He has murdered his father and ruined himself to hold his ground, rather than endure your pride. And he doesn't love you. P.P.S.--I kiss your feet, farewell! P.P.P.S.--Katya, pray to God that some one'll give me the money. Then I shall not be steeped in gore, and if no one does--I shall! Kill me! Your slave and enemy, D. KARAMAZOV. When Ivan read this "document" he was convinced. So then it was his brother, not Smerdyakov. And if not Smerdyakov, then not he, Ivan. This letter at once assumed in his eyes the aspect of a logical proof. There could be no longer the slightest doubt of Mitya's guilt. The suspicion never occurred to Ivan, by the way, that Mitya might have committed the murder in conjunction with Smerdyakov, and, indeed, such a theory did not fit in with the facts. Ivan was completely reassured. The next morning he only thought of Smerdyakov and his gibes with contempt. A few days later he positively wondered how he could have been so horribly distressed at his suspicions. He resolved to dismiss him with contempt and forget him. So passed a month. He made no further inquiry about Smerdyakov, but twice he happened to hear that he was very ill and out of his mind. "He'll end in madness," the young doctor Varvinsky observed about him, and Ivan remembered this. During the last week of that month Ivan himself began to feel very ill. He went to consult the Moscow doctor who had been sent for by Katerina Ivanovna just before the trial. And just at that time his relations with Katerina Ivanovna became acutely strained. They were like two enemies in love with one another. Katerina Ivanovna's "returns" to Mitya, that is, her brief but violent revulsions of feeling in his favor, drove Ivan to perfect frenzy. Strange to say, until that last scene described above, when Alyosha came from Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna, Ivan had never once, during that month, heard her express a doubt of Mitya's guilt, in spite of those "returns" that were so hateful to him. It is remarkable, too, that while he felt that he hated Mitya more and more every day, he realized that it was not on account of Katya's "returns" that he hated him, but just _because he was the murderer of his father_. He was conscious of this and fully recognized it to himself. Nevertheless, he went to see Mitya ten days before the trial and proposed to him a plan of escape--a plan he had obviously thought over a long time. He was partly impelled to do this by a sore place still left in his heart from a phrase of Smerdyakov's, that it was to his, Ivan's, advantage that his brother should be convicted, as that would increase his inheritance and Alyosha's from forty to sixty thousand roubles. He determined to sacrifice thirty thousand on arranging Mitya's escape. On his return from seeing him, he was very mournful and dispirited; he suddenly began to feel that he was anxious for Mitya's escape, not only to heal that sore place by sacrificing thirty thousand, but for another reason. "Is it because I am as much a murderer at heart?" he asked himself. Something very deep down seemed burning and rankling in his soul. His pride above all suffered cruelly all that month. But of that later.... When, after his conversation with Alyosha, Ivan suddenly decided with his hand on the bell of his lodging to go to Smerdyakov, he obeyed a sudden and peculiar impulse of indignation. He suddenly remembered how Katerina Ivanovna had only just cried out to him in Alyosha's presence: "It was you, you, persuaded me of his" (that is, Mitya's) "guilt!" Ivan was thunderstruck when he recalled it. He had never once tried to persuade her that Mitya was the murderer; on the contrary, he had suspected himself in her presence, that time when he came back from Smerdyakov. It was _she_, she, who had produced that "document" and proved his brother's guilt. And now she suddenly exclaimed: "I've been at Smerdyakov's myself!" When had she been there? Ivan had known nothing of it. So she was not at all so sure of Mitya's guilt! And what could Smerdyakov have told her? What, what, had he said to her? His heart burned with violent anger. He could not understand how he could, half an hour before, have let those words pass and not have cried out at the moment. He let go of the bell and rushed off to Smerdyakov. "I shall kill him, perhaps, this time," he thought on the way.

Book 11, Chapter 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-7

By the time of Ivan's second visit, Smerdyakov is holed up with Maria Kondratievna, who is now his fiancee. In contrast to the first visit, Smerdyakov seems quite well, and he seems to be studying when Ivan walks in on him. Ivan again confronts Smerdyakov, this time about Smerdyakov's suggestion that he won't tell the authorities about the "whole" of their conversation. This time Smerdyakov is at his most direct and accuses Ivan of being as good as responsible for their father's murder. If Ivan suspected Smerdyakov of planning their father's murder, he did nothing to prevent it or to protect him, making him indirectly guilty. Ivan goes so far as to punch Smerdyakov in the shoulder, but when he leaves, he's crazed with doubt and guilt. He goes straight to Katerina's and tells her about his conversation with Smerdyakov. She pulls out a letter from Dmitri, which Dmitri had written after Katerina's encounter with Grushenka . In this letter Dmitri vowed that if he was unable to find someone to loan him 3,000 roubles, he would kill his father and steal the money from him. This letter reassures Ivan and calms his fears. And yet, perhaps because he sees some truth in Smerdyakov's sly suggestion that he wants Dmitri convicted so he can have more of his father's inheritance, he visits Dmitri ten days before his trial and offers him 30,000 roubles toward his escape. Finally the novel catches up to the present moment. Surprised that Katerina had been to visit Smerdyakov, Ivan decides to visit him a third time.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/34.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_33_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 34

chapter 34

{"name": "Chapter 34", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-34", "summary": "That same evening at dusk Gabriel was leaning over Coggan's garden-gate, taking an up-and-down survey before retiring to rest.\" A carriage approached and from within came the voices of two women -- Bathsheba and Liddy. \"The exquisite relief of finding that she was here again, safe and sound, overpowered all reflection and Oak could only luxuriate in the sense of it. All grave reports were forgotten.\" A half-hour later Boldwood walked to Bathsheba's, but Liddy, acting rather strangely, did not admit him. He left at once, feeling that he had not been forgiven. Walking through the village, he saw the carrier's van draw up and Troy's scarlet figure emerge. Troy had once before stayed at the carrier's house. Boldwood, making a sudden decision, hurried home and then quickly returned to meet Troy. As the sergeant came up the hill, Boldwood accosted him, introducing himself and telling Troy that he knew why Fanny had run away. When Troy declared that he was too poor to marry Fanny, Boldwood offered to settle a sum on her. Troy was still reluctant. Boldwood lost his calm and accused Troy of having ruined his chances with Bathsheba. Troy questioned this. Again Boldwood proffered money, assuring Troy that Bathsheba was only toying with him. Troy accepted fifty pounds. Boldwood promised him five hundred more pounds the day he married Fanny. Although Troy said that he thought Fanny too menial for him to marry, he accepted the offer. Bathsheba approached, not seeing Boldwood, and Troy went to meet her. The astounded Boldwood overheard their loving conversation and Bathsheba's assurance that she had sent the servants away. Troy sent her home, telling her that he would join her as soon as he fetched his carpetbag. Then, arrogantly, he invited Boldwood to accompany him. The devastated farmer lunged at Troy, then realized that he was helpless: Troy was in the bargaining position. Boldwood now pleaded Bathsheba's cause, begging Troy to preserve her honor by marrying her and amazing Troy with the intensity of his infatuation. Troy accepted the remaining twenty-one pounds Boldwood had brought with him. Although Bathsheba was not to know of the financial arrangement, he wished Boldwood to come along to inform her of the marriage plan. At the door, Troy asked that Boldwood wait outside. After a moment, he thrust a newspaper through the door and held a candle for Boldwood to read of the marriage of Troy and Bathsheba in Bath. With derisive laughter and a moral lecture on Boldwood's being willing to believe the worst, Troy threw the money out toward the road and locked the door. \"Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood's dark form might have been seen walking about the hills and downs of Weatherbury like an unhappy Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron.\"", "analysis": "Hardy does some very deft weaving of the plot threads in this chapter. He has built suspense and now must satisfy curiosity. Bathsheba has made her choice. In the process, the cruel, taunting Troy and the pitiful, baffled Boldwood are contrasted masterfully. We know from the violent reactions that more trouble must follow. Boldwood is so devastated that we know he will not be able to renounce Bathsheba. And Fanny's fate is still unresolved."}

HOME AGAIN--A TRICKSTER That same evening at dusk Gabriel was leaning over Coggan's garden-gate, taking an up-and-down survey before retiring to rest. A vehicle of some kind was softly creeping along the grassy margin of the lane. From it spread the tones of two women talking. The tones were natural and not at all suppressed. Oak instantly knew the voices to be those of Bathsheba and Liddy. The carriage came opposite and passed by. It was Miss Everdene's gig, and Liddy and her mistress were the only occupants of the seat. Liddy was asking questions about the city of Bath, and her companion was answering them listlessly and unconcernedly. Both Bathsheba and the horse seemed weary. The exquisite relief of finding that she was here again, safe and sound, overpowered all reflection, and Oak could only luxuriate in the sense of it. All grave reports were forgotten. He lingered and lingered on, till there was no difference between the eastern and western expanses of sky, and the timid hares began to limp courageously round the dim hillocks. Gabriel might have been there an additional half-hour when a dark form walked slowly by. "Good-night, Gabriel," the passer said. It was Boldwood. "Good-night, sir," said Gabriel. Boldwood likewise vanished up the road, and Oak shortly afterwards turned indoors to bed. Farmer Boldwood went on towards Miss Everdene's house. He reached the front, and approaching the entrance, saw a light in the parlour. The blind was not drawn down, and inside the room was Bathsheba, looking over some papers or letters. Her back was towards Boldwood. He went to the door, knocked, and waited with tense muscles and an aching brow. Boldwood had not been outside his garden since his meeting with Bathsheba in the road to Yalbury. Silent and alone, he had remained in moody meditation on woman's ways, deeming as essentials of the whole sex the accidents of the single one of their number he had ever closely beheld. By degrees a more charitable temper had pervaded him, and this was the reason of his sally to-night. He had come to apologize and beg forgiveness of Bathsheba with something like a sense of shame at his violence, having but just now learnt that she had returned--only from a visit to Liddy, as he supposed, the Bath escapade being quite unknown to him. He inquired for Miss Everdene. Liddy's manner was odd, but he did not notice it. She went in, leaving him standing there, and in her absence the blind of the room containing Bathsheba was pulled down. Boldwood augured ill from that sign. Liddy came out. "My mistress cannot see you, sir," she said. The farmer instantly went out by the gate. He was unforgiven--that was the issue of it all. He had seen her who was to him simultaneously a delight and a torture, sitting in the room he had shared with her as a peculiarly privileged guest only a little earlier in the summer, and she had denied him an entrance there now. Boldwood did not hurry homeward. It was ten o'clock at least, when, walking deliberately through the lower part of Weatherbury, he heard the carrier's spring van entering the village. The van ran to and from a town in a northern direction, and it was owned and driven by a Weatherbury man, at the door of whose house it now pulled up. The lamp fixed to the head of the hood illuminated a scarlet and gilded form, who was the first to alight. "Ah!" said Boldwood to himself, "come to see her again." Troy entered the carrier's house, which had been the place of his lodging on his last visit to his native place. Boldwood was moved by a sudden determination. He hastened home. In ten minutes he was back again, and made as if he were going to call upon Troy at the carrier's. But as he approached, some one opened the door and came out. He heard this person say "Good-night" to the inmates, and the voice was Troy's. This was strange, coming so immediately after his arrival. Boldwood, however, hastened up to him. Troy had what appeared to be a carpet-bag in his hand--the same that he had brought with him. It seemed as if he were going to leave again this very night. Troy turned up the hill and quickened his pace. Boldwood stepped forward. "Sergeant Troy?" "Yes--I'm Sergeant Troy." "Just arrived from up the country, I think?" "Just arrived from Bath." "I am William Boldwood." "Indeed." The tone in which this word was uttered was all that had been wanted to bring Boldwood to the point. "I wish to speak a word with you," he said. "What about?" "About her who lives just ahead there--and about a woman you have wronged." "I wonder at your impertinence," said Troy, moving on. "Now look here," said Boldwood, standing in front of him, "wonder or not, you are going to hold a conversation with me." Troy heard the dull determination in Boldwood's voice, looked at his stalwart frame, then at the thick cudgel he carried in his hand. He remembered it was past ten o'clock. It seemed worth while to be civil to Boldwood. "Very well, I'll listen with pleasure," said Troy, placing his bag on the ground, "only speak low, for somebody or other may overhear us in the farmhouse there." "Well then--I know a good deal concerning your Fanny Robin's attachment to you. I may say, too, that I believe I am the only person in the village, excepting Gabriel Oak, who does know it. You ought to marry her." "I suppose I ought. Indeed, I wish to, but I cannot." "Why?" Troy was about to utter something hastily; he then checked himself and said, "I am too poor." His voice was changed. Previously it had had a devil-may-care tone. It was the voice of a trickster now. Boldwood's present mood was not critical enough to notice tones. He continued, "I may as well speak plainly; and understand, I don't wish to enter into the questions of right or wrong, woman's honour and shame, or to express any opinion on your conduct. I intend a business transaction with you." "I see," said Troy. "Suppose we sit down here." An old tree trunk lay under the hedge immediately opposite, and they sat down. "I was engaged to be married to Miss Everdene," said Boldwood, "but you came and--" "Not engaged," said Troy. "As good as engaged." "If I had not turned up she might have become engaged to you." "Hang might!" "Would, then." "If you had not come I should certainly--yes, CERTAINLY--have been accepted by this time. If you had not seen her you might have been married to Fanny. Well, there's too much difference between Miss Everdene's station and your own for this flirtation with her ever to benefit you by ending in marriage. So all I ask is, don't molest her any more. Marry Fanny. I'll make it worth your while." "How will you?" "I'll pay you well now, I'll settle a sum of money upon her, and I'll see that you don't suffer from poverty in the future. I'll put it clearly. Bathsheba is only playing with you: you are too poor for her as I said; so give up wasting your time about a great match you'll never make for a moderate and rightful match you may make to-morrow; take up your carpet-bag, turn about, leave Weatherbury now, this night, and you shall take fifty pounds with you. Fanny shall have fifty to enable her to prepare for the wedding, when you have told me where she is living, and she shall have five hundred paid down on her wedding-day." In making this statement Boldwood's voice revealed only too clearly a consciousness of the weakness of his position, his aims, and his method. His manner had lapsed quite from that of the firm and dignified Boldwood of former times; and such a scheme as he had now engaged in he would have condemned as childishly imbecile only a few months ago. We discern a grand force in the lover which he lacks whilst a free man; but there is a breadth of vision in the free man which in the lover we vainly seek. Where there is much bias there must be some narrowness, and love, though added emotion, is subtracted capacity. Boldwood exemplified this to an abnormal degree: he knew nothing of Fanny Robin's circumstances or whereabouts, he knew nothing of Troy's possibilities, yet that was what he said. "I like Fanny best," said Troy; "and if, as you say, Miss Everdene is out of my reach, why I have all to gain by accepting your money, and marrying Fan. But she's only a servant." "Never mind--do you agree to my arrangement?" "I do." "Ah!" said Boldwood, in a more elastic voice. "Oh, Troy, if you like her best, why then did you step in here and injure my happiness?" "I love Fanny best now," said Troy. "But Bathsh--Miss Everdene inflamed me, and displaced Fanny for a time. It is over now." "Why should it be over so soon? And why then did you come here again?" "There are weighty reasons. Fifty pounds at once, you said!" "I did," said Boldwood, "and here they are--fifty sovereigns." He handed Troy a small packet. "You have everything ready--it seems that you calculated on my accepting them," said the sergeant, taking the packet. "I thought you might accept them," said Boldwood. "You've only my word that the programme shall be adhered to, whilst I at any rate have fifty pounds." "I had thought of that, and I have considered that if I can't appeal to your honour I can trust to your--well, shrewdness we'll call it--not to lose five hundred pounds in prospect, and also make a bitter enemy of a man who is willing to be an extremely useful friend." "Stop, listen!" said Troy in a whisper. A light pit-pat was audible upon the road just above them. "By George--'tis she," he continued. "I must go on and meet her." "She--who?" "Bathsheba." "Bathsheba--out alone at this time o' night!" said Boldwood in amazement, and starting up. "Why must you meet her?" "She was expecting me to-night--and I must now speak to her, and wish her good-bye, according to your wish." "I don't see the necessity of speaking." "It can do no harm--and she'll be wandering about looking for me if I don't. You shall hear all I say to her. It will help you in your love-making when I am gone." "Your tone is mocking." "Oh no. And remember this, if she does not know what has become of me, she will think more about me than if I tell her flatly I have come to give her up." "Will you confine your words to that one point?--Shall I hear every word you say?" "Every word. Now sit still there, and hold my carpet bag for me, and mark what you hear." The light footstep came closer, halting occasionally, as if the walker listened for a sound. Troy whistled a double note in a soft, fluty tone. "Come to that, is it!" murmured Boldwood, uneasily. "You promised silence," said Troy. "I promise again." Troy stepped forward. "Frank, dearest, is that you?" The tones were Bathsheba's. "O God!" said Boldwood. "Yes," said Troy to her. "How late you are," she continued, tenderly. "Did you come by the carrier? I listened and heard his wheels entering the village, but it was some time ago, and I had almost given you up, Frank." "I was sure to come," said Frank. "You knew I should, did you not?" "Well, I thought you would," she said, playfully; "and, Frank, it is so lucky! There's not a soul in my house but me to-night. I've packed them all off so nobody on earth will know of your visit to your lady's bower. Liddy wanted to go to her grandfather's to tell him about her holiday, and I said she might stay with them till to-morrow--when you'll be gone again." "Capital," said Troy. "But, dear me, I had better go back for my bag, because my slippers and brush and comb are in it; you run home whilst I fetch it, and I'll promise to be in your parlour in ten minutes." "Yes." She turned and tripped up the hill again. During the progress of this dialogue there was a nervous twitching of Boldwood's tightly closed lips, and his face became bathed in a clammy dew. He now started forward towards Troy. Troy turned to him and took up the bag. "Shall I tell her I have come to give her up and cannot marry her?" said the soldier, mockingly. "No, no; wait a minute. I want to say more to you--more to you!" said Boldwood, in a hoarse whisper. "Now," said Troy, "you see my dilemma. Perhaps I am a bad man--the victim of my impulses--led away to do what I ought to leave undone. I can't, however, marry them both. And I have two reasons for choosing Fanny. First, I like her best upon the whole, and second, you make it worth my while." At the same instant Boldwood sprang upon him, and held him by the neck. Troy felt Boldwood's grasp slowly tightening. The move was absolutely unexpected. "A moment," he gasped. "You are injuring her you love!" "Well, what do you mean?" said the farmer. "Give me breath," said Troy. Boldwood loosened his hand, saying, "By Heaven, I've a mind to kill you!" "And ruin her." "Save her." "Oh, how can she be saved now, unless I marry her?" Boldwood groaned. He reluctantly released the soldier, and flung him back against the hedge. "Devil, you torture me!" said he. Troy rebounded like a ball, and was about to make a dash at the farmer; but he checked himself, saying lightly-- "It is not worth while to measure my strength with you. Indeed it is a barbarous way of settling a quarrel. I shall shortly leave the army because of the same conviction. Now after that revelation of how the land lies with Bathsheba, 'twould be a mistake to kill me, would it not?" "'Twould be a mistake to kill you," repeated Boldwood, mechanically, with a bowed head. "Better kill yourself." "Far better." "I'm glad you see it." "Troy, make her your wife, and don't act upon what I arranged just now. The alternative is dreadful, but take Bathsheba; I give her up! She must love you indeed to sell soul and body to you so utterly as she has done. Wretched woman--deluded woman--you are, Bathsheba!" "But about Fanny?" "Bathsheba is a woman well to do," continued Boldwood, in nervous anxiety, "and, Troy, she will make a good wife; and, indeed, she is worth your hastening on your marriage with her!" "But she has a will--not to say a temper, and I shall be a mere slave to her. I could do anything with poor Fanny Robin." "Troy," said Boldwood, imploringly, "I'll do anything for you, only don't desert her; pray don't desert her, Troy." "Which, poor Fanny?" "No; Bathsheba Everdene. Love her best! Love her tenderly! How shall I get you to see how advantageous it will be to you to secure her at once?" "I don't wish to secure her in any new way." Boldwood's arm moved spasmodically towards Troy's person again. He repressed the instinct, and his form drooped as with pain. Troy went on-- "I shall soon purchase my discharge, and then--" "But I wish you to hasten on this marriage! It will be better for you both. You love each other, and you must let me help you to do it." "How?" "Why, by settling the five hundred on Bathsheba instead of Fanny, to enable you to marry at once. No; she wouldn't have it of me. I'll pay it down to you on the wedding-day." Troy paused in secret amazement at Boldwood's wild infatuation. He carelessly said, "And am I to have anything now?" "Yes, if you wish to. But I have not much additional money with me. I did not expect this; but all I have is yours." Boldwood, more like a somnambulist than a wakeful man, pulled out the large canvas bag he carried by way of a purse, and searched it. "I have twenty-one pounds more with me," he said. "Two notes and a sovereign. But before I leave you I must have a paper signed--" "Pay me the money, and we'll go straight to her parlour, and make any arrangement you please to secure my compliance with your wishes. But she must know nothing of this cash business." "Nothing, nothing," said Boldwood, hastily. "Here is the sum, and if you'll come to my house we'll write out the agreement for the remainder, and the terms also." "First we'll call upon her." "But why? Come with me to-night, and go with me to-morrow to the surrogate's." "But she must be consulted; at any rate informed." "Very well; go on." They went up the hill to Bathsheba's house. When they stood at the entrance, Troy said, "Wait here a moment." Opening the door, he glided inside, leaving the door ajar. Boldwood waited. In two minutes a light appeared in the passage. Boldwood then saw that the chain had been fastened across the door. Troy appeared inside, carrying a bedroom candlestick. "What, did you think I should break in?" said Boldwood, contemptuously. "Oh, no, it is merely my humour to secure things. Will you read this a moment? I'll hold the light." Troy handed a folded newspaper through the slit between door and doorpost, and put the candle close. "That's the paragraph," he said, placing his finger on a line. Boldwood looked and read-- MARRIAGES. On the 17th inst., at St. Ambrose's Church, Bath, by the Rev. G. Mincing, B.A., Francis Troy, only son of the late Edward Troy, Esq., M.D., of Weatherbury, and sergeant with Dragoon Guards, to Bathsheba, only surviving daughter of the late Mr. John Everdene, of Casterbridge. "This may be called Fort meeting Feeble, hey, Boldwood?" said Troy. A low gurgle of derisive laughter followed the words. The paper fell from Boldwood's hands. Troy continued-- "Fifty pounds to marry Fanny. Good. Twenty-one pounds not to marry Fanny, but Bathsheba. Good. Finale: already Bathsheba's husband. Now, Boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends interference between a man and his wife. And another word. Bad as I am, I am not such a villain as to make the marriage or misery of any woman a matter of huckster and sale. Fanny has long ago left me. I don't know where she is. I have searched everywhere. Another word yet. You say you love Bathsheba; yet on the merest apparent evidence you instantly believe in her dishonour. A fig for such love! Now that I've taught you a lesson, take your money back again." "I will not; I will not!" said Boldwood, in a hiss. "Anyhow I won't have it," said Troy, contemptuously. He wrapped the packet of gold in the notes, and threw the whole into the road. Boldwood shook his clenched fist at him. "You juggler of Satan! You black hound! But I'll punish you yet; mark me, I'll punish you yet!" Another peal of laughter. Troy then closed the door, and locked himself in. Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood's dark form might have been seen walking about the hills and downs of Weatherbury like an unhappy Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron.

Chapter 34

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-34

That same evening at dusk Gabriel was leaning over Coggan's garden-gate, taking an up-and-down survey before retiring to rest." A carriage approached and from within came the voices of two women -- Bathsheba and Liddy. "The exquisite relief of finding that she was here again, safe and sound, overpowered all reflection and Oak could only luxuriate in the sense of it. All grave reports were forgotten." A half-hour later Boldwood walked to Bathsheba's, but Liddy, acting rather strangely, did not admit him. He left at once, feeling that he had not been forgiven. Walking through the village, he saw the carrier's van draw up and Troy's scarlet figure emerge. Troy had once before stayed at the carrier's house. Boldwood, making a sudden decision, hurried home and then quickly returned to meet Troy. As the sergeant came up the hill, Boldwood accosted him, introducing himself and telling Troy that he knew why Fanny had run away. When Troy declared that he was too poor to marry Fanny, Boldwood offered to settle a sum on her. Troy was still reluctant. Boldwood lost his calm and accused Troy of having ruined his chances with Bathsheba. Troy questioned this. Again Boldwood proffered money, assuring Troy that Bathsheba was only toying with him. Troy accepted fifty pounds. Boldwood promised him five hundred more pounds the day he married Fanny. Although Troy said that he thought Fanny too menial for him to marry, he accepted the offer. Bathsheba approached, not seeing Boldwood, and Troy went to meet her. The astounded Boldwood overheard their loving conversation and Bathsheba's assurance that she had sent the servants away. Troy sent her home, telling her that he would join her as soon as he fetched his carpetbag. Then, arrogantly, he invited Boldwood to accompany him. The devastated farmer lunged at Troy, then realized that he was helpless: Troy was in the bargaining position. Boldwood now pleaded Bathsheba's cause, begging Troy to preserve her honor by marrying her and amazing Troy with the intensity of his infatuation. Troy accepted the remaining twenty-one pounds Boldwood had brought with him. Although Bathsheba was not to know of the financial arrangement, he wished Boldwood to come along to inform her of the marriage plan. At the door, Troy asked that Boldwood wait outside. After a moment, he thrust a newspaper through the door and held a candle for Boldwood to read of the marriage of Troy and Bathsheba in Bath. With derisive laughter and a moral lecture on Boldwood's being willing to believe the worst, Troy threw the money out toward the road and locked the door. "Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood's dark form might have been seen walking about the hills and downs of Weatherbury like an unhappy Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron."

Hardy does some very deft weaving of the plot threads in this chapter. He has built suspense and now must satisfy curiosity. Bathsheba has made her choice. In the process, the cruel, taunting Troy and the pitiful, baffled Boldwood are contrasted masterfully. We know from the violent reactions that more trouble must follow. Boldwood is so devastated that we know he will not be able to renounce Bathsheba. And Fanny's fate is still unresolved.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/08.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_0_part_8.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 8

chapter 8

{"name": "Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-10", "summary": "Mrs. Jennings is a widow with two married daughters, with leaves her with no other occupation, Austen says, than to try and marry off everyone else. She is convinced that Colonel Brandon is in love with Marianne, and decides to get them together, since she believes they are an agreeable match. Marianne soon perceives Mrs. Jennings' intent, and is taken aback that Mrs. Jennings thinks that such an old man would be a good match for her. But Marianne is distracted from this issue by thoughts of Elinor and Edward's attachment; he has not yet visited them, which makes Marianne fear that he is not well. Marianne and her mother question Elinor and Edward's behavior when they parted, which indicated nothing more than friendship between them; they suspect that something might have come between them, though Elinor of course refuses to talk.", "analysis": "Mrs. Jennings is a portrait of the busybody aristocratic woman, who, having no hobbies and no occupation, must amuse herself with social interests. Austen's tone ridicules this preoccupation of Mrs. Jennings', and her completely unfounded opinion that Colonel Brandon is in love with Marianne. Mrs. Jennings is a younger parallel to Austen's Emma in her choice of entertainment and her quickness to jump to conclusions, and also because both women take up their duties as much for self-gratification as for a wish to help couples get together. Once again, Marianne poses her impulsive, ill-informed attack on Colonel Brandon's age; since she herself is a passionate romantic, it is ironic that she thinks someone who is only 27 would no longer be able to feel passion. Marianne's belief that Colonel Brandon is old and must be unhealthy is excessive and not fully considered; as usual, she says exactly what she thinks, and does not pause to weigh and censor her comments as cautious Elinor tends to do"}

Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl. The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. "But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marrying HER." "A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." "It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?" "Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?" "I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time." "How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"

Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-10

Mrs. Jennings is a widow with two married daughters, with leaves her with no other occupation, Austen says, than to try and marry off everyone else. She is convinced that Colonel Brandon is in love with Marianne, and decides to get them together, since she believes they are an agreeable match. Marianne soon perceives Mrs. Jennings' intent, and is taken aback that Mrs. Jennings thinks that such an old man would be a good match for her. But Marianne is distracted from this issue by thoughts of Elinor and Edward's attachment; he has not yet visited them, which makes Marianne fear that he is not well. Marianne and her mother question Elinor and Edward's behavior when they parted, which indicated nothing more than friendship between them; they suspect that something might have come between them, though Elinor of course refuses to talk.

Mrs. Jennings is a portrait of the busybody aristocratic woman, who, having no hobbies and no occupation, must amuse herself with social interests. Austen's tone ridicules this preoccupation of Mrs. Jennings', and her completely unfounded opinion that Colonel Brandon is in love with Marianne. Mrs. Jennings is a younger parallel to Austen's Emma in her choice of entertainment and her quickness to jump to conclusions, and also because both women take up their duties as much for self-gratification as for a wish to help couples get together. Once again, Marianne poses her impulsive, ill-informed attack on Colonel Brandon's age; since she herself is a passionate romantic, it is ironic that she thinks someone who is only 27 would no longer be able to feel passion. Marianne's belief that Colonel Brandon is old and must be unhealthy is excessive and not fully considered; as usual, she says exactly what she thinks, and does not pause to weigh and censor her comments as cautious Elinor tends to do

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/62.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_61_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 32

part 2, chapter 32

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 32", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-32", "summary": "Mathilde and Julien exist on fairly decent terms as friends, since they both seem to feel secure about their love for one another. Now it's more a matter of sitting on it and seeing where it goes with time. But here comes the plot bomb: Mathilde realizes that she's pregnant. Yup. She uses this fact as leverage to finally make Julien believe that they'll be together forever. She says she's going to tell her father immediately and she's going to leave the house to marry Julien, even if she does it in disgrace. Mathilde writes a letter to her father announcing her pregnancy and saying that she's going to marry Julien. She'd prefer it if her father could provide Julien with some money to start their new life together, but she understands if he is too angry. Not long after, the marquis summons Julien for a little chat.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER LXII THE TIGER Alas, why these things and not other things?--_Beaumarchais_. An English traveller tells of the intimacy in which he lived with a tiger. He had trained it and would caress it, but he always kept a cocked pistol on his table. Julien only abandoned himself to the fulness of his happiness in those moments when Mathilde could not read the expression in his eyes. He scrupulously performed his duty of addressing some harsh word to her from time to time. When Mathilde's sweetness, which he noticed with some surprise, together with the completeness of her devotion were on the point of depriving him of all self-control, he was courageous enough to leave her suddenly. Mathilde loved for the first time in her life. Life had previously always dragged along at a tortoise pace, but now it flew. As, however, her pride required to find a vent in some way or other, she wished to expose herself to all the dangers in which her love could involve her. It was Julien who was prudent, and it was only when it was a question of danger that she did not follow her own inclination; but submissive, and almost humble as she was when with him, she only showed additional haughtiness to everyone in the house who came near her, whether relatives or friends. In the evening she would call Julien to her in the salon in the presence of sixty people, and have a long and private conversation with him. The little Tanbeau installed himself one day close to them. She requested him to go and fetch from the library the volume of Smollet which deals with the revolution of 1688, and when he hesitated, added with an expression of insulting haughtiness, which was a veritable balm to Julien's soul, "Don't hurry." "Have you noticed that little monster's expression?" he said to her. "His uncle has been in attendance in this salon for ten or twelve years, otherwise I would have had him packed off immediately." Her behaviour towards MM. de Croisenois, de Luz, etc., though outwardly perfectly polite, was in reality scarcely less provocative. Mathilde keenly reproached herself for all the confidential remarks about them which she had formerly made to Julien, and all the more so since she did not dare to confess that she had exaggerated to him the, in fact, almost absolutely innocent manifestations of interest of which these gentlemen had been the objects. In spite of her best resolutions her womanly pride invariably prevented her from saying to Julien, "It was because I was talking to you that I found a pleasure in describing my weakness in not drawing my hand away, when M. de Croisenois had placed his on a marble table and had just touched it." But now, as soon as one of these gentlemen had been speaking to her for some moments, she found she had a question to put to Julien, and she made this an excuse for keeping him by her side. She discovered that she was _enceinte_ and joyfully informed Julien of the fact. "Do you doubt me now? Is it not a guarantee? I am your wife for ever." This announcement struck Julien with profound astonishment. He was on the point of forgetting the governing principle of his conduct. How am I to be deliberately cold and insulting towards this poor young girl, who is ruining herself for my sake. And if she looked at all ill, he could not, even on those days when the terrible voice of wisdom made itself heard, find the courage to address to her one of those harsh remarks which his experience had found so indispensable to the preservation of their love. "I will write to my father," said Mathilde to him one day, "he is more than a father to me, he is a friend; that being so, I think it unworthy both of you and of myself to try and deceive him, even for a single minute." "Great heavens, what are you going to do?" said Julien in alarm. "My duty," she answered with eyes shining with joy. She thought she was showing more nobility than her lover. "But he will pack me off in disgrace." "It is his right to do so, we must respect it. I will give you my arm, and we will go out by the front door in full daylight." Julien was thunderstruck and requested her to put it off for a week. "I cannot," she answered, "it is the voice of honour, I have seen my duty, I must follow it, and follow it at once." "Well, I order you to put it off," said Julien at last. "Your honour is safe for the present. I am your husband. The position of us will be changed by this momentous step. I too am within my rights. To-day is Tuesday, next Tuesday is the duke de Retz's at home; when M. de la Mole comes home in the evening the porter will give him the fatal letter. His only thought is to make you a duchess, I am sure of it. Think of his unhappiness." "You mean, think of his vengeance?" "It may be that I pity my benefactor, and am grieved at injuring him, but I do not fear, and shall never fear anyone." Mathilde yielded. This was the first occasion, since she had informed Julien of her condition, that he had spoken to her authoritatively. She had never loved him so much. The tender part of his soul had found happiness in seizing on Mathilde's condition as an excuse for refraining from his cruel remarks to her. The question of the confession to M. de la Mole deeply moved him. Was he going to be separated from Mathilde? And, however grieved she would be to see him go, would she have a thought for him after his departure? He was almost equally horrified by the thought of the justified reproaches which the marquis might address to him. In the evening he confessed to Mathilde the second reason for his anxiety, and then led away by his love, confessed the first as well. She changed colour. "Would it really make you unhappy," she said to him, "to pass six months far away from me?" "Infinitely so. It is the only thing in the world which terrifies me." Mathilde was very happy. Julien had played his part so assiduously that he had succeeded in making her think that she was the one of the two who loved the more. The fatal Tuesday arrived. When the marquis came in at midnight he found a letter addressed to him, which was only to be opened himself when no one was there:-- "My father, "All social ties have been broken between us, only those of nature remain. Next to my husband, you are and always will be the being I shall always hold most dear. My eyes are full of tears, I am thinking of the pain that I am causing you, but if my shame was to be prevented from becoming public, and you were to be given time to reflect and act, I could not postpone any longer the confession that I owe you. If your affection for me, which I know is extremely deep, is good enough to grant me a small allowance, I will go and settle with my husband anywhere you like, in Switzerland, for instance. His name is so obscure that no one would recognize in Madame Sorel, the daughter-in-law of a Verrieres carpenter, your daughter. That is the name which I have so much difficulty in writing. I fear your wrath against Julien, it seems so justified. I shall not be a duchess, my father; but I knew it when I loved him; for I was the one who loved him first, it was I who seduced him. I have inherited from you too lofty a soul to fix my attention on what either is or appears to be vulgar. It is in vain that I thought of M. Croisenois with a view to pleasing you. Why did you place real merit under my eyes? You told me yourself on my return from Hyeres, 'that young Sorel is the one person who amuses me,' the poor boy is as grieved as I am if it is possible, at the pain this letter will give you. I cannot prevent you being irritated as a father, but love me as a friend. "Julien respected me. If he sometimes spoke to me, it was only by reason of his deep gratitude towards yourself, for the natural dignity of his character induces him to keep to his official capacity in any answers he may make to anyone who is so much above him. He has a keen and instinctive appreciation of the difference of social rank. It was I (I confess it with a blush to my best friend, and I shall never make such a confession to anyone else) who clasped his arm one day in the garden. "Why need you be irritated with him, after twenty-four hours have elapsed? My own lapse is irreparable. If you insist on it, the assurance of his profound respect and of his desperate grief at having displeased you, can be conveyed to you through me. You need not see him at all, but I shall go and join him wherever he wishes. It is his right and it is my duty. He is the father of my child. If your kindness will go so far as to grant us six thousand francs to live on, I will receive it with gratitude; if not, Julien reckons on establishing himself at Besancon, where he will set up as a Latin and literature master. However low may have been the station from which he springs, I am certain he will raise himself. With him I do not fear obscurity. If there is a revolution, I am sure that he will play a prime part. Can you say as much for any of those who have asked for my hand? They have fine estates, you say. I cannot consider that circumstance a reason for admiring them. My Julien would attain a high position, even under the present regime, if he had a million and my father's protection...." Mathilde, who knew that the marquis was a man who always abandoned himself to his first impulse, had written eight pages. "What am I to do?" said Julien to himself while M. de la Mole was reading this letter. "Where is (first) my duty; (second) my interest? My debt to him is immense. Without him I should have been a menial scoundrel, and not even enough of a scoundrel to be hated and persecuted by the others. He has made me a man of the world. The villainous acts which I now have to do are (first) less frequent; (second) less mean. That is more than as if he had given me a million. I am indebted to him for this cross and the reputation of having rendered those alleged diplomatic services, which have lifted me out of the ruck. "If he himself were writing instructions for my conduct, what would he prescribe?" Julien was sharply interrupted by M. de la Mole's old valet. "The marquis wants to see you at once, dressed or not dressed." The valet added in a low voice, as he walked by Julien's side, "He is beside himself: look out!"

Part 2, Chapter 32

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-32

Mathilde and Julien exist on fairly decent terms as friends, since they both seem to feel secure about their love for one another. Now it's more a matter of sitting on it and seeing where it goes with time. But here comes the plot bomb: Mathilde realizes that she's pregnant. Yup. She uses this fact as leverage to finally make Julien believe that they'll be together forever. She says she's going to tell her father immediately and she's going to leave the house to marry Julien, even if she does it in disgrace. Mathilde writes a letter to her father announcing her pregnancy and saying that she's going to marry Julien. She'd prefer it if her father could provide Julien with some money to start their new life together, but she understands if he is too angry. Not long after, the marquis summons Julien for a little chat.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/act_2.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The White Devil/section_1_part_0.txt

The White Devil.act 2.scene 1-scene 2

act 2

{"name": "Act 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073731/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-white-devil/study-guide/summary-act-2", "summary": "Act 2 opens in the home of Francisco de Medici, who is the Duke of Florence and Isabella's brother. On stage are Francisco, Isabella, Cardinal Monticelso, Marcello, Giovanni, and little Jacques the Moor. Francisco asks Isabella, who has just returned to Rome, whether she has yet seen her husband, the Duke of Brachiano. When she says she has not, Francisco jokes that Camillo should burn his house down to destroy the lecherous hangers-on that surround it. It is unclear whether he means to implicate Brachiano as one of those hangers-on. Giovanni, Isabella and Brachiano's son, reminds his uncle Francisco that he promised him a horse, and Francisco repeats his promise. Marcello, Vittoria's brother and Francisco's attendant, announces that Brachiano has arrived. Isabella pleads for her brother to be kind to her husband, and then exits, after which Francisco orders Marcello, Flamineo, Giovanni, and his servant Jacques the Moor to follow. When Brachiano enters, Francisco asks Cardinal Monticelso to speak for him, and Monticelso chastises Brachiano for neglecting his throne for an illicit affair. He explains that such behavior tarnishes his public reputation, and then vaguely threatens Brachiano. Francisco then joins the lecture, calling Vittoria Brachiano's prostitute, and threatening war if his brother-in-law does not remedy the situation. Brachiano grows contemptuously assertive, warning Francisco that he would win any such battle. Francisco then insists Brachiano will soon realize that Vittoria is a prostitute when his hair falls out from venereal disease. At that moment, Giovanni enters, dressed in a suit of armor. Monticelso further suggests to Brachiano that the boy needs a virtuous role model in his father. Giovanni asks for a pike, and explains to them that if he were the leader of an army, he would put himself on the front lines to set an example for his men. Faced with the boy's earnestness, Brachiano and Francisco appear to reconcile. Isabella enters again, and Francisco, Monticelso, and Giovanni exit. Brachiano remarks on Isabella's good health, and asks what brought her to Rome so hurriedly. Isabella explains that she returned from devotion, which Brachiano interprets as religious devotion, but which Isabella means as marital fidelity. She suggests that they must pray for the forgiveness of Brachiano's sins, which angers him. He tells her to go to her room, but she begs him for a kiss. He accuses her of being jealous, which she denies. When he draws near to her mouth for a kiss, he recoils from her bad breath. He accuses her of forming conspiracies against him with her family, and of having had an affair with a young man in Rome. Against Isabella's protestations of love, Brachiano insults Francisco as a fat fool, and he curses their marriage and their son. In a parody of traditional marriage vows, he divorces Isabella on the grounds of her supposed infidelity. Isabella warns that she will die and soon ascend to heaven without him, but she also offers to take public responsibility for the divorce on the grounds of his actual infidelity and of her jealousy, which would make him look slightly better to society. Francisco, Flamineo, Marcello, and Monticelso re-enter the room, where Isabella is now playing out the divorce. To the men, Isabella appears jealous and vengeful, threatening Vittoria and calling her a a whore. She repeats Brachiano's divorce vows as Francisco looks on increduously. Seeing Isabella as a jealous woman, Francisco tells her that she deserves her cuckold's horns, and Isabella threatens to leave immediately for Padua. Francisco protests, but Brachiano encourages the plan. To herself, Isabella mourns the loss of her marriage and her breaking heart. Camillo enters, and while Francisco is distracted by business, Flamineo plots secretly with Brachiano to kill Camillo and Isabella. Flamineo introduces Brachiano to Doctor Julio, a quack doctor and criminal who will gladly help poison Isabella in Padua. Further, they can arrange for Camillo to die that night of an apparent accident. Pleased with their plans, the three men exit. Monticelso explains to Camillo how an emblem, or allegorical drawing, has been thrown at him. The picture is of a horn-less stag weeping, with the saying that \"plenty of horns hath made him poor of horns.\" Monticelso interprets the picture as proof that Camillo has been cuckolded, and Francisco then tells him the story of Phoebus, the sun god's, marriage. When Phoebus was to be married, all the humans begged the other gods to castrate Phoebus, explaining that one sun already caused too much heat. If Phoebus were to have children, life would become unbearable. Francisco warns Camillo that if Vittoria reproduces, all of humankind will suffer from her progeny, and advises him to leave to go fight the pirates who currently plague Rome. Camillo worries that his absence may only inflame the adultery, but Monticelso promises to watch Vittoria in his absence. Camillo and Marcello then leave, at which point Francisco and Monticelso admit that they send him away in order to test Brachiano. Monticelso reveals that Lodovico, the rumored pirate, is actually in Padua, and wants to plead with Isabella to help him overturn his banishment. He explains that although it may seem dishonorable to deceive his nephew Camillo, he would rather hurt Camillo in order to avenge him, than let the wrongs against Camillo go unavenged. Scene 2 Brachiano and a Conjurer enter in the dead of night. Brachiano begs the Conjurer to reveal how his murder plans are unfolding, and the Conjurer insists that he usually avoids dark deeds, as he hates being called a \"nigromancer.\" However, because Brachiano has paid him, he will fulfill the request. A dumb show - action performed in pantomime - is enacted on one side of the stage. Brachiano watches as Doctor Julio and Christophero creep suspiciously into Isabella's bedroom. They pull aside a curtain to reveal a portrait of Brachiano. They put on protective glasses and cover the portrait's lips with poison, and then leave, laughing. Isabella then enters the room, followed by Lodovico, Giovanni, Guid-Antonio, and unnamed others. She prays before the painting, and then kisses it three times. Almost immediately, she faints and dies. Brachiano is pleased with the vision the Conjurer has shown him, and the Conjurer explains that Doctor Julio concocted that plan after noticing Isabella's habit of kissing the painting. When Brachiano asks why Lodovico was there, the Conjurer explains how Lodovico passionately dotes on Isabella. The Conjurer then conjures up the second dumb show, this time on the other side of the stage. Flamineo, Marcello, Camillo, and several unnamed captains enter, and carouse a while before someone fetches a vaulting-horse. Marcello leaves the room, while Flamineo and Camillo strip their clothes off in order to vault. Camillo is about to vault when Flamineo breaks his neck and then arranges the body to suggest Camillo died while vaulting. Flamineo calls for help, and Marcello rushes in with Francisco and Monticelso. The Duke and the Cardinal apprehend Flamineo and Marcello, and then leave, seemingly to also apprehend Vittoria. Brachiano thanks and pays the Conjurer for showing him the murders, and the latter cryptically warns that \"great men do great good, or else great harm.\"", "analysis": "In this Act does the meaning behind the play's title become more apparent. In the first scene of Act II, Jaques the Moor, who would have been a black African, stands silent as a visual shadow of the great white men present, including Francisco and Monticelso. The title of the play suggests the importance of color in determining guilt. White, usually associated with innocence and virtue, instead aligns itself with vice and sin. In Jacques's presence, we see a visual reminder of the darkness lurking behind the \"white\" facades of such great men as Francisco and Monticelso. Although these men are ostensibly on the side of the law, their private actions suggest that each of them may be as much of a villain as Lodovico or Flamineo. It is in keeping with the play's many ironies that the traditionally pure \"white\" should hide darkness and sin. Francisco's power is extremely apparent. The stage is crowded at the Act's opening, but Francisco clears it with a simple order. This is a startling visual display of his power, as well as an echo of Act 1, Scene 1. Similar to that earlier scene, this one features two men chastising a third for his immoral actions. Francisco criticizes his brother-in-law Brachiano, and uses the threat of war as a tactic. Their overly aggressive, masculine displays are ceded by the arrival of Giovani, who implicitly shames them by suggesting the chivalric masculine behavior of protecting his men as a hypothetical army captain. Giovanni is a visual representation of what Brachiano should be striving for - the chivalric values of virtue and courtly love. Like each Act of the play, Act II features several scenes of irony. One of the most notable is the divorce scene, which parodies a marriage ceremony even as it dissolves a union. Isabella is the wronged person, yet she offers to play the martyr. She is the only one with an actual cause, and yet offers to facilitate a divorce she could oppose. All of her virtue ironically pleads Brachiano's case to the audience, however; her excessive sanctimony helps us understand why her husband would prefer a sensual lover to his prim, overly-religious wife. The irony is compounded as soon as Monticelso and Francisco re-enter, and Isabella acts like a jealous shrew for the sake of her husband's happiness. The misogyny of this world is also apparent in this scene, as Francisco calls his sister a \"foolish, mad, and jealous woman\" for her displays. A woman's jealousy is enough cause for a man to request divorce, though a woman's knowledge of a man's infidelity would not necessarily prove just cause. Isabella is limited in her agency, and is only able to reach a desired end through manipulation, creating a scene that is not as it seems. The play's pessimistic view of humanity is quite apparent after Isabella leaves, and Camillo and Julio enter. The six men on stage divide into two groups of three, establishing a \"split-stage\" that highlights parallels and contrasts between the two groups. In each case, two characters concoct a plot that is to be enacted by the third. Flamineo and Brachiano plot to kill both Isabella and Camillo with the help of the mysterious Doctor Julio, while Monticelso and Francisco manipulate Camillo into leaving, so that they may observe Brachiano's behavior. While Monticelso and Francisco are ostensibly working on the side of virtue and the law, they employ treachery just as deviously as Brachiano and Flamineo. Ironically, their pursuit of virtue reveals their moral limitations. Monticelso addresses this contradiction, by suggesting that revenge is most important - he would rather gamble with Camillo's life by sending him out to sea than let his nephew be made a fool of. Yet again, reputation trumps most other qualities, and the pursuit of it causes all characters to reveal their vice. Webster's plays reveal their innate theatricality in performance, and the dumbshows created by the Conjurer are quite delightful to see. However, they also possess much literary value. Isabella's death is a foreshadowing of Brachiano's own, which occurs through a poisoned mouthpiece, as well as a reference to how Brachiano divorced her with a kiss. Camillo's death conforms somewhat to the historical record, in which Francesco Peretti, his historical counterpart, was murdered at Monte Cavallo, literally \"horse mount.\" The activity also serves as a sexual pun, however, since vaulting can imply sexually mounting, and Camillo's placement underneath the vault highlights his sexual impotency. Finally, the Conjurer's assessment at the end of the Act provides insight into Webster's sense of humanity. By noting that great men do either great or terrible things, he indicates that people are rarely pure in their virtue or vice, but rather easily led to devote their potential to either or both. The \"great\" man might do the worst things, and cannot be understood simply by his outward appearance. Likewise, sometimes the man who does \"harm\" is in fact \"great.\" What we are capable of is not always apparent, in the same way that morality is not always contained in white."}

ACT II SCENE I Enter Francisco de Medicis, Cardinal Monticelso, Marcello, Isabella, young Giovanni, with little Jacques the Moor Fran. Have you not seen your husband since you arrived? Isab. Not yet, sir. Fran. Surely he is wondrous kind; If I had such a dove-house as Camillo's, I would set fire on 't were 't but to destroy The polecats that haunt to it--My sweet cousin! Giov. Lord uncle, you did promise me a horse, And armour. Fran. That I did, my pretty cousin. Marcello, see it fitted. Marc. My lord, the duke is here. Fran. Sister, away; you must not yet be seen. Isab. I do beseech you, Entreat him mildly, let not your rough tongue Set us at louder variance; all my wrongs Are freely pardon'd; and I do not doubt, As men to try the precious unicorn's horn Make of the powder a preservative circle, And in it put a spider, so these arms Shall charm his poison, force it to obeying, And keep him chaste from an infected straying. Fran. I wish it may. Begone. [Exit Isabella as Brachiano and Flamineo enter.] Void the chamber. You are welcome; will you sit?--I pray, my lord, Be you my orator, my heart 's too full; I 'll second you anon. Mont. Ere I begin, Let me entreat your grace forgo all passion, Which may be raised by my free discourse. Brach. As silent as i' th' church: you may proceed. Mont. It is a wonder to your noble friends, That you, having as 'twere enter'd the world With a free scepter in your able hand, And having to th' use of nature well applied High gifts of learning, should in your prime age Neglect your awful throne for the soft down Of an insatiate bed. O my lord, The drunkard after all his lavish cups Is dry, and then is sober; so at length, When you awake from this lascivious dream, Repentance then will follow, like the sting Plac'd in the adder's tail. Wretched are princes When fortune blasteth but a petty flower Of their unwieldy crowns, or ravisheth But one pearl from their scepter; but alas! When they to wilful shipwreck lose good fame, All princely titles perish with their name. Brach. You have said, my lord---- Mont. Enough to give you taste How far I am from flattering your greatness. Brach. Now you that are his second, what say you? Do not like young hawks fetch a course about; Your game flies fair, and for you. Fran. Do not fear it: I 'll answer you in your own hawking phrase. Some eagles that should gaze upon the sun Seldom soar high, but take their lustful ease, Since they from dunghill birds their prey can seize. You know Vittoria? Brach. Yes. Fran. You shift your shirt there, When you retire from tennis? Brach. Happily. Fran. Her husband is lord of a poor fortune, Yet she wears cloth of tissue. Brach. What of this? Will you urge that, my good lord cardinal, As part of her confession at next shrift, And know from whence it sails? Fran. She is your strumpet---- Brach. Uncivil sir, there 's hemlock in thy breath, And that black slander. Were she a whore of mine, All thy loud cannons, and thy borrow'd Switzers, Thy galleys, nor thy sworn confederates, Durst not supplant her. Fran. Let 's not talk on thunder. Thou hast a wife, our sister; would I had given Both her white hands to death, bound and lock'd fast In her last winding sheet, when I gave thee But one. Brach. Thou hadst given a soul to God then. Fran. True: Thy ghostly father, with all his absolution, Shall ne'er do so by thee. Brach. Spit thy poison. Fran. I shall not need; lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle. Look to 't, for our anger Is making thunderbolts. Brach. Thunder! in faith, They are but crackers. Fran. We 'll end this with the cannon. Brach. Thou 'lt get naught by it, but iron in thy wounds, And gunpowder in thy nostrils. Fran. Better that, Than change perfumes for plasters. Brach. Pity on thee! 'Twere good you 'd show your slaves or men condemn'd, Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I 'll meet thee, Even in a thicket of thy ablest men. Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further Without a milder limit. Fran. Willingly. Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you bait A lion thus? Mont. My lord! Brach. I am tame, I am tame, sir. Fran. We send unto the duke for conference 'Bout levies 'gainst the pirates; my lord duke Is not at home: we come ourself in person; Still my lord duke is busied. But we fear When Tiber to each prowling passenger Discovers flocks of wild ducks, then, my lord-- 'Bout moulting time I mean--we shall be certain To find you sure enough, and speak with you. Brach. Ha! Fran. A mere tale of a tub: my words are idle. But to express the sonnet by natural reason, [Enter Giovanni. When stags grow melancholic you 'll find the season. Mont. No more, my lord; here comes a champion Shall end the difference between you both; Your son, the Prince Giovanni. See, my lords, What hopes you store in him; this is a casket For both your crowns, and should be held like dear. Now is he apt for knowledge; therefore know It is a more direct and even way, To train to virtue those of princely blood, By examples than by precepts: if by examples, Whom should he rather strive to imitate Than his own father? be his pattern then, Leave him for a stock of virtue that may last, Should fortune rend his sails, and split his mast. Brach. Your hand, boy: growing to a soldier? Giov. Give me a pike. Fran. What, practising your pike so young, fair cousin? Giov. Suppose me one of Homer's frogs, my lord, Tossing my bulrush thus. Pray, sir, tell me, Might not a child of good discretion Be leader to an army? Fran. Yes, cousin, a young prince Of good discretion might. Giov. Say you so? Indeed I have heard, 'tis fit a general Should not endanger his own person oft; So that he make a noise when he 's a-horseback, Like a Danske drummer,--Oh, 'tis excellent!-- He need not fight! methinks his horse as well Might lead an army for him. If I live, I 'll charge the French foe in the very front Of all my troops, the foremost man. Fran. What! what! Giov. And will not bid my soldiers up, and follow, But bid them follow me. Brach. Forward lapwing! He flies with the shell on 's head. Fran. Pretty cousin! Giov. The first year, uncle, that I go to war, All prisoners that I take, I will set free, Without their ransom. Fran. Ha! without their ransom! How then will you reward your soldiers, That took those prisoners for you? Giov. Thus, my lord: I 'll marry them to all the wealthy widows That falls that year. Fran. Why then, the next year following, You 'll have no men to go with you to war. Giov. Why then I 'll press the women to the war, And then the men will follow. Mont. Witty prince! Fran. See, a good habit makes a child a man, Whereas a bad one makes a man a beast. Come, you and I are friends. Brach. Most wishedly: Like bones which, broke in sunder, and well set, Knit the more strongly. Fran. Call Camillo hither.-- You have receiv'd the rumour, how Count Lodowick Is turn'd a pirate? Brach. Yes. Fran. We are now preparing to fetch him in. Behold your duchess. We now will leave you, and expect from you Nothing but kind entreaty. Brach. You have charm'd me. [Exeunt Francisco, Monticelso, and Giovanni. Enter Isabella You are in health, we see. Isab. And above health, To see my lord well. Brach. So: I wonder much What amorous whirlwind hurried you to Rome. Isab. Devotion, my lord. Brach. Devotion! Is your soul charg'd with any grievous sin? Isab. 'Tis burden'd with too many; and I think The oftener that we cast our reckonings up, Our sleep will be the sounder. Brach. Take your chamber. Isab. Nay, my dear lord, I will not have you angry! Doth not my absence from you, now two months, Merit one kiss? Brach. I do not use to kiss: If that will dispossess your jealousy, I 'll swear it to you. Isab. O, my loved lord, I do not come to chide: my jealousy! I am to learn what that Italian means. You are as welcome to these longing arms, As I to you a virgin. Brach. Oh, your breath! Out upon sweetmeats and continued physic, The plague is in them! Isab. You have oft, for these two lips, Neglected cassia, or the natural sweets Of the spring-violet: they are not yet much wither'd. My lord, I should be merry: these your frowns Show in a helmet lovely; but on me, In such a peaceful interview, methinks They are too roughly knit. Brach. O dissemblance! Do you bandy factions 'gainst me? have you learnt The trick of impudent baseness to complain Unto your kindred? Isab. Never, my dear lord. Brach. Must I be hunted out? or was 't your trick To meet some amorous gallant here in Rome, That must supply our discontinuance? Isab. Pray, sir, burst my heart; and in my death Turn to your ancient pity, though not love. Brach. Because your brother is the corpulent duke, That is, the great duke, 'sdeath, I shall not shortly Racket away five hundred crowns at tennis, But it shall rest 'pon record! I scorn him Like a shav'd Polack: all his reverend wit Lies in his wardrobe; he 's a discreet fellow, When he 's made up in his robes of state. Your brother, the great duke, because h' 'as galleys, And now and then ransacks a Turkish fly-boat, (Now all the hellish furies take his soul!) First made this match: accursed be the priest That sang the wedding-mass, and even my issue! Isab. Oh, too, too far you have curs'd! Brach. Your hand I 'll kiss; This is the latest ceremony of my love. Henceforth I 'll never lie with thee; by this, This wedding-ring, I 'll ne'er more lie with thee! And this divorce shall be as truly kept, As if the judge had doomed it. Fare you well: Our sleeps are sever'd. Isab. Forbid it the sweet union Of all things blessed! why, the saints in heaven Will knit their brows at that. Brach. Let not thy love Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow Shall never, on my soul, be satisfied With my repentance: let thy brother rage Beyond a horrid tempest, or sea-fight, My vow is fixed. Isab. O, my winding-sheet! Now shall I need thee shortly. Dear my lord, Let me hear once more, what I would not hear: Never? Brach. Never. Isab. Oh, my unkind lord! may your sins find mercy, As I upon a woeful widow'd bed Shall pray for you, if not to turn your eyes Upon your wretched wife and hopeful son, Yet that in time you 'll fix them upon heaven! Brach. No more; go, go, complain to the great duke. Isab. No, my dear lord; you shall have present witness How I 'll work peace between you. I will make Myself the author of your cursed vow; I have some cause to do it, you have none. Conceal it, I beseech you, for the weal Of both your dukedoms, that you wrought the means Of such a separation: let the fault Remain with my supposed jealousy, And think with what a piteous and rent heart I shall perform this sad ensuing part. Enter Francisco, Flamineo, Monticelso, and Camillo Brach. Well, take your course.--My honourable brother! Fran. Sister!--This is not well, my lord.--Why, sister!--She merits not this welcome. Brach. Welcome, say! She hath given a sharp welcome. Fran. Are you foolish? Come, dry your tears: is this a modest course To better what is naught, to rail and weep? Grow to a reconcilement, or, by heaven, I 'll ne'er more deal between you. Isab. Sir, you shall not; No, though Vittoria, upon that condition, Would become honest. Fran. Was your husband loud Since we departed? Isab. By my life, sir, no, I swear by that I do not care to lose. Are all these ruins of my former beauty Laid out for a whore's triumph? Fran. Do you hear? Look upon other women, with what patience They suffer these slight wrongs, and with what justice They study to requite them: take that course. Isab. O that I were a man, or that I had power To execute my apprehended wishes! I would whip some with scorpions. Fran. What! turn'd fury! Isab. To dig that strumpet's eyes out; let her die Some twenty months a-dying; to cut off Her nose and lips, pull out her rotten teeth; Preserve her flesh like mummia, for trophies Of my just anger! Hell, to my affliction, Is mere snow-water. By your favour, sir;-- Brother, draw near, and my lord cardinal;-- Sir, let me borrow of you but one kiss; Henceforth I 'll never lie with you, by this, This wedding-ring. Fran. How, ne'er more lie with him! Isab. And this divorce shall be as truly kept As if in thronged court a thousand ears Had heard it, and a thousand lawyers' hands Sealed to the separation. Brach. Ne'er lie with me! Isab. Let not my former dotage Make thee an unbeliever; this my vow Shall never on my soul be satisfied With my repentance: manet alta mente repostum. Fran. Now, by my birth, you are a foolish, mad, And jealous woman. Brach. You see 'tis not my seeking. Fran. Was this your circle of pure unicorn's horn, You said should charm your lord! now horns upon thee, For jealousy deserves them! Keep your vow And take your chamber. Isab. No, sir, I 'll presently to Padua; I will not stay a minute. Mont. Oh, good madam! Brach. 'Twere best to let her have her humour; Some half-day's journey will bring down her stomach, And then she 'll turn in post. Fran. To see her come To my lord for a dispensation Of her rash vow, will beget excellent laughter. Isab. 'Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break: Those are the killing griefs, which dare not speak.' [Exit. Marc. Camillo's come, my lord. Enter Camillo Fran. Where 's the commission? Marc. 'Tis here. Fran. Give me the signet. Flam. [Leading Brachiano aside.] My lord, do you mark their whispering? I will compound a medicine, out of their two heads, stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium: the cantharides, which are scarce seen to stick upon the flesh, when they work to the heart, shall not do it with more silence or invisible cunning. Enter Doctor Brach. About the murder? Flam. They are sending him to Naples, but I 'll send him to Candy. Here 's another property too. Brach. Oh, the doctor! Flam. A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been lashed for 's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a non plus. Doctor. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and made pay all the colorable execution. Flam. He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was once minded for his masterpiece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have poisoned all Dublin. Brach. Oh, Saint Anthony's fire! Doctor. Your secretary is merry, my lord. Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature! Look, his eye 's bloodshot, like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with. Let me embrace thee, toad, and love thee, O thou abominable, loathsome gargarism, that will fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples! Brach. No more.--I must employ thee, honest doctor: You must to Padua, and by the way, Use some of your skill for us. Doctor. Sir, I shall. Brach. But for Camillo? Flam. He dies this night, by such a politic strain, Men shall suppose him by 's own engine slain. But for your duchess' death---- Doctor. I 'll make her sure. Brach. Small mischiefs are by greater made secure. Flam. Remember this, you slave; when knaves come to preferment, they rise as gallows in the Low Countries, one upon another's shoulders. [Exeunt. Monticelso, Camillo, and Francisco come forward. Mont. Here is an emblem, nephew, pray peruse it: 'Twas thrown in at your window. Cam. At my window! Here is a stag, my lord, hath shed his horns, And, for the loss of them, the poor beast weeps: The word, Inopem me copia fecit. Mont. That is, Plenty of horns hath made him poor of horns. Cam. What should this mean? Mont. I 'll tell you; 'tis given out You are a cuckold. Cam. Is it given out so? I had rather such reports as that, my lord, Should keep within doors. Fran. Have you any children? Cam. None, my lord. Fran. You are the happier: I 'll tell you a tale. Cam. Pray, my lord. Fran. An old tale. Upon a time Phoebus, the god of light, Or him we call the sun, would need to be married: The gods gave their consent, and Mercury Was sent to voice it to the general world. But what a piteous cry there straight arose Amongst smiths and felt-makers, brewers and cooks, Reapers and butter-women, amongst fishmongers, And thousand other trades, which are annoyed By his excessive heat! 'twas lamentable. They came to Jupiter all in a sweat, And do forbid the banns. A great fat cook Was made their speaker, who entreats of Jove That Phoebus might be gelded; for if now, When there was but one sun, so many men Were like to perish by his violent heat, What should they do if he were married, And should beget more, and those children Make fireworks like their father? So say I; Only I apply it to your wife; Her issue, should not providence prevent it, Would make both nature, time, and man repent it. Mont. Look you, cousin, Go, change the air for shame; see if your absence Will blast your cornucopia. Marcello Is chosen with you joint commissioner, For the relieving our Italian coast From pirates. Marc. I am much honour'd in 't. Cam. But, sir, Ere I return, the stag's horns may be sprouted Greater than those are shed. Mont. Do not fear it; I 'll be your ranger. Cam. You must watch i' th' nights; Then 's the most danger. Fran. Farewell, good Marcello: All the best fortunes of a soldier's wish Bring you a-shipboard. Cam. Were I not best, now I am turn'd soldier, Ere that I leave my wife, sell all she hath, And then take leave of her? Mont. I expect good from you, Your parting is so merry. Cam. Merry, my lord! a' th' captain's humour right, I am resolved to be drunk this night. [Exeunt. Fran. So, 'twas well fitted; now shall we discern How his wish'd absence will give violent way To Duke Brachiano's lust. Mont. Why, that was it; To what scorn'd purpose else should we make choice Of him for a sea-captain? and, besides, Count Lodowick, which was rumour'd for a pirate, Is now in Padua. Fran. Is 't true? Mont. Most certain. I have letters from him, which are suppliant To work his quick repeal from banishment: He means to address himself for pension Unto our sister duchess. Fran. Oh, 'twas well! We shall not want his absence past six days: I fain would have the Duke Brachiano run Into notorious scandal; for there 's naught In such cursed dotage, to repair his name, Only the deep sense of some deathless shame. Mont. It may be objected, I am dishonourable To play thus with my kinsman; but I answer, For my revenge I 'd stake a brother's life, That being wrong'd, durst not avenge himself. Fran. Come, to observe this strumpet. Mont. Curse of greatness! Sure he 'll not leave her? Fran. There 's small pity in 't: Like mistletoe on sere elms spent by weather, Let him cleave to her, and both rot together. [Exeunt. SCENE II Enter Brachiano, with one in the habit of a conjurer Brach. Now, sir, I claim your promise: 'tis dead midnight, The time prefix'd to show me by your art, How the intended murder of Camillo, And our loath'd duchess, grow to action. Conj. You have won me by your bounty to a deed I do not often practise. Some there are, Which by sophistic tricks, aspire that name Which I would gladly lose, of necromancer; As some that use to juggle upon cards, Seeming to conjure, when indeed they cheat; Others that raise up their confederate spirits 'Bout windmills, and endanger their own necks For making of a squib; and some there are Will keep a curtal to show juggling tricks, And give out 'tis a spirit; besides these, Such a whole ream of almanac-makers, figure-flingers, Fellows, indeed that only live by stealth, Since they do merely lie about stol'n goods, They 'd make men think the devil were fast and loose, With speaking fustian Latin. Pray, sit down; Put on this nightcap, sir, 'tis charmed; and now I 'll show you, by my strong commanding art, The circumstance that breaks your duchess' heart. A Dumb Show Enter suspiciously Julio and Christophero: they draw a curtain where Brachiano's picture is; they put on spectacles of glass, which cover their eyes and noses, and then burn perfumes before the picture, and wash the lips of the picture; that done, quenching the fire, and putting off their spectacles, they depart laughing. Enter Isabella in her night-gown, as to bedward, with lights, after her, Count Lodovico, Giovanni, Guidantonio, and others waiting on her: she kneels down as to prayers, then draws the curtain of the picture, does three reverences to it, and kisses it thrice; she faints, and will not suffer them to come near it; dies; sorrow expressed in Giovanni, and in Count Lodovico. She is conveyed out solemnly. Brach. Excellent! then she 's dead. Conj. She 's poisoned By the fumed picture. 'Twas her custom nightly, Before she went to bed, to go and visit Your picture, and to feed her eyes and lips On the dead shadow: Doctor Julio, Observing this, infects it with an oil, And other poison'd stuff, which presently Did suffocate her spirits. Brach. Methought I saw Count Lodowick there. Conj. He was; and by my art I find he did most passionately dote Upon your duchess. Now turn another way, And view Camillo's far more politic fate. Strike louder, music, from this charmed ground, To yield, as fits the act, a tragic sound! The Second Dumb Show Enter Flamineo, Marcello, Camillo, with four more as captains: they drink healths, and dance; a vaulting horse is brought into the room; Marcello and two more whispered out of the room, while Flamineo and Camillo strip themselves into their shirts, as to vault; compliment who shall begin; as Camillo is about to vault, Flamineo pitcheth him upon his neck, and, with the help of the rest, writhes his neck about; seems to see if it be broke, and lays him folded double, as 'twere under the horse; makes show to call for help; Marcello comes in, laments; sends for the cardinal and duke, who comes forth with armed men; wonders at the act; commands the body to be carried home; apprehends Flamineo, Marcello, and the rest, and go, as 'twere, to apprehend Vittoria. Brach. 'Twas quaintly done; but yet each circumstance I taste not fully. Conj. Oh, 'twas most apparent! You saw them enter, charg'd with their deep healths To their boon voyage; and, to second that, Flamineo calls to have a vaulting horse Maintain their sport; the virtuous Marcello Is innocently plotted forth the room; Whilst your eye saw the rest, and can inform you The engine of all. Brach. It seems Marcello and Flamineo Are both committed. Conj. Yes, you saw them guarded; And now they are come with purpose to apprehend Your mistress, fair Vittoria. We are now Beneath her roof: 'twere fit we instantly Make out by some back postern. Brach. Noble friend, You bind me ever to you: this shall stand As the firm seal annexed to my hand; It shall enforce a payment. [Exit Brachiano. Conj. Sir, I thank you. Both flowers and weeds spring, when the sun is warm, And great men do great good, or else great harm. [Exit.

Act 2

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Act 2 opens in the home of Francisco de Medici, who is the Duke of Florence and Isabella's brother. On stage are Francisco, Isabella, Cardinal Monticelso, Marcello, Giovanni, and little Jacques the Moor. Francisco asks Isabella, who has just returned to Rome, whether she has yet seen her husband, the Duke of Brachiano. When she says she has not, Francisco jokes that Camillo should burn his house down to destroy the lecherous hangers-on that surround it. It is unclear whether he means to implicate Brachiano as one of those hangers-on. Giovanni, Isabella and Brachiano's son, reminds his uncle Francisco that he promised him a horse, and Francisco repeats his promise. Marcello, Vittoria's brother and Francisco's attendant, announces that Brachiano has arrived. Isabella pleads for her brother to be kind to her husband, and then exits, after which Francisco orders Marcello, Flamineo, Giovanni, and his servant Jacques the Moor to follow. When Brachiano enters, Francisco asks Cardinal Monticelso to speak for him, and Monticelso chastises Brachiano for neglecting his throne for an illicit affair. He explains that such behavior tarnishes his public reputation, and then vaguely threatens Brachiano. Francisco then joins the lecture, calling Vittoria Brachiano's prostitute, and threatening war if his brother-in-law does not remedy the situation. Brachiano grows contemptuously assertive, warning Francisco that he would win any such battle. Francisco then insists Brachiano will soon realize that Vittoria is a prostitute when his hair falls out from venereal disease. At that moment, Giovanni enters, dressed in a suit of armor. Monticelso further suggests to Brachiano that the boy needs a virtuous role model in his father. Giovanni asks for a pike, and explains to them that if he were the leader of an army, he would put himself on the front lines to set an example for his men. Faced with the boy's earnestness, Brachiano and Francisco appear to reconcile. Isabella enters again, and Francisco, Monticelso, and Giovanni exit. Brachiano remarks on Isabella's good health, and asks what brought her to Rome so hurriedly. Isabella explains that she returned from devotion, which Brachiano interprets as religious devotion, but which Isabella means as marital fidelity. She suggests that they must pray for the forgiveness of Brachiano's sins, which angers him. He tells her to go to her room, but she begs him for a kiss. He accuses her of being jealous, which she denies. When he draws near to her mouth for a kiss, he recoils from her bad breath. He accuses her of forming conspiracies against him with her family, and of having had an affair with a young man in Rome. Against Isabella's protestations of love, Brachiano insults Francisco as a fat fool, and he curses their marriage and their son. In a parody of traditional marriage vows, he divorces Isabella on the grounds of her supposed infidelity. Isabella warns that she will die and soon ascend to heaven without him, but she also offers to take public responsibility for the divorce on the grounds of his actual infidelity and of her jealousy, which would make him look slightly better to society. Francisco, Flamineo, Marcello, and Monticelso re-enter the room, where Isabella is now playing out the divorce. To the men, Isabella appears jealous and vengeful, threatening Vittoria and calling her a a whore. She repeats Brachiano's divorce vows as Francisco looks on increduously. Seeing Isabella as a jealous woman, Francisco tells her that she deserves her cuckold's horns, and Isabella threatens to leave immediately for Padua. Francisco protests, but Brachiano encourages the plan. To herself, Isabella mourns the loss of her marriage and her breaking heart. Camillo enters, and while Francisco is distracted by business, Flamineo plots secretly with Brachiano to kill Camillo and Isabella. Flamineo introduces Brachiano to Doctor Julio, a quack doctor and criminal who will gladly help poison Isabella in Padua. Further, they can arrange for Camillo to die that night of an apparent accident. Pleased with their plans, the three men exit. Monticelso explains to Camillo how an emblem, or allegorical drawing, has been thrown at him. The picture is of a horn-less stag weeping, with the saying that "plenty of horns hath made him poor of horns." Monticelso interprets the picture as proof that Camillo has been cuckolded, and Francisco then tells him the story of Phoebus, the sun god's, marriage. When Phoebus was to be married, all the humans begged the other gods to castrate Phoebus, explaining that one sun already caused too much heat. If Phoebus were to have children, life would become unbearable. Francisco warns Camillo that if Vittoria reproduces, all of humankind will suffer from her progeny, and advises him to leave to go fight the pirates who currently plague Rome. Camillo worries that his absence may only inflame the adultery, but Monticelso promises to watch Vittoria in his absence. Camillo and Marcello then leave, at which point Francisco and Monticelso admit that they send him away in order to test Brachiano. Monticelso reveals that Lodovico, the rumored pirate, is actually in Padua, and wants to plead with Isabella to help him overturn his banishment. He explains that although it may seem dishonorable to deceive his nephew Camillo, he would rather hurt Camillo in order to avenge him, than let the wrongs against Camillo go unavenged. Scene 2 Brachiano and a Conjurer enter in the dead of night. Brachiano begs the Conjurer to reveal how his murder plans are unfolding, and the Conjurer insists that he usually avoids dark deeds, as he hates being called a "nigromancer." However, because Brachiano has paid him, he will fulfill the request. A dumb show - action performed in pantomime - is enacted on one side of the stage. Brachiano watches as Doctor Julio and Christophero creep suspiciously into Isabella's bedroom. They pull aside a curtain to reveal a portrait of Brachiano. They put on protective glasses and cover the portrait's lips with poison, and then leave, laughing. Isabella then enters the room, followed by Lodovico, Giovanni, Guid-Antonio, and unnamed others. She prays before the painting, and then kisses it three times. Almost immediately, she faints and dies. Brachiano is pleased with the vision the Conjurer has shown him, and the Conjurer explains that Doctor Julio concocted that plan after noticing Isabella's habit of kissing the painting. When Brachiano asks why Lodovico was there, the Conjurer explains how Lodovico passionately dotes on Isabella. The Conjurer then conjures up the second dumb show, this time on the other side of the stage. Flamineo, Marcello, Camillo, and several unnamed captains enter, and carouse a while before someone fetches a vaulting-horse. Marcello leaves the room, while Flamineo and Camillo strip their clothes off in order to vault. Camillo is about to vault when Flamineo breaks his neck and then arranges the body to suggest Camillo died while vaulting. Flamineo calls for help, and Marcello rushes in with Francisco and Monticelso. The Duke and the Cardinal apprehend Flamineo and Marcello, and then leave, seemingly to also apprehend Vittoria. Brachiano thanks and pays the Conjurer for showing him the murders, and the latter cryptically warns that "great men do great good, or else great harm."

In this Act does the meaning behind the play's title become more apparent. In the first scene of Act II, Jaques the Moor, who would have been a black African, stands silent as a visual shadow of the great white men present, including Francisco and Monticelso. The title of the play suggests the importance of color in determining guilt. White, usually associated with innocence and virtue, instead aligns itself with vice and sin. In Jacques's presence, we see a visual reminder of the darkness lurking behind the "white" facades of such great men as Francisco and Monticelso. Although these men are ostensibly on the side of the law, their private actions suggest that each of them may be as much of a villain as Lodovico or Flamineo. It is in keeping with the play's many ironies that the traditionally pure "white" should hide darkness and sin. Francisco's power is extremely apparent. The stage is crowded at the Act's opening, but Francisco clears it with a simple order. This is a startling visual display of his power, as well as an echo of Act 1, Scene 1. Similar to that earlier scene, this one features two men chastising a third for his immoral actions. Francisco criticizes his brother-in-law Brachiano, and uses the threat of war as a tactic. Their overly aggressive, masculine displays are ceded by the arrival of Giovani, who implicitly shames them by suggesting the chivalric masculine behavior of protecting his men as a hypothetical army captain. Giovanni is a visual representation of what Brachiano should be striving for - the chivalric values of virtue and courtly love. Like each Act of the play, Act II features several scenes of irony. One of the most notable is the divorce scene, which parodies a marriage ceremony even as it dissolves a union. Isabella is the wronged person, yet she offers to play the martyr. She is the only one with an actual cause, and yet offers to facilitate a divorce she could oppose. All of her virtue ironically pleads Brachiano's case to the audience, however; her excessive sanctimony helps us understand why her husband would prefer a sensual lover to his prim, overly-religious wife. The irony is compounded as soon as Monticelso and Francisco re-enter, and Isabella acts like a jealous shrew for the sake of her husband's happiness. The misogyny of this world is also apparent in this scene, as Francisco calls his sister a "foolish, mad, and jealous woman" for her displays. A woman's jealousy is enough cause for a man to request divorce, though a woman's knowledge of a man's infidelity would not necessarily prove just cause. Isabella is limited in her agency, and is only able to reach a desired end through manipulation, creating a scene that is not as it seems. The play's pessimistic view of humanity is quite apparent after Isabella leaves, and Camillo and Julio enter. The six men on stage divide into two groups of three, establishing a "split-stage" that highlights parallels and contrasts between the two groups. In each case, two characters concoct a plot that is to be enacted by the third. Flamineo and Brachiano plot to kill both Isabella and Camillo with the help of the mysterious Doctor Julio, while Monticelso and Francisco manipulate Camillo into leaving, so that they may observe Brachiano's behavior. While Monticelso and Francisco are ostensibly working on the side of virtue and the law, they employ treachery just as deviously as Brachiano and Flamineo. Ironically, their pursuit of virtue reveals their moral limitations. Monticelso addresses this contradiction, by suggesting that revenge is most important - he would rather gamble with Camillo's life by sending him out to sea than let his nephew be made a fool of. Yet again, reputation trumps most other qualities, and the pursuit of it causes all characters to reveal their vice. Webster's plays reveal their innate theatricality in performance, and the dumbshows created by the Conjurer are quite delightful to see. However, they also possess much literary value. Isabella's death is a foreshadowing of Brachiano's own, which occurs through a poisoned mouthpiece, as well as a reference to how Brachiano divorced her with a kiss. Camillo's death conforms somewhat to the historical record, in which Francesco Peretti, his historical counterpart, was murdered at Monte Cavallo, literally "horse mount." The activity also serves as a sexual pun, however, since vaulting can imply sexually mounting, and Camillo's placement underneath the vault highlights his sexual impotency. Finally, the Conjurer's assessment at the end of the Act provides insight into Webster's sense of humanity. By noting that great men do either great or terrible things, he indicates that people are rarely pure in their virtue or vice, but rather easily led to devote their potential to either or both. The "great" man might do the worst things, and cannot be understood simply by his outward appearance. Likewise, sometimes the man who does "harm" is in fact "great." What we are capable of is not always apparent, in the same way that morality is not always contained in white.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/43.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_4_part_3.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 43

chapter 43

{"name": "Chapter 43", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-41-50", "summary": "Marianne is more ill than was previously thought, and the Palmer's doctor is sent for. Mrs. Palmer is urged to leave with her child, to prevent it catching the same fever that Marianne has; Mrs. Jennings, though, refuses to leave, and helps Elinor nurse and take care of Marianne in their mother's absence. Mrs. Jennings also insists that Colonel Brandon stays, since he is obviously anxious at Marianne's health and would prefer to stay at Cleveland. Soon Mrs. Jennings and others fear that Marianne might die from her illness; Elinor is alarmed at Marianne's state, and decides that their mother must be sent for. Colonel Brandon offers to go and get her, and Elinor accepts this proposal; at last, Marianne's state improves after a few bad days, which heartens Elinor. Elinor now expects Colonel Brandon and her mother to arrive at any moment; but, when a carriage arrives that night, Elinor is shocked to find that Willoughby has come instead.", "analysis": "In this chapter, Mrs. Jennings emerges as a much more caring, sympathetic person than she has before. Not only does she choose staying and looking after Marianne to going with her daughter, she brings herself to understand how terrible this whole ordeal is for Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood by thinking of her own grief if her daughter Charlotte were seriously ill. Despite her follies earlier in the book, Mrs. Jennings has certainly proved to be a thoroughly good person when put in trying situations; and although her unfounded regard for Lucy Steele persists, she has also proved herself a fair judge of character with regards to John and Fanny Dashwood, whom she appraises as most cold and unkind. The closeness of the bond between Elinor and Marianne is confirmed in this chapter; for, though Marianne has been foolish, selfish, and sometimes less than considerate to her sister, still Elinor's care for Marianne could not be greater when she becomes ill. For all their differences, Elinor and Marianne are each other's most constant companions and know each other better than most, and Marianne's loss might effect Elinor more for these reasons than it could effect even their mother"}

Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm. A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending for the Palmers' apothecary. He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer, on her baby's account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use. Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she THEN really believed herself, that it would be a very short one. The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced; for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise.--Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence. Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name. Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more. On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able to travel. But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.-- Towards the evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne. The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,-- "Is mama coming?--" "Not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting Marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, I hope, before it is long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton." "But she must not go round by London," cried Marianne, in the same hurried manner. "I shall never see her, if she goes by London." Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present. It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were immediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of:--he listened to them in silent despondence;--but her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother. The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or such a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a summons COULD be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it. HE, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought. Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational. She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if HE could not come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after five o'clock--arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them. With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings's compassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too, particularly a favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to HER what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in HER sufferings was very sincere. Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;--but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines had failed;--the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment had brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections. About noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse;--she waited, watched, and examined it again and again;--and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance;--and Elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what. Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock;--when his assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy. Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery. Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;--but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and strong. She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was--but when she saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt. The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected back. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely less an object of pity!--Oh!--how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance! At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much;--and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow HER to take her place by Marianne; but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep. The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers--they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience. The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the persuasion that she DID, in spite of the ALMOST impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity. Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopt at the door--of her doubt--her dread--perhaps her despair!--and of what SHE had to tell!--with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs. The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.

Chapter 43

https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-41-50

Marianne is more ill than was previously thought, and the Palmer's doctor is sent for. Mrs. Palmer is urged to leave with her child, to prevent it catching the same fever that Marianne has; Mrs. Jennings, though, refuses to leave, and helps Elinor nurse and take care of Marianne in their mother's absence. Mrs. Jennings also insists that Colonel Brandon stays, since he is obviously anxious at Marianne's health and would prefer to stay at Cleveland. Soon Mrs. Jennings and others fear that Marianne might die from her illness; Elinor is alarmed at Marianne's state, and decides that their mother must be sent for. Colonel Brandon offers to go and get her, and Elinor accepts this proposal; at last, Marianne's state improves after a few bad days, which heartens Elinor. Elinor now expects Colonel Brandon and her mother to arrive at any moment; but, when a carriage arrives that night, Elinor is shocked to find that Willoughby has come instead.

In this chapter, Mrs. Jennings emerges as a much more caring, sympathetic person than she has before. Not only does she choose staying and looking after Marianne to going with her daughter, she brings herself to understand how terrible this whole ordeal is for Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood by thinking of her own grief if her daughter Charlotte were seriously ill. Despite her follies earlier in the book, Mrs. Jennings has certainly proved to be a thoroughly good person when put in trying situations; and although her unfounded regard for Lucy Steele persists, she has also proved herself a fair judge of character with regards to John and Fanny Dashwood, whom she appraises as most cold and unkind. The closeness of the bond between Elinor and Marianne is confirmed in this chapter; for, though Marianne has been foolish, selfish, and sometimes less than considerate to her sister, still Elinor's care for Marianne could not be greater when she becomes ill. For all their differences, Elinor and Marianne are each other's most constant companions and know each other better than most, and Marianne's loss might effect Elinor more for these reasons than it could effect even their mother

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_3_part_3.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 3.chapter 3

book 3, chapter 3

{"name": "book 3, Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section4/", "summary": "The Confession of an Ardent Heart. In Verse Alyosha leaves the monastery, as he has been ordered to do by both Zosima and his father. A wealthy gentlewoman friend of the Karamazovs, Madame Khokhlakov, has given Alyosha a note from Katerina, Dmitri's abandoned fiancee, asking him to visit her. Somewhat nervous about the prospect, Alyosha sets off for Katerina's house before returning to his father's. Alyosha assumes that he will not see Ivan or Dmitri at Katerina's house, though he thinks he would like to talk to Dmitri before he sees Katerina. Taking a shortcut to Katerina's house, he is surprised by Dmitri, who intercepts him on the path", "analysis": ""}

Chapter III. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--In Verse Alyosha remained for some time irresolute after hearing the command his father shouted to him from the carriage. But in spite of his uneasiness he did not stand still. That was not his way. He went at once to the kitchen to find out what his father had been doing above. Then he set off, trusting that on the way he would find some answer to the doubt tormenting him. I hasten to add that his father's shouts, commanding him to return home "with his mattress and pillow" did not frighten him in the least. He understood perfectly that those peremptory shouts were merely "a flourish" to produce an effect. In the same way a tradesman in our town who was celebrating his name-day with a party of friends, getting angry at being refused more vodka, smashed up his own crockery and furniture and tore his own and his wife's clothes, and finally broke his windows, all for the sake of effect. Next day, of course, when he was sober, he regretted the broken cups and saucers. Alyosha knew that his father would let him go back to the monastery next day, possibly even that evening. Moreover, he was fully persuaded that his father might hurt any one else, but would not hurt him. Alyosha was certain that no one in the whole world ever would want to hurt him, and, what is more, he knew that no one could hurt him. This was for him an axiom, assumed once for all without question, and he went his way without hesitation, relying on it. But at that moment an anxiety of a different sort disturbed him, and worried him the more because he could not formulate it. It was the fear of a woman, of Katerina Ivanovna, who had so urgently entreated him in the note handed to him by Madame Hohlakov to come and see her about something. This request and the necessity of going had at once aroused an uneasy feeling in his heart, and this feeling had grown more and more painful all the morning in spite of the scenes at the hermitage and at the Father Superior's. He was not uneasy because he did not know what she would speak of and what he must answer. And he was not afraid of her simply as a woman. Though he knew little of women, he had spent his life, from early childhood till he entered the monastery, entirely with women. He was afraid of that woman, Katerina Ivanovna. He had been afraid of her from the first time he saw her. He had only seen her two or three times, and had only chanced to say a few words to her. He thought of her as a beautiful, proud, imperious girl. It was not her beauty which troubled him, but something else. And the vagueness of his apprehension increased the apprehension itself. The girl's aims were of the noblest, he knew that. She was trying to save his brother Dmitri simply through generosity, though he had already behaved badly to her. Yet, although Alyosha recognized and did justice to all these fine and generous sentiments, a shiver began to run down his back as soon as he drew near her house. He reflected that he would not find Ivan, who was so intimate a friend, with her, for Ivan was certainly now with his father. Dmitri he was even more certain not to find there, and he had a foreboding of the reason. And so his conversation would be with her alone. He had a great longing to run and see his brother Dmitri before that fateful interview. Without showing him the letter, he could talk to him about it. But Dmitri lived a long way off, and he was sure to be away from home too. Standing still for a minute, he reached a final decision. Crossing himself with a rapid and accustomed gesture, and at once smiling, he turned resolutely in the direction of his terrible lady. He knew her house. If he went by the High Street and then across the market-place, it was a long way round. Though our town is small, it is scattered, and the houses are far apart. And meanwhile his father was expecting him, and perhaps had not yet forgotten his command. He might be unreasonable, and so he had to make haste to get there and back. So he decided to take a short cut by the back-way, for he knew every inch of the ground. This meant skirting fences, climbing over hurdles, and crossing other people's back-yards, where every one he met knew him and greeted him. In this way he could reach the High Street in half the time. He had to pass the garden adjoining his father's, and belonging to a little tumbledown house with four windows. The owner of this house, as Alyosha knew, was a bedridden old woman, living with her daughter, who had been a genteel maid-servant in generals' families in Petersburg. Now she had been at home a year, looking after her sick mother. She always dressed up in fine clothes, though her old mother and she had sunk into such poverty that they went every day to Fyodor Pavlovitch's kitchen for soup and bread, which Marfa gave readily. Yet, though the young woman came up for soup, she had never sold any of her dresses, and one of these even had a long train--a fact which Alyosha had learned from Rakitin, who always knew everything that was going on in the town. He had forgotten it as soon as he heard it, but now, on reaching the garden, he remembered the dress with the train, raised his head, which had been bowed in thought, and came upon something quite unexpected. Over the hurdle in the garden, Dmitri, mounted on something, was leaning forward, gesticulating violently, beckoning to him, obviously afraid to utter a word for fear of being overheard. Alyosha ran up to the hurdle. "It's a good thing you looked up. I was nearly shouting to you," Mitya said in a joyful, hurried whisper. "Climb in here quickly! How splendid that you've come! I was just thinking of you!" Alyosha was delighted too, but he did not know how to get over the hurdle. Mitya put his powerful hand under his elbow to help him jump. Tucking up his cassock, Alyosha leapt over the hurdle with the agility of a bare- legged street urchin. "Well done! Now come along," said Mitya in an enthusiastic whisper. "Where?" whispered Alyosha, looking about him and finding himself in a deserted garden with no one near but themselves. The garden was small, but the house was at least fifty paces away. "There's no one here. Why do you whisper?" asked Alyosha. "Why do I whisper? Deuce take it!" cried Dmitri at the top of his voice. "You see what silly tricks nature plays one. I am here in secret, and on the watch. I'll explain later on, but, knowing it's a secret, I began whispering like a fool, when there's no need. Let us go. Over there. Till then be quiet. I want to kiss you. Glory to God in the world, Glory to God in me ... I was just repeating that, sitting here, before you came." The garden was about three acres in extent, and planted with trees only along the fence at the four sides. There were apple-trees, maples, limes and birch-trees. The middle of the garden was an empty grass space, from which several hundredweight of hay was carried in the summer. The garden was let out for a few roubles for the summer. There were also plantations of raspberries and currants and gooseberries laid out along the sides; a kitchen garden had been planted lately near the house. Dmitri led his brother to the most secluded corner of the garden. There, in a thicket of lime-trees and old bushes of black currant, elder, snowball-tree, and lilac, there stood a tumble-down green summer-house, blackened with age. Its walls were of lattice-work, but there was still a roof which could give shelter. God knows when this summer-house was built. There was a tradition that it had been put up some fifty years before by a retired colonel called von Schmidt, who owned the house at that time. It was all in decay, the floor was rotting, the planks were loose, the woodwork smelled musty. In the summer-house there was a green wooden table fixed in the ground, and round it were some green benches upon which it was still possible to sit. Alyosha had at once observed his brother's exhilarated condition, and on entering the arbor he saw half a bottle of brandy and a wineglass on the table. "That's brandy," Mitya laughed. "I see your look: 'He's drinking again!' Distrust the apparition. Distrust the worthless, lying crowd, And lay aside thy doubts. I'm not drinking, I'm only 'indulging,' as that pig, your Rakitin, says. He'll be a civil councilor one day, but he'll always talk about 'indulging.' Sit down. I could take you in my arms, Alyosha, and press you to my bosom till I crush you, for in the whole world--in reality--in re-al- i-ty--(can you take it in?) I love no one but you!" He uttered the last words in a sort of exaltation. "No one but you and one 'jade' I have fallen in love with, to my ruin. But being in love doesn't mean loving. You may be in love with a woman and yet hate her. Remember that! I can talk about it gayly still. Sit down here by the table and I'll sit beside you and look at you, and go on talking. You shall keep quiet and I'll go on talking, for the time has come. But on reflection, you know, I'd better speak quietly, for here--here--you can never tell what ears are listening. I will explain everything; as they say, 'the story will be continued.' Why have I been longing for you? Why have I been thirsting for you all these days, and just now? (It's five days since I've cast anchor here.) Because it's only to you I can tell everything; because I must, because I need you, because to-morrow I shall fly from the clouds, because to-morrow life is ending and beginning. Have you ever felt, have you ever dreamt of falling down a precipice into a pit? That's just how I'm falling, but not in a dream. And I'm not afraid, and don't you be afraid. At least, I am afraid, but I enjoy it. It's not enjoyment though, but ecstasy. Damn it all, whatever it is! A strong spirit, a weak spirit, a womanish spirit--whatever it is! Let us praise nature: you see what sunshine, how clear the sky is, the leaves are all green, it's still summer; four o'clock in the afternoon and the stillness! Where were you going?" "I was going to father's, but I meant to go to Katerina Ivanovna's first." "To her, and to father! Oo! what a coincidence! Why was I waiting for you? Hungering and thirsting for you in every cranny of my soul and even in my ribs? Why, to send you to father and to her, Katerina Ivanovna, so as to have done with her and with father. To send an angel. I might have sent any one, but I wanted to send an angel. And here you are on your way to see father and her." "Did you really mean to send me?" cried Alyosha with a distressed expression. "Stay! You knew it! And I see you understand it all at once. But be quiet, be quiet for a time. Don't be sorry, and don't cry." Dmitri stood up, thought a moment, and put his finger to his forehead. "She's asked you, written to you a letter or something, that's why you're going to her? You wouldn't be going except for that?" "Here is her note." Alyosha took it out of his pocket. Mitya looked through it quickly. "And you were going the back-way! Oh, gods, I thank you for sending him by the back-way, and he came to me like the golden fish to the silly old fishermen in the fable! Listen, Alyosha, listen, brother! Now I mean to tell you everything, for I must tell some one. An angel in heaven I've told already; but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are an angel on earth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that's what I need, that some one above me should forgive. Listen! If two people break away from everything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at least one of them, and before flying off or going to ruin he comes to some one else and says, 'Do this for me'--some favor never asked before that could only be asked on one's deathbed--would that other refuse, if he were a friend or a brother?" "I will do it, but tell me what it is, and make haste," said Alyosha. "Make haste! H'm!... Don't be in a hurry, Alyosha, you hurry and worry yourself. There's no need to hurry now. Now the world has taken a new turning. Ah, Alyosha, what a pity you can't understand ecstasy. But what am I saying to him? As though you didn't understand it. What an ass I am! What am I saying? 'Be noble, O man!'--who says that?" Alyosha made up his mind to wait. He felt that, perhaps, indeed, his work lay here. Mitya sank into thought for a moment, with his elbow on the table and his head in his hand. Both were silent. "Alyosha," said Mitya, "you're the only one who won't laugh. I should like to begin--my confession--with Schiller's _Hymn to Joy_, _An die Freude_! I don't know German, I only know it's called that. Don't think I'm talking nonsense because I'm drunk. I'm not a bit drunk. Brandy's all very well, but I need two bottles to make me drunk: Silenus with his rosy phiz Upon his stumbling ass. But I've not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and I'm not Silenus. I'm not Silenus, though I am strong,(1) for I've made a decision once for all. Forgive me the pun; you'll have to forgive me a lot more than puns to-day. Don't be uneasy. I'm not spinning it out. I'm talking sense, and I'll come to the point in a minute. I won't keep you in suspense. Stay, how does it go?" He raised his head, thought a minute, and began with enthusiasm: "Wild and fearful in his cavern Hid the naked troglodyte, And the homeless nomad wandered Laying waste the fertile plain. Menacing with spear and arrow In the woods the hunter strayed.... Woe to all poor wretches stranded On those cruel and hostile shores! "From the peak of high Olympus Came the mother Ceres down, Seeking in those savage regions Her lost daughter Proserpine. But the Goddess found no refuge, Found no kindly welcome there, And no temple bearing witness To the worship of the gods. "From the fields and from the vineyards Came no fruits to deck the feasts, Only flesh of bloodstained victims Smoldered on the altar-fires, And where'er the grieving goddess Turns her melancholy gaze, Sunk in vilest degradation Man his loathsomeness displays." Mitya broke into sobs and seized Alyosha's hand. "My dear, my dear, in degradation, in degradation now, too. There's a terrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of trouble. Don't think I'm only a brute in an officer's uniform, wallowing in dirt and drink. I hardly think of anything but of that degraded man--if only I'm not lying. I pray God I'm not lying and showing off. I think about that man because I am that man myself. Would he purge his soul from vileness And attain to light and worth, He must turn and cling for ever To his ancient Mother Earth. But the difficulty is how am I to cling for ever to Mother Earth. I don't kiss her. I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a shepherd? I go on and I don't know whether I'm going to shame or to light and joy. That's the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And whenever I've happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and it's always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For I'm a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand. Joy everlasting fostereth The soul of all creation, It is her secret ferment fires The cup of life with flame. 'Tis at her beck the grass hath turned Each blade towards the light And solar systems have evolved From chaos and dark night, Filling the realms of boundless space Beyond the sage's sight. At bounteous Nature's kindly breast, All things that breathe drink Joy, And birds and beasts and creeping things All follow where She leads. Her gifts to man are friends in need, The wreath, the foaming must, To angels--vision of God's throne, To insects--sensual lust. But enough poetry! I am in tears; let me cry. It may be foolishness that every one would laugh at. But you won't laugh. Your eyes are shining, too. Enough poetry. I want to tell you now about the insects to whom God gave "sensual lust." To insects--sensual lust. I am that insect, brother, and it is said of me specially. All we Karamazovs are such insects, and, angel as you are, that insect lives in you, too, and will stir up a tempest in your blood. Tempests, because sensual lust is a tempest--worse than a tempest! Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed and never can be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet and all contradictions exist side by side. I am not a cultivated man, brother, but I've thought a lot about this. It's terrible what mysteries there are! Too many riddles weigh men down on earth. We must solve them as we can, and try to keep a dry skin in the water. Beauty! I can't endure the thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of the Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What's still more awful is that a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Madonna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on fire, just as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too broad, indeed. I'd have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of it! What to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart. Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man. But a man always talks of his own ache. Listen, now to come to facts."

book 3, Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section4/

The Confession of an Ardent Heart. In Verse Alyosha leaves the monastery, as he has been ordered to do by both Zosima and his father. A wealthy gentlewoman friend of the Karamazovs, Madame Khokhlakov, has given Alyosha a note from Katerina, Dmitri's abandoned fiancee, asking him to visit her. Somewhat nervous about the prospect, Alyosha sets off for Katerina's house before returning to his father's. Alyosha assumes that he will not see Ivan or Dmitri at Katerina's house, though he thinks he would like to talk to Dmitri before he sees Katerina. Taking a shortcut to Katerina's house, he is surprised by Dmitri, who intercepts him on the path

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_9_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 10

chapter 10

{"name": "Chapter 10", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim18.asp", "summary": "Lost in their own thoughts and fears, nobody in the lifeboat makes a sound or acknowledges Jim's presence. The skipper silently takes an oar and tries to steer the boat through the black night, but the sea is too rough and they are left to drift with the storm. Suddenly the engineer speaks out, declaring that he has seen the ship go down. Jim feels that he should jump from the lifeboat, swim to the sinking Patna, and rescue the eight hundred pilgrims. As dawn begins to lighten the sky, Jim sees a light on the Patna and realizes the ship has not sunk. He feels miserable. The others also see Jim for the first time. In the darkness of the night, they have thought that George had jumped into the boat; when they realize that Jim has joined them, they are outraged, for he is not one of them. They stare at him, making Jim feel like an intruder. They threaten to kill him, for he has been a witness to their cowardice. They believe that he will testify against them. In order to protect himself, Jim grabs a tiller and threatens the others with it. Jim is not glad to be alive; he is ashamed that he has jumped from the Patna. He even has thoughts of leaving the lifeboat and sits on its edge, as if tempting fate. The others in the lifeboat start talking normally, trying to rationalize their desertion. They also tell Jim that he is \"one of them.\" Jim is enraged at their talk; he knows he can never be one of them. Unlike him, they planned their desertion; they chose to jump off the Patna. At times he has the urge to kill all of them and blames them for calling him into the lifeboat. He says, \"It was their doing as plainly as if they had reached up with a boathook and pulled him over.\" Finally, the light from the Patna can no longer be seen. Jim and the other crew members believe that the ship has finally sunk. Jim is greatly relieved.", "analysis": "Notes Being in the lifeboat with the other crew is miserable for Jim. Although he is with them, he is not one of them. He feels he is better than they are, for he did not plan his desertion. In fact, he blames his jumping on them, for he heard them calling. It is also obvious that the others do not want Jim in the lifeboat with them and even threaten to kill him. Since he is not one of them, they fear he will testify against them and tell of their cowardice. Jim must defend himself with the tiller. Jim is horrified when he first sees the light on the Patna, which reveals that he has been lying to himself about wanting to save the pilgrims. He is also greatly relieved when he can no longer see the light from the Patna and incorrectly assumes that the boat has gone down. Jim has an urge to swim back to the ship. He would like to make certain that the ship is really gone and that his 800 possible accusers are dead; he would also like to escape from the horrible crew in the lifeboat. Being with them is almost worse than death itself. It is important to notice that Jim is still a dreamer in this chapter. Although he has jumped into a black hole, he still fools himself with unrealistic visions. He thinks about swimming back to the Patna, first to rescue the 800 pilgrims; later he thinks about swimming back to make certain that the ship has sunk and the pilgrims are all dead."}

'He locked his fingers together and tore them apart. Nothing could be more true: he had indeed jumped into an everlasting deep hole. He had tumbled from a height he could never scale again. By that time the boat had gone driving forward past the bows. It was too dark just then for them to see each other, and, moreover, they were blinded and half drowned with rain. He told me it was like being swept by a flood through a cavern. They turned their backs to the squall; the skipper, it seems, got an oar over the stern to keep the boat before it, and for two or three minutes the end of the world had come through a deluge in a pitchy blackness. The sea hissed "like twenty thousand kettles." That's his simile, not mine. I fancy there was not much wind after the first gust; and he himself had admitted at the inquiry that the sea never got up that night to any extent. He crouched down in the bows and stole a furtive glance back. He saw just one yellow gleam of the mast-head light high up and blurred like a last star ready to dissolve. "It terrified me to see it still there," he said. That's what he said. What terrified him was the thought that the drowning was not over yet. No doubt he wanted to be done with that abomination as quickly as possible. Nobody in the boat made a sound. In the dark she seemed to fly, but of course she could not have had much way. Then the shower swept ahead, and the great, distracting, hissing noise followed the rain into distance and died out. There was nothing to be heard then but the slight wash about the boat's sides. Somebody's teeth were chattering violently. A hand touched his back. A faint voice said, "You there?" Another cried out shakily, "She's gone!" and they all stood up together to look astern. They saw no lights. All was black. A thin cold drizzle was driving into their faces. The boat lurched slightly. The teeth chattered faster, stopped, and began again twice before the man could master his shiver sufficiently to say, "Ju-ju-st in ti-ti-me. . . . Brrrr." He recognised the voice of the chief engineer saying surlily, "I saw her go down. I happened to turn my head." The wind had dropped almost completely. 'They watched in the dark with their heads half turned to windward as if expecting to hear cries. At first he was thankful the night had covered up the scene before his eyes, and then to know of it and yet to have seen and heard nothing appeared somehow the culminating point of an awful misfortune. "Strange, isn't it?" he murmured, interrupting himself in his disjointed narrative. 'It did not seem so strange to me. He must have had an unconscious conviction that the reality could not be half as bad, not half as anguishing, appalling, and vengeful as the created terror of his imagination. I believe that, in this first moment, his heart was wrung with all the suffering, that his soul knew the accumulated savour of all the fear, all the horror, all the despair of eight hundred human beings pounced upon in the night by a sudden and violent death, else why should he have said, "It seemed to me that I must jump out of that accursed boat and swim back to see--half a mile--more--any distance--to the very spot . . ."? Why this impulse? Do you see the significance? Why back to the very spot? Why not drown alongside--if he meant drowning? Why back to the very spot, to see--as if his imagination had to be soothed by the assurance that all was over before death could bring relief? I defy any one of you to offer another explanation. It was one of those bizarre and exciting glimpses through the fog. It was an extraordinary disclosure. He let it out as the most natural thing one could say. He fought down that impulse and then he became conscious of the silence. He mentioned this to me. A silence of the sea, of the sky, merged into one indefinite immensity still as death around these saved, palpitating lives. "You might have heard a pin drop in the boat," he said with a queer contraction of his lips, like a man trying to master his sensibilities while relating some extremely moving fact. A silence! God alone, who had willed him as he was, knows what he made of it in his heart. "I didn't think any spot on earth could be so still," he said. "You couldn't distinguish the sea from the sky; there was nothing to see and nothing to hear. Not a glimmer, not a shape, not a sound. You could have believed that every bit of dry land had gone to the bottom; that every man on earth but I and these beggars in the boat had got drowned." He leaned over the table with his knuckles propped amongst coffee-cups, liqueur-glasses, cigar-ends. "I seemed to believe it. Everything was gone and--all was over . . ." he fetched a deep sigh . . . "with me."' Marlow sat up abruptly and flung away his cheroot with force. It made a darting red trail like a toy rocket fired through the drapery of creepers. Nobody stirred. 'Hey, what do you think of it?' he cried with sudden animation. 'Wasn't he true to himself, wasn't he? His saved life was over for want of ground under his feet, for want of sights for his eyes, for want of voices in his ears. Annihilation--hey! And all the time it was only a clouded sky, a sea that did not break, the air that did not stir. Only a night; only a silence. 'It lasted for a while, and then they were suddenly and unanimously moved to make a noise over their escape. "I knew from the first she would go." "Not a minute too soon." "A narrow squeak, b'gosh!" He said nothing, but the breeze that had dropped came back, a gentle draught freshened steadily, and the sea joined its murmuring voice to this talkative reaction succeeding the dumb moments of awe. She was gone! She was gone! Not a doubt of it. Nobody could have helped. They repeated the same words over and over again as though they couldn't stop themselves. Never doubted she would go. The lights were gone. No mistake. The lights were gone. Couldn't expect anything else. She had to go. . . . He noticed that they talked as though they had left behind them nothing but an empty ship. They concluded she would not have been long when she once started. It seemed to cause them some sort of satisfaction. They assured each other that she couldn't have been long about it--"Just shot down like a flat-iron." The chief engineer declared that the mast-head light at the moment of sinking seemed to drop "like a lighted match you throw down." At this the second laughed hysterically. "I am g-g-glad, I am gla-a-a-d." His teeth went on "like an electric rattle," said Jim, "and all at once he began to cry. He wept and blubbered like a child, catching his breath and sobbing 'Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!' He would be quiet for a while and start suddenly, 'Oh, my poor arm! oh, my poor a-a-a-arm!' I felt I could knock him down. Some of them sat in the stern-sheets. I could just make out their shapes. Voices came to me, mumble, mumble, grunt, grunt. All this seemed very hard to bear. I was cold too. And I could do nothing. I thought that if I moved I would have to go over the side and . . ." 'His hand groped stealthily, came in contact with a liqueur-glass, and was withdrawn suddenly as if it had touched a red-hot coal. I pushed the bottle slightly. "Won't you have some more?" I asked. He looked at me angrily. "Don't you think I can tell you what there is to tell without screwing myself up?" he asked. The squad of globe-trotters had gone to bed. We were alone but for a vague white form erect in the shadow, that, being looked at, cringed forward, hesitated, backed away silently. It was getting late, but I did not hurry my guest. 'In the midst of his forlorn state he heard his companions begin to abuse some one. "What kept you from jumping, you lunatic?" said a scolding voice. The chief engineer left the stern-sheets, and could be heard clambering forward as if with hostile intentions against "the greatest idiot that ever was." The skipper shouted with rasping effort offensive epithets from where he sat at the oar. He lifted his head at that uproar, and heard the name "George," while a hand in the dark struck him on the breast. "What have you got to say for yourself, you fool?" queried somebody, with a sort of virtuous fury. "They were after me," he said. "They were abusing me--abusing me . . . by the name of George." 'He paused to stare, tried to smile, turned his eyes away and went on. "That little second puts his head right under my nose, 'Why, it's that blasted mate!' 'What!' howls the skipper from the other end of the boat. 'No!' shrieks the chief. And he too stooped to look at my face." 'The wind had left the boat suddenly. The rain began to fall again, and the soft, uninterrupted, a little mysterious sound with which the sea receives a shower arose on all sides in the night. "They were too taken aback to say anything more at first," he narrated steadily, "and what could I have to say to them?" He faltered for a moment, and made an effort to go on. "They called me horrible names." His voice, sinking to a whisper, now and then would leap up suddenly, hardened by the passion of scorn, as though he had been talking of secret abominations. "Never mind what they called me," he said grimly. "I could hear hate in their voices. A good thing too. They could not forgive me for being in that boat. They hated it. It made them mad. . . ." He laughed short. . . . "But it kept me from--Look! I was sitting with my arms crossed, on the gunwale! . . ." He perched himself smartly on the edge of the table and crossed his arms. . . . "Like this--see? One little tilt backwards and I would have been gone--after the others. One little tilt--the least bit--the least bit." He frowned, and tapping his forehead with the tip of his middle finger, "It was there all the time," he said impressively. "All the time--that notion. And the rain--cold, thick, cold as melted snow--colder--on my thin cotton clothes--I'll never be so cold again in my life, I know. And the sky was black too--all black. Not a star, not a light anywhere. Nothing outside that confounded boat and those two yapping before me like a couple of mean mongrels at a tree'd thief. Yap! yap! 'What you doing here? You're a fine sort! Too much of a bloomin' gentleman to put your hand to it. Come out of your trance, did you? To sneak in? Did you?' Yap! yap! 'You ain't fit to live!' Yap! yap! Two of them together trying to out-bark each other. The other would bay from the stern through the rain--couldn't see him--couldn't make it out--some of his filthy jargon. Yap! yap! Bow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Yap! yap! It was sweet to hear them; it kept me alive, I tell you. It saved my life. At it they went, as if trying to drive me overboard with the noise! . . . 'I wonder you had pluck enough to jump. You ain't wanted here. If I had known who it was, I would have tipped you over--you skunk! What have you done with the other? Where did you get the pluck to jump--you coward? What's to prevent us three from firing you overboard?' . . . They were out of breath; the shower passed away upon the sea. Then nothing. There was nothing round the boat, not even a sound. Wanted to see me overboard, did they? Upon my soul! I think they would have had their wish if they had only kept quiet. Fire me overboard! Would they? 'Try,' I said. 'I would for twopence.' 'Too good for you,' they screeched together. It was so dark that it was only when one or the other of them moved that I was quite sure of seeing him. By heavens! I only wish they had tried." 'I couldn't help exclaiming, "What an extraordinary affair!" '"Not bad--eh?" he said, as if in some sort astounded. "They pretended to think I had done away with that donkey-man for some reason or other. Why should I? And how the devil was I to know? Didn't I get somehow into that boat? into that boat--I . . ." The muscles round his lips contracted into an unconscious grimace that tore through the mask of his usual expression--something violent, short-lived and illuminating like a twist of lightning that admits the eye for an instant into the secret convolutions of a cloud. "I did. I was plainly there with them--wasn't I? Isn't it awful a man should be driven to do a thing like that--and be responsible? What did I know about their George they were howling after? I remembered I had seen him curled up on the deck. 'Murdering coward!' the chief kept on calling me. He didn't seem able to remember any other two words. I didn't care, only his noise began to worry me. 'Shut up,' I said. At that he collected himself for a confounded screech. 'You killed him! You killed him!' 'No,' I shouted, 'but I will kill you directly.' I jumped up, and he fell backwards over a thwart with an awful loud thump. I don't know why. Too dark. Tried to step back I suppose. I stood still facing aft, and the wretched little second began to whine, 'You ain't going to hit a chap with a broken arm--and you call yourself a gentleman, too.' I heard a heavy tramp--one--two--and wheezy grunting. The other beast was coming at me, clattering his oar over the stern. I saw him moving, big, big--as you see a man in a mist, in a dream. 'Come on,' I cried. I would have tumbled him over like a bale of shakings. He stopped, muttered to himself, and went back. Perhaps he had heard the wind. I didn't. It was the last heavy gust we had. He went back to his oar. I was sorry. I would have tried to--to . . ." 'He opened and closed his curved fingers, and his hands had an eager and cruel flutter. "Steady, steady," I murmured. '"Eh? What? I am not excited," he remonstrated, awfully hurt, and with a convulsive jerk of his elbow knocked over the cognac bottle. I started forward, scraping my chair. He bounced off the table as if a mine had been exploded behind his back, and half turned before he alighted, crouching on his feet to show me a startled pair of eyes and a face white about the nostrils. A look of intense annoyance succeeded. "Awfully sorry. How clumsy of me!" he mumbled, very vexed, while the pungent odour of spilt alcohol enveloped us suddenly with an atmosphere of a low drinking-bout in the cool, pure darkness of the night. The lights had been put out in the dining-hall; our candle glimmered solitary in the long gallery, and the columns had turned black from pediment to capital. On the vivid stars the high corner of the Harbour Office stood out distinct across the Esplanade, as though the sombre pile had glided nearer to see and hear. 'He assumed an air of indifference. '"I dare say I am less calm now than I was then. I was ready for anything. These were trifles. . . ." '"You had a lively time of it in that boat," I remarked '"I was ready," he repeated. "After the ship's lights had gone, anything might have happened in that boat--anything in the world--and the world no wiser. I felt this, and I was pleased. It was just dark enough too. We were like men walled up quick in a roomy grave. No concern with anything on earth. Nobody to pass an opinion. Nothing mattered." For the third time during this conversation he laughed harshly, but there was no one about to suspect him of being only drunk. "No fear, no law, no sounds, no eyes--not even our own, till--till sunrise at least." 'I was struck by the suggestive truth of his words. There is something peculiar in a small boat upon the wide sea. Over the lives borne from under the shadow of death there seems to fall the shadow of madness. When your ship fails you, your whole world seems to fail you; the world that made you, restrained you, took care of you. It is as if the souls of men floating on an abyss and in touch with immensity had been set free for any excess of heroism, absurdity, or abomination. Of course, as with belief, thought, love, hate, conviction, or even the visual aspect of material things, there are as many shipwrecks as there are men, and in this one there was something abject which made the isolation more complete--there was a villainy of circumstances that cut these men off more completely from the rest of mankind, whose ideal of conduct had never undergone the trial of a fiendish and appalling joke. They were exasperated with him for being a half-hearted shirker: he focussed on them his hatred of the whole thing; he would have liked to take a signal revenge for the abhorrent opportunity they had put in his way. Trust a boat on the high seas to bring out the Irrational that lurks at the bottom of every thought, sentiment, sensation, emotion. It was part of the burlesque meanness pervading that particular disaster at sea that they did not come to blows. It was all threats, all a terribly effective feint, a sham from beginning to end, planned by the tremendous disdain of the Dark Powers whose real terrors, always on the verge of triumph, are perpetually foiled by the steadfastness of men. I asked, after waiting for a while, "Well, what happened?" A futile question. I knew too much already to hope for the grace of a single uplifting touch, for the favour of hinted madness, of shadowed horror. "Nothing," he said. "I meant business, but they meant noise only. Nothing happened." 'And the rising sun found him just as he had jumped up first in the bows of the boat. What a persistence of readiness! He had been holding the tiller in his hand, too, all the night. They had dropped the rudder overboard while attempting to ship it, and I suppose the tiller got kicked forward somehow while they were rushing up and down that boat trying to do all sorts of things at once so as to get clear of the side. It was a long heavy piece of hard wood, and apparently he had been clutching it for six hours or so. If you don't call that being ready! Can you imagine him, silent and on his feet half the night, his face to the gusts of rain, staring at sombre forms watchful of vague movements, straining his ears to catch rare low murmurs in the stern-sheets! Firmness of courage or effort of fear? What do you think? And the endurance is undeniable too. Six hours more or less on the defensive; six hours of alert immobility while the boat drove slowly or floated arrested, according to the caprice of the wind; while the sea, calmed, slept at last; while the clouds passed above his head; while the sky from an immensity lustreless and black, diminished to a sombre and lustrous vault, scintillated with a greater brilliance, faded to the east, paled at the zenith; while the dark shapes blotting the low stars astern got outlines, relief became shoulders, heads, faces, features,--confronted him with dreary stares, had dishevelled hair, torn clothes, blinked red eyelids at the white dawn. "They looked as though they had been knocking about drunk in gutters for a week," he described graphically; and then he muttered something about the sunrise being of a kind that foretells a calm day. You know that sailor habit of referring to the weather in every connection. And on my side his few mumbled words were enough to make me see the lower limb of the sun clearing the line of the horizon, the tremble of a vast ripple running over all the visible expanse of the sea, as if the waters had shuddered, giving birth to the globe of light, while the last puff of the breeze would stir the air in a sigh of relief. '"They sat in the stern shoulder to shoulder, with the skipper in the middle, like three dirty owls, and stared at me," I heard him say with an intention of hate that distilled a corrosive virtue into the commonplace words like a drop of powerful poison falling into a glass of water; but my thoughts dwelt upon that sunrise. I could imagine under the pellucid emptiness of the sky these four men imprisoned in the solitude of the sea, the lonely sun, regardless of the speck of life, ascending the clear curve of the heaven as if to gaze ardently from a greater height at his own splendour reflected in the still ocean. "They called out to me from aft," said Jim, "as though we had been chums together. I heard them. They were begging me to be sensible and drop that 'blooming piece of wood.' Why _would_ I carry on so? They hadn't done me any harm--had they? There had been no harm. . . . No harm!" 'His face crimsoned as though he could not get rid of the air in his lungs. '"No harm!" he burst out. "I leave it to you. You can understand. Can't you? You see it--don't you? No harm! Good God! What more could they have done? Oh yes, I know very well--I jumped. Certainly. I jumped! I told you I jumped; but I tell you they were too much for any man. It was their doing as plainly as if they had reached up with a boat-hook and pulled me over. Can't you see it? You must see it. Come. Speak--straight out." 'His uneasy eyes fastened upon mine, questioned, begged, challenged, entreated. For the life of me I couldn't help murmuring, "You've been tried." "More than is fair," he caught up swiftly. "I wasn't given half a chance--with a gang like that. And now they were friendly--oh, so damnably friendly! Chums, shipmates. All in the same boat. Make the best of it. They hadn't meant anything. They didn't care a hang for George. George had gone back to his berth for something at the last moment and got caught. The man was a manifest fool. Very sad, of course. . . . Their eyes looked at me; their lips moved; they wagged their heads at the other end of the boat--three of them; they beckoned--to me. Why not? Hadn't I jumped? I said nothing. There are no words for the sort of things I wanted to say. If I had opened my lips just then I would have simply howled like an animal. I was asking myself when I would wake up. They urged me aloud to come aft and hear quietly what the skipper had to say. We were sure to be picked up before the evening--right in the track of all the Canal traffic; there was smoke to the north-west now. '"It gave me an awful shock to see this faint, faint blur, this low trail of brown mist through which you could see the boundary of sea and sky. I called out to them that I could hear very well where I was. The skipper started swearing, as hoarse as a crow. He wasn't going to talk at the top of his voice for _my_ accommodation. 'Are you afraid they will hear you on shore?' I asked. He glared as if he would have liked to claw me to pieces. The chief engineer advised him to humour me. He said I wasn't right in my head yet. The other rose astern, like a thick pillar of flesh--and talked--talked. . . ." 'Jim remained thoughtful. "Well?" I said. "What did I care what story they agreed to make up?" he cried recklessly. "They could tell what they jolly well liked. It was their business. I knew the story. Nothing they could make people believe could alter it for me. I let him talk, argue--talk, argue. He went on and on and on. Suddenly I felt my legs give way under me. I was sick, tired--tired to death. I let fall the tiller, turned my back on them, and sat down on the foremost thwart. I had enough. They called to me to know if I understood--wasn't it true, every word of it? It was true, by God! after their fashion. I did not turn my head. I heard them palavering together. 'The silly ass won't say anything.' 'Oh, he understands well enough.' 'Let him be; he will be all right.' 'What can he do?' What could I do? Weren't we all in the same boat? I tried to be deaf. The smoke had disappeared to the northward. It was a dead calm. They had a drink from the water-breaker, and I drank too. Afterwards they made a great business of spreading the boat-sail over the gunwales. Would I keep a look-out? They crept under, out of my sight, thank God! I felt weary, weary, done up, as if I hadn't had one hour's sleep since the day I was born. I couldn't see the water for the glitter of the sunshine. From time to time one of them would creep out, stand up to take a look all round, and get under again. I could hear spells of snoring below the sail. Some of them could sleep. One of them at least. I couldn't! All was light, light, and the boat seemed to be falling through it. Now and then I would feel quite surprised to find myself sitting on a thwart. . . ." 'He began to walk with measured steps to and fro before my chair, one hand in his trousers-pocket, his head bent thoughtfully, and his right arm at long intervals raised for a gesture that seemed to put out of his way an invisible intruder. '"I suppose you think I was going mad," he began in a changed tone. "And well you may, if you remember I had lost my cap. The sun crept all the way from east to west over my bare head, but that day I could not come to any harm, I suppose. The sun could not make me mad. . . ." His right arm put aside the idea of madness. . . . "Neither could it kill me. . . ." Again his arm repulsed a shadow. . . . "_That_ rested with me." '"Did it?" I said, inexpressibly amazed at this new turn, and I looked at him with the same sort of feeling I might be fairly conceived to experience had he, after spinning round on his heel, presented an altogether new face. '"I didn't get brain fever, I did not drop dead either," he went on. "I didn't bother myself at all about the sun over my head. I was thinking as coolly as any man that ever sat thinking in the shade. That greasy beast of a skipper poked his big cropped head from under the canvas and screwed his fishy eyes up at me. 'Donnerwetter! you will die,' he growled, and drew in like a turtle. I had seen him. I had heard him. He didn't interrupt me. I was thinking just then that I wouldn't." 'He tried to sound my thought with an attentive glance dropped on me in passing. "Do you mean to say you had been deliberating with yourself whether you would die?" I asked in as impenetrable a tone as I could command. He nodded without stopping. "Yes, it had come to that as I sat there alone," he said. He passed on a few steps to the imaginary end of his beat, and when he flung round to come back both his hands were thrust deep into his pockets. He stopped short in front of my chair and looked down. "Don't you believe it?" he inquired with tense curiosity. I was moved to make a solemn declaration of my readiness to believe implicitly anything he thought fit to tell me.'

Chapter 10

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim18.asp

Lost in their own thoughts and fears, nobody in the lifeboat makes a sound or acknowledges Jim's presence. The skipper silently takes an oar and tries to steer the boat through the black night, but the sea is too rough and they are left to drift with the storm. Suddenly the engineer speaks out, declaring that he has seen the ship go down. Jim feels that he should jump from the lifeboat, swim to the sinking Patna, and rescue the eight hundred pilgrims. As dawn begins to lighten the sky, Jim sees a light on the Patna and realizes the ship has not sunk. He feels miserable. The others also see Jim for the first time. In the darkness of the night, they have thought that George had jumped into the boat; when they realize that Jim has joined them, they are outraged, for he is not one of them. They stare at him, making Jim feel like an intruder. They threaten to kill him, for he has been a witness to their cowardice. They believe that he will testify against them. In order to protect himself, Jim grabs a tiller and threatens the others with it. Jim is not glad to be alive; he is ashamed that he has jumped from the Patna. He even has thoughts of leaving the lifeboat and sits on its edge, as if tempting fate. The others in the lifeboat start talking normally, trying to rationalize their desertion. They also tell Jim that he is "one of them." Jim is enraged at their talk; he knows he can never be one of them. Unlike him, they planned their desertion; they chose to jump off the Patna. At times he has the urge to kill all of them and blames them for calling him into the lifeboat. He says, "It was their doing as plainly as if they had reached up with a boathook and pulled him over." Finally, the light from the Patna can no longer be seen. Jim and the other crew members believe that the ship has finally sunk. Jim is greatly relieved.

Notes Being in the lifeboat with the other crew is miserable for Jim. Although he is with them, he is not one of them. He feels he is better than they are, for he did not plan his desertion. In fact, he blames his jumping on them, for he heard them calling. It is also obvious that the others do not want Jim in the lifeboat with them and even threaten to kill him. Since he is not one of them, they fear he will testify against them and tell of their cowardice. Jim must defend himself with the tiller. Jim is horrified when he first sees the light on the Patna, which reveals that he has been lying to himself about wanting to save the pilgrims. He is also greatly relieved when he can no longer see the light from the Patna and incorrectly assumes that the boat has gone down. Jim has an urge to swim back to the ship. He would like to make certain that the ship is really gone and that his 800 possible accusers are dead; he would also like to escape from the horrible crew in the lifeboat. Being with them is almost worse than death itself. It is important to notice that Jim is still a dreamer in this chapter. Although he has jumped into a black hole, he still fools himself with unrealistic visions. He thinks about swimming back to the Patna, first to rescue the 800 pilgrims; later he thinks about swimming back to make certain that the ship has sunk and the pilgrims are all dead.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_23_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 24

chapter 24

{"name": "Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-24", "summary": "Two years later, Marlow goes to Patusan to visit Jim. He wants to offer Jim the trading post house on the island, as a gift from Stein. He arrives to find that Jim has become a local hero, and everyone there calls him Tuan Jim, or Lord Jim. When Jim gives Marlow a brief tour, we learn that when Jim first arrived, the natives of Patusan didn't exactly lay out the red carpet. He was taken to Rajah Allang, who promptly locked him up.", "analysis": ""}

'The coast of Patusan (I saw it nearly two years afterwards) is straight and sombre, and faces a misty ocean. Red trails are seen like cataracts of rust streaming under the dark-green foliage of bushes and creepers clothing the low cliffs. Swampy plains open out at the mouth of rivers, with a view of jagged blue peaks beyond the vast forests. In the offing a chain of islands, dark, crumbling shapes, stand out in the everlasting sunlit haze like the remnants of a wall breached by the sea. 'There is a village of fisher-folk at the mouth of the Batu Kring branch of the estuary. The river, which had been closed so long, was open then, and Stein's little schooner, in which I had my passage, worked her way up in three tides without being exposed to a fusillade from "irresponsive parties." Such a state of affairs belonged already to ancient history, if I could believe the elderly headman of the fishing village, who came on board to act as a sort of pilot. He talked to me (the second white man he had ever seen) with confidence, and most of his talk was about the first white man he had ever seen. He called him Tuan Jim, and the tone of his references was made remarkable by a strange mixture of familiarity and awe. They, in the village, were under that lord's special protection, which showed that Jim bore no grudge. If he had warned me that I would hear of him it was perfectly true. I was hearing of him. There was already a story that the tide had turned two hours before its time to help him on his journey up the river. The talkative old man himself had steered the canoe and had marvelled at the phenomenon. Moreover, all the glory was in his family. His son and his son-in-law had paddled; but they were only youths without experience, who did not notice the speed of the canoe till he pointed out to them the amazing fact. 'Jim's coming to that fishing village was a blessing; but to them, as to many of us, the blessing came heralded by terrors. So many generations had been released since the last white man had visited the river that the very tradition had been lost. The appearance of the being that descended upon them and demanded inflexibly to be taken up to Patusan was discomposing; his insistence was alarming; his generosity more than suspicious. It was an unheard-of request. There was no precedent. What would the Rajah say to this? What would he do to them? The best part of the night was spent in consultation; but the immediate risk from the anger of that strange man seemed so great that at last a cranky dug-out was got ready. The women shrieked with grief as it put off. A fearless old hag cursed the stranger. 'He sat in it, as I've told you, on his tin box, nursing the unloaded revolver on his lap. He sat with precaution--than which there is nothing more fatiguing--and thus entered the land he was destined to fill with the fame of his virtues, from the blue peaks inland to the white ribbon of surf on the coast. At the first bend he lost sight of the sea with its labouring waves for ever rising, sinking, and vanishing to rise again--the very image of struggling mankind--and faced the immovable forests rooted deep in the soil, soaring towards the sunshine, everlasting in the shadowy might of their tradition, like life itself. And his opportunity sat veiled by his side like an Eastern bride waiting to be uncovered by the hand of the master. He too was the heir of a shadowy and mighty tradition! He told me, however, that he had never in his life felt so depressed and tired as in that canoe. All the movement he dared to allow himself was to reach, as it were by stealth, after the shell of half a cocoa-nut floating between his shoes, and bale some of the water out with a carefully restrained action. He discovered how hard the lid of a block-tin case was to sit upon. He had heroic health; but several times during that journey he experienced fits of giddiness, and between whiles he speculated hazily as to the size of the blister the sun was raising on his back. For amusement he tried by looking ahead to decide whether the muddy object he saw lying on the water's edge was a log of wood or an alligator. Only very soon he had to give that up. No fun in it. Always alligator. One of them flopped into the river and all but capsized the canoe. But this excitement was over directly. Then in a long empty reach he was very grateful to a troop of monkeys who came right down on the bank and made an insulting hullabaloo on his passage. Such was the way in which he was approaching greatness as genuine as any man ever achieved. Principally, he longed for sunset; and meantime his three paddlers were preparing to put into execution their plan of delivering him up to the Rajah. '"I suppose I must have been stupid with fatigue, or perhaps I did doze off for a time," he said. The first thing he knew was his canoe coming to the bank. He became instantaneously aware of the forest having been left behind, of the first houses being visible higher up, of a stockade on his left, and of his boatmen leaping out together upon a low point of land and taking to their heels. Instinctively he leaped out after them. At first he thought himself deserted for some inconceivable reason, but he heard excited shouts, a gate swung open, and a lot of people poured out, making towards him. At the same time a boat full of armed men appeared on the river and came alongside his empty canoe, thus shutting off his retreat. '"I was too startled to be quite cool--don't you know? and if that revolver had been loaded I would have shot somebody--perhaps two, three bodies, and that would have been the end of me. But it wasn't. . . ." "Why not?" I asked. "Well, I couldn't fight the whole population, and I wasn't coming to them as if I were afraid of my life," he said, with just a faint hint of his stubborn sulkiness in the glance he gave me. I refrained from pointing out to him that they could not have known the chambers were actually empty. He had to satisfy himself in his own way. . . . "Anyhow it wasn't," he repeated good-humouredly, "and so I just stood still and asked them what was the matter. That seemed to strike them dumb. I saw some of these thieves going off with my box. That long-legged old scoundrel Kassim (I'll show him to you to-morrow) ran out fussing to me about the Rajah wanting to see me. I said, 'All right.' I too wanted to see the Rajah, and I simply walked in through the gate and--and--here I am." He laughed, and then with unexpected emphasis, "And do you know what's the best in it?" he asked. "I'll tell you. It's the knowledge that had I been wiped out it is this place that would have been the loser." 'He spoke thus to me before his house on that evening I've mentioned--after we had watched the moon float away above the chasm between the hills like an ascending spirit out of a grave; its sheen descended, cold and pale, like the ghost of dead sunlight. There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery. It is to our sunshine, which--say what you like--is all we have to live by, what the echo is to the sound: misleading and confusing whether the note be mocking or sad. It robs all forms of matter--which, after all, is our domain--of their substance, and gives a sinister reality to shadows alone. And the shadows were very real around us, but Jim by my side looked very stalwart, as though nothing--not even the occult power of moonlight--could rob him of his reality in my eyes. Perhaps, indeed, nothing could touch him since he had survived the assault of the dark powers. All was silent, all was still; even on the river the moonbeams slept as on a pool. It was the moment of high water, a moment of immobility that accentuated the utter isolation of this lost corner of the earth. The houses crowding along the wide shining sweep without ripple or glitter, stepping into the water in a line of jostling, vague, grey, silvery forms mingled with black masses of shadow, were like a spectral herd of shapeless creatures pressing forward to drink in a spectral and lifeless stream. Here and there a red gleam twinkled within the bamboo walls, warm, like a living spark, significant of human affections, of shelter, of repose. 'He confessed to me that he often watched these tiny warm gleams go out one by one, that he loved to see people go to sleep under his eyes, confident in the security of to-morrow. "Peaceful here, eh?" he asked. He was not eloquent, but there was a deep meaning in the words that followed. "Look at these houses; there's not one where I am not trusted. Jove! I told you I would hang on. Ask any man, woman, or child . . ." He paused. "Well, I am all right anyhow." 'I observed quickly that he had found that out in the end. I had been sure of it, I added. He shook his head. "Were you?" He pressed my arm lightly above the elbow. "Well, then--you were right." 'There was elation and pride, there was awe almost, in that low exclamation. "Jove!" he cried, "only think what it is to me." Again he pressed my arm. "And you asked me whether I thought of leaving. Good God! I! want to leave! Especially now after what you told me of Mr. Stein's . . . Leave! Why! That's what I was afraid of. It would have been--it would have been harder than dying. No--on my word. Don't laugh. I must feel--every day, every time I open my eyes--that I am trusted--that nobody has a right--don't you know? Leave! For where? What for? To get what?" 'I had told him (indeed it was the main object of my visit) that it was Stein's intention to present him at once with the house and the stock of trading goods, on certain easy conditions which would make the transaction perfectly regular and valid. He began to snort and plunge at first. "Confound your delicacy!" I shouted. "It isn't Stein at all. It's giving you what you had made for yourself. And in any case keep your remarks for McNeil--when you meet him in the other world. I hope it won't happen soon. . . ." He had to give in to my arguments, because all his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these things that made him master had made him a captive, too. He looked with an owner's eye at the peace of the evening, at the river, at the houses, at the everlasting life of the forests, at the life of the old mankind, at the secrets of the land, at the pride of his own heart; but it was they that possessed him and made him their own to the innermost thought, to the slightest stir of blood, to his last breath. 'It was something to be proud of. I, too, was proud--for him, if not so certain of the fabulous value of the bargain. It was wonderful. It was not so much of his fearlessness that I thought. It is strange how little account I took of it: as if it had been something too conventional to be at the root of the matter. No. I was more struck by the other gifts he had displayed. He had proved his grasp of the unfamiliar situation, his intellectual alertness in that field of thought. There was his readiness, too! Amazing. And all this had come to him in a manner like keen scent to a well-bred hound. He was not eloquent, but there was a dignity in this constitutional reticence, there was a high seriousness in his stammerings. He had still his old trick of stubborn blushing. Now and then, though, a word, a sentence, would escape him that showed how deeply, how solemnly, he felt about that work which had given him the certitude of rehabilitation. That is why he seemed to love the land and the people with a sort of fierce egoism, with a contemptuous tenderness.'

Chapter 24

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-24

Two years later, Marlow goes to Patusan to visit Jim. He wants to offer Jim the trading post house on the island, as a gift from Stein. He arrives to find that Jim has become a local hero, and everyone there calls him Tuan Jim, or Lord Jim. When Jim gives Marlow a brief tour, we learn that when Jim first arrived, the natives of Patusan didn't exactly lay out the red carpet. He was taken to Rajah Allang, who promptly locked him up.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/07.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_6_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 7

chapter 7

{"name": "Chapter 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-7", "summary": "At dinner with Marlow, Jim slowly starts to talk about everything that happened. Now we're talking. He tells Marlow about his shame and how hard everything has been for him with the trial. And then he tells us what we've really been dying to know: what happened in the moments after the collision aboard the Patna. Go on, Jimmy, we're all ears. After examining the ship, Jim, along with the rest of the crew, was totally convinced that the Patna was about to sink. Seizing a storyteller's opportunity, Marlow breaks in to let us know that the crew of the Patna was found floating in a lifeboat the day after the collision, shipless, and passengerless, too. The crew said the Patna had sunk. But the ship didn't sink after all. Nope, no matter what they say, this crew abandoned ship, and that is a Big Scandal. Huge. We go back to Jim, who describes the horror he was feeling, thinking that the ship was about to sink. We get it, Jimmy. It was awful. Standing there frozen, Jim is unable to warn any of the passengers about the impending doom. Jim's overactive imagination, Marlow tells us, fueled his panic.", "analysis": ""}

'An outward-bound mail-boat had come in that afternoon, and the big dining-room of the hotel was more than half full of people with a-hundred-pounds-round-the-world tickets in their pockets. There were married couples looking domesticated and bored with each other in the midst of their travels; there were small parties and large parties, and lone individuals dining solemnly or feasting boisterously, but all thinking, conversing, joking, or scowling as was their wont at home; and just as intelligently receptive of new impressions as their trunks upstairs. Henceforth they would be labelled as having passed through this and that place, and so would be their luggage. They would cherish this distinction of their persons, and preserve the gummed tickets on their portmanteaus as documentary evidence, as the only permanent trace of their improving enterprise. The dark-faced servants tripped without noise over the vast and polished floor; now and then a girl's laugh would be heard, as innocent and empty as her mind, or, in a sudden hush of crockery, a few words in an affected drawl from some wit embroidering for the benefit of a grinning tableful the last funny story of shipboard scandal. Two nomadic old maids, dressed up to kill, worked acrimoniously through the bill of fare, whispering to each other with faded lips, wooden-faced and bizarre, like two sumptuous scarecrows. A little wine opened Jim's heart and loosened his tongue. His appetite was good, too, I noticed. He seemed to have buried somewhere the opening episode of our acquaintance. It was like a thing of which there would be no more question in this world. And all the time I had before me these blue, boyish eyes looking straight into mine, this young face, these capable shoulders, the open bronzed forehead with a white line under the roots of clustering fair hair, this appearance appealing at sight to all my sympathies: this frank aspect, the artless smile, the youthful seriousness. He was of the right sort; he was one of us. He talked soberly, with a sort of composed unreserve, and with a quiet bearing that might have been the outcome of manly self-control, of impudence, of callousness, of a colossal unconsciousness, of a gigantic deception. Who can tell! From our tone we might have been discussing a third person, a football match, last year's weather. My mind floated in a sea of conjectures till the turn of the conversation enabled me, without being offensive, to remark that, upon the whole, this inquiry must have been pretty trying to him. He darted his arm across the tablecloth, and clutching my hand by the side of my plate, glared fixedly. I was startled. "It must be awfully hard," I stammered, confused by this display of speechless feeling. "It is--hell," he burst out in a muffled voice. 'This movement and these words caused two well-groomed male globe-trotters at a neighbouring table to look up in alarm from their iced pudding. I rose, and we passed into the front gallery for coffee and cigars. 'On little octagon tables candles burned in glass globes; clumps of stiff-leaved plants separated sets of cosy wicker chairs; and between the pairs of columns, whose reddish shafts caught in a long row the sheen from the tall windows, the night, glittering and sombre, seemed to hang like a splendid drapery. The riding lights of ships winked afar like setting stars, and the hills across the roadstead resembled rounded black masses of arrested thunder-clouds. '"I couldn't clear out," Jim began. "The skipper did--that's all very well for him. I couldn't, and I wouldn't. They all got out of it in one way or another, but it wouldn't do for me." 'I listened with concentrated attention, not daring to stir in my chair; I wanted to know--and to this day I don't know, I can only guess. He would be confident and depressed all in the same breath, as if some conviction of innate blamelessness had checked the truth writhing within him at every turn. He began by saying, in the tone in which a man would admit his inability to jump a twenty-foot wall, that he could never go home now; and this declaration recalled to my mind what Brierly had said, "that the old parson in Essex seemed to fancy his sailor son not a little." 'I can't tell you whether Jim knew he was especially "fancied," but the tone of his references to "my Dad" was calculated to give me a notion that the good old rural dean was about the finest man that ever had been worried by the cares of a large family since the beginning of the world. This, though never stated, was implied with an anxiety that there should be no mistake about it, which was really very true and charming, but added a poignant sense of lives far off to the other elements of the story. "He has seen it all in the home papers by this time," said Jim. "I can never face the poor old chap." I did not dare to lift my eyes at this till I heard him add, "I could never explain. He wouldn't understand." Then I looked up. He was smoking reflectively, and after a moment, rousing himself, began to talk again. He discovered at once a desire that I should not confound him with his partners in--in crime, let us call it. He was not one of them; he was altogether of another sort. I gave no sign of dissent. I had no intention, for the sake of barren truth, to rob him of the smallest particle of any saving grace that would come in his way. I didn't know how much of it he believed himself. I didn't know what he was playing up to--if he was playing up to anything at all--and I suspect he did not know either; for it is my belief no man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self-knowledge. I made no sound all the time he was wondering what he had better do after "that stupid inquiry was over." 'Apparently he shared Brierly's contemptuous opinion of these proceedings ordained by law. He would not know where to turn, he confessed, clearly thinking aloud rather than talking to me. Certificate gone, career broken, no money to get away, no work that he could obtain as far as he could see. At home he could perhaps get something; but it meant going to his people for help, and that he would not do. He saw nothing for it but ship before the mast--could get perhaps a quartermaster's billet in some steamer. Would do for a quartermaster. . . . "Do you think you would?" I asked pitilessly. He jumped up, and going to the stone balustrade looked out into the night. In a moment he was back, towering above my chair with his youthful face clouded yet by the pain of a conquered emotion. He had understood very well I did not doubt his ability to steer a ship. In a voice that quavered a bit he asked me why did I say that? I had been "no end kind" to him. I had not even laughed at him when--here he began to mumble--"that mistake, you know--made a confounded ass of myself." I broke in by saying rather warmly that for me such a mistake was not a matter to laugh at. He sat down and drank deliberately some coffee, emptying the small cup to the last drop. "That does not mean I admit for a moment the cap fitted," he declared distinctly. "No?" I said. "No," he affirmed with quiet decision. "Do you know what _you_ would have done? Do you? And you don't think yourself" . . . he gulped something . . . "you don't think yourself a--a--cur?" 'And with this--upon my honour!--he looked up at me inquisitively. It was a question it appears--a bona fide question! However, he didn't wait for an answer. Before I could recover he went on, with his eyes straight before him, as if reading off something written on the body of the night. "It is all in being ready. I wasn't; not--not then. I don't want to excuse myself; but I would like to explain--I would like somebody to understand--somebody--one person at least! You! Why not you?" 'It was solemn, and a little ridiculous too, as they always are, those struggles of an individual trying to save from the fire his idea of what his moral identity should be, this precious notion of a convention, only one of the rules of the game, nothing more, but all the same so terribly effective by its assumption of unlimited power over natural instincts, by the awful penalties of its failure. He began his story quietly enough. On board that Dale Line steamer that had picked up these four floating in a boat upon the discreet sunset glow of the sea, they had been after the first day looked askance upon. The fat skipper told some story, the others had been silent, and at first it had been accepted. You don't cross-examine poor castaways you had the good luck to save, if not from cruel death, then at least from cruel suffering. Afterwards, with time to think it over, it might have struck the officers of the Avondale that there was "something fishy" in the affair; but of course they would keep their doubts to themselves. They had picked up the captain, the mate, and two engineers of the steamer Patna sunk at sea, and that, very properly, was enough for them. I did not ask Jim about the nature of his feelings during the ten days he spent on board. From the way he narrated that part I was at liberty to infer he was partly stunned by the discovery he had made--the discovery about himself--and no doubt was at work trying to explain it away to the only man who was capable of appreciating all its tremendous magnitude. You must understand he did not try to minimise its importance. Of that I am sure; and therein lies his distinction. As to what sensations he experienced when he got ashore and heard the unforeseen conclusion of the tale in which he had taken such a pitiful part, he told me nothing of them, and it is difficult to imagine. 'I wonder whether he felt the ground cut from under his feet? I wonder? But no doubt he managed to get a fresh foothold very soon. He was ashore a whole fortnight waiting in the Sailors' Home, and as there were six or seven men staying there at the time, I had heard of him a little. Their languid opinion seemed to be that, in addition to his other shortcomings, he was a sulky brute. He had passed these days on the verandah, buried in a long chair, and coming out of his place of sepulture only at meal-times or late at night, when he wandered on the quays all by himself, detached from his surroundings, irresolute and silent, like a ghost without a home to haunt. "I don't think I've spoken three words to a living soul in all that time," he said, making me very sorry for him; and directly he added, "One of these fellows would have been sure to blurt out something I had made up my mind not to put up with, and I didn't want a row. No! Not then. I was too--too . . . I had no heart for it." "So that bulkhead held out after all," I remarked cheerfully. "Yes," he murmured, "it held. And yet I swear to you I felt it bulge under my hand." "It's extraordinary what strains old iron will stand sometimes," I said. Thrown back in his seat, his legs stiffly out and arms hanging down, he nodded slightly several times. You could not conceive a sadder spectacle. Suddenly he lifted his head; he sat up; he slapped his thigh. "Ah! what a chance missed! My God! what a chance missed!" he blazed out, but the ring of the last "missed" resembled a cry wrung out by pain. 'He was silent again with a still, far-away look of fierce yearning after that missed distinction, with his nostrils for an instant dilated, sniffing the intoxicating breath of that wasted opportunity. If you think I was either surprised or shocked you do me an injustice in more ways than one! Ah, he was an imaginative beggar! He would give himself away; he would give himself up. I could see in his glance darted into the night all his inner being carried on, projected headlong into the fanciful realm of recklessly heroic aspirations. He had no leisure to regret what he had lost, he was so wholly and naturally concerned for what he had failed to obtain. He was very far away from me who watched him across three feet of space. With every instant he was penetrating deeper into the impossible world of romantic achievements. He got to the heart of it at last! A strange look of beatitude overspread his features, his eyes sparkled in the light of the candle burning between us; he positively smiled! He had penetrated to the very heart--to the very heart. It was an ecstatic smile that your faces--or mine either--will never wear, my dear boys. I whisked him back by saying, "If you had stuck to the ship, you mean!" 'He turned upon me, his eyes suddenly amazed and full of pain, with a bewildered, startled, suffering face, as though he had tumbled down from a star. Neither you nor I will ever look like this on any man. He shuddered profoundly, as if a cold finger-tip had touched his heart. Last of all he sighed. 'I was not in a merciful mood. He provoked one by his contradictory indiscretions. "It is unfortunate you didn't know beforehand!" I said with every unkind intention; but the perfidious shaft fell harmless--dropped at his feet like a spent arrow, as it were, and he did not think of picking it up. Perhaps he had not even seen it. Presently, lolling at ease, he said, "Dash it all! I tell you it bulged. I was holding up my lamp along the angle-iron in the lower deck when a flake of rust as big as the palm of my hand fell off the plate, all of itself." He passed his hand over his forehead. "The thing stirred and jumped off like something alive while I was looking at it." "That made you feel pretty bad," I observed casually. "Do you suppose," he said, "that I was thinking of myself, with a hundred and sixty people at my back, all fast asleep in that fore-'tween-deck alone--and more of them aft; more on the deck--sleeping--knowing nothing about it--three times as many as there were boats for, even if there had been time? I expected to see the iron open out as I stood there and the rush of water going over them as they lay. . . . What could I do--what?" 'I can easily picture him to myself in the peopled gloom of the cavernous place, with the light of the globe-lamp falling on a small portion of the bulkhead that had the weight of the ocean on the other side, and the breathing of unconscious sleepers in his ears. I can see him glaring at the iron, startled by the falling rust, overburdened by the knowledge of an imminent death. This, I gathered, was the second time he had been sent forward by that skipper of his, who, I rather think, wanted to keep him away from the bridge. He told me that his first impulse was to shout and straightway make all those people leap out of sleep into terror; but such an overwhelming sense of his helplessness came over him that he was not able to produce a sound. This is, I suppose, what people mean by the tongue cleaving to the roof of the mouth. "Too dry," was the concise expression he used in reference to this state. Without a sound, then, he scrambled out on deck through the number one hatch. A windsail rigged down there swung against him accidentally, and he remembered that the light touch of the canvas on his face nearly knocked him off the hatchway ladder. 'He confessed that his knees wobbled a good deal as he stood on the foredeck looking at another sleeping crowd. The engines having been stopped by that time, the steam was blowing off. Its deep rumble made the whole night vibrate like a bass string. The ship trembled to it. 'He saw here and there a head lifted off a mat, a vague form uprise in sitting posture, listen sleepily for a moment, sink down again into the billowy confusion of boxes, steam-winches, ventilators. He was aware all these people did not know enough to take intelligent notice of that strange noise. The ship of iron, the men with white faces, all the sights, all the sounds, everything on board to that ignorant and pious multitude was strange alike, and as trustworthy as it would for ever remain incomprehensible. It occurred to him that the fact was fortunate. The idea of it was simply terrible. 'You must remember he believed, as any other man would have done in his place, that the ship would go down at any moment; the bulging, rust-eaten plates that kept back the ocean, fatally must give way, all at once like an undermined dam, and let in a sudden and overwhelming flood. He stood still looking at these recumbent bodies, a doomed man aware of his fate, surveying the silent company of the dead. They _were_ dead! Nothing could save them! There were boats enough for half of them perhaps, but there was no time. No time! No time! It did not seem worth while to open his lips, to stir hand or foot. Before he could shout three words, or make three steps, he would be floundering in a sea whitened awfully by the desperate struggles of human beings, clamorous with the distress of cries for help. There was no help. He imagined what would happen perfectly; he went through it all motionless by the hatchway with the lamp in his hand--he went through it to the very last harrowing detail. I think he went through it again while he was telling me these things he could not tell the court. '"I saw as clearly as I see you now that there was nothing I could do. It seemed to take all life out of my limbs. I thought I might just as well stand where I was and wait. I did not think I had many seconds. . . ." Suddenly the steam ceased blowing off. The noise, he remarked, had been distracting, but the silence at once became intolerably oppressive. '"I thought I would choke before I got drowned," he said. 'He protested he did not think of saving himself. The only distinct thought formed, vanishing, and re-forming in his brain, was: eight hundred people and seven boats; eight hundred people and seven boats. '"Somebody was speaking aloud inside my head," he said a little wildly. "Eight hundred people and seven boats--and no time! Just think of it." He leaned towards me across the little table, and I tried to avoid his stare. "Do you think I was afraid of death?" he asked in a voice very fierce and low. He brought down his open hand with a bang that made the coffee-cups dance. "I am ready to swear I was not--I was not. . . . By God--no!" He hitched himself upright and crossed his arms; his chin fell on his breast. 'The soft clashes of crockery reached us faintly through the high windows. There was a burst of voices, and several men came out in high good-humour into the gallery. They were exchanging jocular reminiscences of the donkeys in Cairo. A pale anxious youth stepping softly on long legs was being chaffed by a strutting and rubicund globe-trotter about his purchases in the bazaar. "No, really--do you think I've been done to that extent?" he inquired very earnest and deliberate. The band moved away, dropping into chairs as they went; matches flared, illuminating for a second faces without the ghost of an expression and the flat glaze of white shirt-fronts; the hum of many conversations animated with the ardour of feasting sounded to me absurd and infinitely remote. '"Some of the crew were sleeping on the number one hatch within reach of my arm," began Jim again. 'You must know they kept Kalashee watch in that ship, all hands sleeping through the night, and only the reliefs of quartermasters and look-out men being called. He was tempted to grip and shake the shoulder of the nearest lascar, but he didn't. Something held his arms down along his sides. He was not afraid--oh no! only he just couldn't--that's all. He was not afraid of death perhaps, but I'll tell you what, he was afraid of the emergency. His confounded imagination had evoked for him all the horrors of panic, the trampling rush, the pitiful screams, boats swamped--all the appalling incidents of a disaster at sea he had ever heard of. He might have been resigned to die but I suspect he wanted to die without added terrors, quietly, in a sort of peaceful trance. A certain readiness to perish is not so very rare, but it is seldom that you meet men whose souls, steeled in the impenetrable armour of resolution, are ready to fight a losing battle to the last; the desire of peace waxes stronger as hope declines, till at last it conquers the very desire of life. Which of us here has not observed this, or maybe experienced something of that feeling in his own person--this extreme weariness of emotions, the vanity of effort, the yearning for rest? Those striving with unreasonable forces know it well,--the shipwrecked castaways in boats, wanderers lost in a desert, men battling against the unthinking might of nature, or the stupid brutality of crowds.'

Chapter 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-7

At dinner with Marlow, Jim slowly starts to talk about everything that happened. Now we're talking. He tells Marlow about his shame and how hard everything has been for him with the trial. And then he tells us what we've really been dying to know: what happened in the moments after the collision aboard the Patna. Go on, Jimmy, we're all ears. After examining the ship, Jim, along with the rest of the crew, was totally convinced that the Patna was about to sink. Seizing a storyteller's opportunity, Marlow breaks in to let us know that the crew of the Patna was found floating in a lifeboat the day after the collision, shipless, and passengerless, too. The crew said the Patna had sunk. But the ship didn't sink after all. Nope, no matter what they say, this crew abandoned ship, and that is a Big Scandal. Huge. We go back to Jim, who describes the horror he was feeling, thinking that the ship was about to sink. We get it, Jimmy. It was awful. Standing there frozen, Jim is unable to warn any of the passengers about the impending doom. Jim's overactive imagination, Marlow tells us, fueled his panic.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Prince/section_13_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 13

chapter 13

{"name": "Chapter 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-13", "summary": "Remember what we said about mercenaries? Well, the same goes for auxiliary forces. Sure, Pope Julius II used them, and he was okay, but he was just lucky that the Swiss army came to bail him out. The problem is, even if you win, the auxiliary army might never leave and will just start occupying you--which is pretty easy since you were stupid enough not to have an army. Actually, auxiliaries are even worse than mercenaries, because auxiliaries always have the interests of their ruler in mind over yours and are probably just waiting to attack you. Dun dun dun. Machiavelli gives us a bunch of examples of guys who wised up and realized that mercenaries were a bum deal. In the end, you should just get your own army. Follow the example of those guys who kicked mercenaries to the curb, and you'll be golden.", "analysis": ""}

Auxiliaries, which are the other useless arm, are employed when a prince is called in with his forces to aid and defend, as was done by Pope Julius in the most recent times; for he, having, in the enterprise against Ferrara, had poor proof of his mercenaries, turned to auxiliaries, and stipulated with Ferdinand, King of Spain,(*) for his assistance with men and arms. These arms may be useful and good in themselves, but for him who calls them in they are always disadvantageous; for losing, one is undone, and winning, one is their captive. And although ancient histories may be full of examples, I do not wish to leave this recent one of Pope Julius the Second, the peril of which cannot fail to be perceived; for he, wishing to get Ferrara, threw himself entirely into the hands of the foreigner. But his good fortune brought about a third event, so that he did not reap the fruit of his rash choice; because, having his auxiliaries routed at Ravenna, and the Switzers having risen and driven out the conquerors (against all expectation, both his and others), it so came to pass that he did not become prisoner to his enemies, they having fled, nor to his auxiliaries, he having conquered by other arms than theirs. The Florentines, being entirely without arms, sent ten thousand Frenchmen to take Pisa, whereby they ran more danger than at any other time of their troubles. The Emperor of Constantinople,(*) to oppose his neighbours, sent ten thousand Turks into Greece, who, on the war being finished, were not willing to quit; this was the beginning of the servitude of Greece to the infidels. Therefore, let him who has no desire to conquer make use of these arms, for they are much more hazardous than mercenaries, because with them the ruin is ready made; they are all united, all yield obedience to others; but with mercenaries, when they have conquered, more time and better opportunities are needed to injure you; they are not all of one community, they are found and paid by you, and a third party, which you have made their head, is not able all at once to assume enough authority to injure you. In conclusion, in mercenaries dastardy is most dangerous; in auxiliaries, valour. The wise prince, therefore, has always avoided these arms and turned to his own; and has been willing rather to lose with them than to conquer with the others, not deeming that a real victory which is gained with the arms of others. I shall never hesitate to cite Cesare Borgia and his actions. This duke entered the Romagna with auxiliaries, taking there only French soldiers, and with them he captured Imola and Forli; but afterwards, such forces not appearing to him reliable, he turned to mercenaries, discerning less danger in them, and enlisted the Orsini and Vitelli; whom presently, on handling and finding them doubtful, unfaithful, and dangerous, he destroyed and turned to his own men. And the difference between one and the other of these forces can easily be seen when one considers the difference there was in the reputation of the duke, when he had the French, when he had the Orsini and Vitelli, and when he relied on his own soldiers, on whose fidelity he could always count and found it ever increasing; he was never esteemed more highly than when every one saw that he was complete master of his own forces. I was not intending to go beyond Italian and recent examples, but I am unwilling to leave out Hiero, the Syracusan, he being one of those I have named above. This man, as I have said, made head of the army by the Syracusans, soon found out that a mercenary soldiery, constituted like our Italian condottieri, was of no use; and it appearing to him that he could neither keep them not let them go, he had them all cut to pieces, and afterwards made war with his own forces and not with aliens. I wish also to recall to memory an instance from the Old Testament applicable to this subject. David offered himself to Saul to fight with Goliath, the Philistine champion, and, to give him courage, Saul armed him with his own weapons; which David rejected as soon as he had them on his back, saying he could make no use of them, and that he wished to meet the enemy with his sling and his knife. In conclusion, the arms of others either fall from your back, or they weigh you down, or they bind you fast. Charles the Seventh,(*) the father of King Louis the Eleventh,(+) having by good fortune and valour liberated France from the English, recognized the necessity of being armed with forces of his own, and he established in his kingdom ordinances concerning men-at-arms and infantry. Afterwards his son, King Louis, abolished the infantry and began to enlist the Switzers, which mistake, followed by others, is, as is now seen, a source of peril to that kingdom; because, having raised the reputation of the Switzers, he has entirely diminished the value of his own arms, for he has destroyed the infantry altogether; and his men-at-arms he has subordinated to others, for, being as they are so accustomed to fight along with Switzers, it does not appear that they can now conquer without them. Hence it arises that the French cannot stand against the Switzers, and without the Switzers they do not come off well against others. The armies of the French have thus become mixed, partly mercenary and partly national, both of which arms together are much better than mercenaries alone or auxiliaries alone, but much inferior to one's own forces. And this example proves it, for the kingdom of France would be unconquerable if the ordinance of Charles had been enlarged or maintained. But the scanty wisdom of man, on entering into an affair which looks well at first, cannot discern the poison that is hidden in it, as I have said above of hectic fevers. Therefore, if he who rules a principality cannot recognize evils until they are upon him, he is not truly wise; and this insight is given to few. And if the first disaster to the Roman Empire(*) should be examined, it will be found to have commenced only with the enlisting of the Goths; because from that time the vigour of the Roman Empire began to decline, and all that valour which had raised it passed away to others. (*) "Many speakers to the House the other night in the debate on the reduction of armaments seemed to show a most lamentable ignorance of the conditions under which the British Empire maintains its existence. When Mr Balfour replied to the allegations that the Roman Empire sank under the weight of its military obligations, he said that this was 'wholly unhistorical.' He might well have added that the Roman power was at its zenith when every citizen acknowledged his liability to fight for the State, but that it began to decline as soon as this obligation was no longer recognized."--Pall Mall Gazette, 15th May 1906. I conclude, therefore, that no principality is secure without having its own forces; on the contrary, it is entirely dependent on good fortune, not having the valour which in adversity would defend it. And it has always been the opinion and judgment of wise men that nothing can be so uncertain or unstable as fame or power not founded on its own strength. And one's own forces are those which are composed either of subjects, citizens, or dependents; all others are mercenaries or auxiliaries. And the way to make ready one's own forces will be easily found if the rules suggested by me shall be reflected upon, and if one will consider how Philip, the father of Alexander the Great, and many republics and princes have armed and organized themselves, to which rules I entirely commit myself.

Chapter 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-13

Remember what we said about mercenaries? Well, the same goes for auxiliary forces. Sure, Pope Julius II used them, and he was okay, but he was just lucky that the Swiss army came to bail him out. The problem is, even if you win, the auxiliary army might never leave and will just start occupying you--which is pretty easy since you were stupid enough not to have an army. Actually, auxiliaries are even worse than mercenaries, because auxiliaries always have the interests of their ruler in mind over yours and are probably just waiting to attack you. Dun dun dun. Machiavelli gives us a bunch of examples of guys who wised up and realized that mercenaries were a bum deal. In the end, you should just get your own army. Follow the example of those guys who kicked mercenaries to the curb, and you'll be golden.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/04.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_3_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 4

chapter 4

{"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapter-4", "summary": "Discussing Edward with Marianne, Elinor spoke more warmly of him than she thought prudent. Realizing that her mother and Marianne were apt to leap to conclusions, she tried to explain \"the real state of the case.\" She admitted that she was by no means sure of Edward's regard for her and pointed out that he was \"very far from independent.\" The fact was that Elinor really wasn't assured of Edward's feelings. At times he appeared quite distant and troubled, and led her to wonder whether his feelings towards her were not just friendly. But she attributed this coolness to pressures from his mother, which made life difficult for him at home and forbade a life outside of it which didn't coincide with her wishes. Fanny Dashwood, noticing an attachment forming between the two, took the first opportunity of talking to Mrs. Dashwood about Edward's \"great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars' resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in.\" Deeply offended by these insinuations, Mrs. Dashwood determined to leave Norland Park as soon as possible to spare Elinor from any possible pain. While in this state of mind, she received a letter from a distant relative, Sir John Middleton, \"a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire,\" who offered her a cottage on his estate. It was a warm and friendly offer, and she at once wrote an acceptance. Elinor considered the move a prudent one; the rent of the cottage was within their means, and although her true inclinations were not for a move, she felt it would be wise for them to live at some distance from Norland Park. So she agreed that her mother should send her \"letter of acquiescence\" immediately.", "analysis": "Austen's standards of behavior, reflected in her use of such terms as \"civility\" and \"taste,\" were more absolute than those of today. While the modern novelist sees life and literature in terms of individual experience, Austen presents all her characters in terms of their relation to a fixed code of values. Elinor, in this chapter, does not seem to assess Edward as an individual; she lists a number of qualities admired at the time: \". . . his mind is well informed, his enjoyment of books exceeding great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure.\" Therefore, it is proper that she should admire him. To the modern reader, Edward, living on his mother's money and with no profession, might seem to be a sponger and a waster. But in the reign of George III, young gentlemen with \"expectations\" did not work. If they took up a profession, it was usually for reasons of prestige. Some entered the Church, but more often for social reasons than for any deep interest in religion."}

"What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly." Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. "Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him--that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation-- "Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment." Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little--scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth. "And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!" Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship. But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to DRAW HIM IN; that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations. In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent. Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present acquaintance. On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending a letter of acquiescence.

Chapter 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapter-4

Discussing Edward with Marianne, Elinor spoke more warmly of him than she thought prudent. Realizing that her mother and Marianne were apt to leap to conclusions, she tried to explain "the real state of the case." She admitted that she was by no means sure of Edward's regard for her and pointed out that he was "very far from independent." The fact was that Elinor really wasn't assured of Edward's feelings. At times he appeared quite distant and troubled, and led her to wonder whether his feelings towards her were not just friendly. But she attributed this coolness to pressures from his mother, which made life difficult for him at home and forbade a life outside of it which didn't coincide with her wishes. Fanny Dashwood, noticing an attachment forming between the two, took the first opportunity of talking to Mrs. Dashwood about Edward's "great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars' resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in." Deeply offended by these insinuations, Mrs. Dashwood determined to leave Norland Park as soon as possible to spare Elinor from any possible pain. While in this state of mind, she received a letter from a distant relative, Sir John Middleton, "a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire," who offered her a cottage on his estate. It was a warm and friendly offer, and she at once wrote an acceptance. Elinor considered the move a prudent one; the rent of the cottage was within their means, and although her true inclinations were not for a move, she felt it would be wise for them to live at some distance from Norland Park. So she agreed that her mother should send her "letter of acquiescence" immediately.

Austen's standards of behavior, reflected in her use of such terms as "civility" and "taste," were more absolute than those of today. While the modern novelist sees life and literature in terms of individual experience, Austen presents all her characters in terms of their relation to a fixed code of values. Elinor, in this chapter, does not seem to assess Edward as an individual; she lists a number of qualities admired at the time: ". . . his mind is well informed, his enjoyment of books exceeding great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure." Therefore, it is proper that she should admire him. To the modern reader, Edward, living on his mother's money and with no profession, might seem to be a sponger and a waster. But in the reign of George III, young gentlemen with "expectations" did not work. If they took up a profession, it was usually for reasons of prestige. Some entered the Church, but more often for social reasons than for any deep interest in religion.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2166-chapters/chapters_13_to_14.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/King Solomon's Mines/section_7_part_0.txt

King Solomon's Mines.chapters 13-14

chapters 13-14

{"name": "Chapters 13 and 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200804024551/https://www.gradesaver.com/king-solomons-mines/study-guide/summary-chapters-13-and-14", "summary": "As the threefold forces of Twala approach their location, Good expresses a wish for a Gatling gun to mow them down. He then taunts Quatermain into taking a long shot at the apparent general of the middle forces, wagering a sovereign against Quatermain's success. Irked at this challenge to his marksmanship, Quatermain takes aim with his Winchester and fires on the Kukuana leader. He misses, but strikes the leader's orderly dead, frightening his target. Good delivers a backhanded compliment to Quatermain for frightening the general, so Quatermain takes up his rifle again and shoots the general. He realizes after the fact how strong his pride was in his marksmanship, since he took delight in the death of another human being upon his success. With two of their number being mysteriously struck down by the white magic, the middle forces pull back in disarray. Good and Sir Henry fire into the regiment as well, and all told the men take down from eight to ten of their enemies before they get out of range. Delighted to have routed Twala's men, they are surprised when they hear sounds of the left and right flanks attacking. Twala's men shout Twala! Twala! Chiele! Cheile! while Ignosi's army answers with Ignosi! Ignosi! Chiele! Chiele! Before long the first and second lines of defense are broken, leaving Ignosi's third line in the fray. Sir Henry, Good, Quatermain, and Ignosi himself join in direct combat. The fighting is furious, with Sir Henry especially making a name for himself on the battlefield with his battle-axe. Ignosi's right line of defense manage to drive Twala's attack back, but Twala's left flank brekas through and drives Ignosi's forces toward the center. Eventually Quatermain comes face-to-face with an enemy Kukuana, whom he dispatches, but then he is struck from behind and rendered unconscious. A short time later, Quatermain awakens to find Good kneeling over him. He has only been dazed by the attack. Good informs him that Twala's forces have been repulsed for the time being. Ignosi's men begin to take stock of their dead and wounded, with their witch -doctors doing triage to determine which men's wounds are fatal. Quatermain observes the witch doctor's surreptitiously euthanizing the mortally wounded men so that their deaths are painless; Quatermain admits that this that, although he finds this distasteful, it is probably the most humane thing that can be done at the time. Sir Henry, Ignosi, and Infadoos confer on their next strategy. Twala has decided to lay siege to Ignosi's camp to starve them out; this situation is made worse by the fact that their water has already run out. Infadoos asks Quatermain to give his counsel. Infadoos outlines three options: remain on the hill and starve to death, attempt to break through to the north, or attack Twala's forces head-on. Sir Henry has already counseled a direct attack. Quatermain mulls it over, and then concludes that the direct assault is the best option. Though he thinks it a doomed effort, he believes an immediate charge on Twala's forces will help them take advantage of Twala's wounded forces, and will provide less time for the forces of Ignosi to become disheartened and change sides. Ignosi considers his counselors' words, and then declares his intention to attack Twala that same day. He proposes a strategy whereby Infadoos and Sir Henry take a body of men directly toward Twala's forces, down the hill between two arms of the crescent-shaped formation. Twala's forces will become occupied with this attack, but will also be more vulnerable as they can only approach the enemy in small numbers. While this fighting ensues, Captain Good will take a third of the men behind the right horn of the crescent, while Ignosi and Quatermain will take the remaining third behind the left horn. At the optimal moment, both sides will strike and Ignosi will head directly for Twala, to kill him and end this civil war immediately. Although the plan means likely death for Ignosi, Sir Henry, and their men, they face it with stoicism and bravery. Sir Henry declares that although he does not expect to survive, at least It will be \"a man's death!\" Quatermain, ever the pessimist, has misgivings but does not voice them in the interest of maintaining morale. The army of Ignosi separates into the assigned regiments, one on each flank of the curved bluff, and two--the eminent Greys and their backup, the Buffaloes, heading down the center. Infadoos commands the Greys; as they wait for the moment of battle, he keeps their morale up by emphasizing the honor of their service to Ignosi and the importance of their probably mortal office. Quatermain, taking his place with Ignosi among the Buffaloes, cannot help but contrast their stalwart bravery with his own mounting anxiety. Infadoos ends his exhortation by indicating Ignosi as their rightful ruler; he is met with the honor-bearing beating of the soldiers' spears upon their shields. Following this grand homage, the Greys make three lines and march toward the center of the crescent to draw Twala's forces in for the finishing assault. As the Buffaloes follow the Greys, Quatermain ponders the Greys' suicidal loyalty. He attempts to assuage his fears by reminding himself of an account wherein three Romans held a bridge against thousands, but it is little use--he knows the Greys, and probably most of the Buffaloes as well, are destined to die this day. The Greys await the approach of Twala's forces at the opening in the crescent bluff. When Twala's army gets within charging distance, the Greys rush into them and attack. They repulse Twala's army at first, but it costs them a third of their forces. As they await Twala's second wave, Quatermain is relieved to see the blonde head of Sir Henry among the Greys, still alive despite the bloodshed. Meanwhile, Ignosi gives the order that none of Twala's wounded are to be killed, an act of kindness that mostly goes unseen in the throes of battle. Twala's forces again advance, and the Greys still hold the line. This time, however, the battle lasts longer with the outcome in doubt. The Greys manage to yet again drive back Twala's forces, but are left with less than a third of their original number alive. Twala's forces regroup and advance, but at this moment Ignosi gives his battle cry and heads into the fray, making straight for Twala. Twala, meanwhile, has sought out Sir Henry, to kill him as the white man killed his own son. Twala drives Sir Henry to his knees with a crushing blow, but suddenly the fresh regiments from either side of the crescent arrive to entrap Twala's forces The battle is bloody and fierce, but the forces of Ignosi are victorious. However, Ignosi is unable to face Twala in direct combat before the enemy leader escapes back to his city. En route to Loo, Quatermain and the others espy Captain Good sitting atop an ant-heap near the body of one of Twala's Kukuana soldiers. Before anyone can cry out, the seemingly dead Kukuana arises and strikes Good, knocking him to the ground. The enemy warrior then strikes repeatedly at Good with his spear, apparently killing the white man, before running off to join his own army. When Quatermain and the others reach Good, he is working his way back to his feet, eyeglass still in place. He credits the chain mail armor he is wearing with saving his life from the Kukuana's vicious spear-thrusts. When his forces reach Loo, Ignosi promises the inhabitants full pardon to any warrior who lays down his arms. The city surrenders to Ignosi and the gates are opened. Ignosi and his retinue head to the central enclosure, where Twala sits brooding, alone save for Gagool. Twala acknowledges Ignosi's victory and recognizes Ignosi's right to kill him as Twala killed Ignosi's father, but he asks a royal boon--his death shall be trial by combat. Ignosi hesitantly agrees, but reminds Twala that the king is forbidden to enter into single combat by law. Twala has his eyes on another target--he wishes to battle Sir Henry to the death. Although Quatermain and others attempt to dissuade him, Sir Henry readily agrees to battle Twala. The two men fight viciously, with no one gaining the upper hand, but then Twala is able to knock Sir Henry's battle-axe from his hands. Sir Henry draws his tolla to attempt a stab at Twala, but is unable to penetrate the Kukuana's armor. Twala and Sir Henry struggle over Twala's axe, with Sir Henry managing at the last instant to pull it from Twala's grasp. Even as Twala draws his own tolla and stabs at Sir Henry , Sir Henry swings the axe and decapitates Twala on the spot. Quatermain removes the diamond crown from Twala's head and gives it to Ignosi, proclaiming him \"lawful King of the Kukuanas.\" There is a victory celebration and songs of epic proportions as the night falls.", "analysis": "Quatermain reveals more of his character in the incident of the long-range shooting. His rivalry with Captain Good has remained below the surface since the \"lucky\" shot at the giraffe, but Quatermain has made it clear to the reader that he sees Good as his inferior in matters of firearms. This internal rivalry drives Quatermain to thoughtlessly take the life of another human being in order to prove his superiority--an act which Quatermain immediately regrets: \"This time I had made no mistake; and--I say it as proof of how little we think of others when our own pride or reputation are in question--I was brute enough to feel delighted at the sight\" . This moment of human sympathies rounds out Quatermain's character, giving us a glimpse of a very real man who lives a life of bloodshed, but not by choice or out of sadistic pleasure. To get this moment of insight into Quatermain just prior to the bloodiest incident in the novel serves to make the battle not merely an exercise in heroism, but a sorrowful necessity when evil men oppose those who are in the right. The Greys are introduced more fully here. They are the eldest and most able of the Kukuana warriors. That they have sided with Ignosi is a sign to other Kukuanas that Ignosi is the rightful king; their presence in Ignosi's army will also serve to put fear into the hearts of those loyal to Twala. They are brave men, but also doomed ; their position in the battle is to hold a small pass against innumerable enemies for as long as possible--meaning until they are all dead. Quatermain also demonstrates his ability to think strategically, despite his fatalism. When asked his thoughts on their attack strategy, given their dire circumstances, he tells Ignosi: \"Being trapped, our best chance, especially in view of the failure of our water supply, was to initiate an attack upon Twala's forces, and then I recommended that the attack should be delivered at once\" . Ignosi considers and heeds his words, and Quatermain notes that \"among the Kukuanas my utterances met with a respect which has never been accorded to them before or since\" . Clearly, despite his self-deprecation as a coward and his pessimism, Quatermain has a brave heart ready to follow the dictates of wise combat over self-preservation. Meanwhile, Ignosi proves to be a brilliant strategist; he seeks counsel from those with differing experiences from himself, then settled on a plan which has the greatest chance of success. A born leader, he does not hesitate to place his men or himself in great peril for the greater good. His insistence that Quatermain accompany his part in the maneuvers is interesting; Haggard does not make it clear whether Ignosi includes Quatermain there because he does not fully trust the man, because he wants Quatermain to see Ignosi's military prowess, or because Quatermain really can best serve here, if only in his capacity as a natural survivor. The reader is again treated to echoes of The Iliad as Infadoos encourages the soldiers through oratory just prior to their battle. The virtues of giving one's life for a worthy cause are extolled, while the likelihood of death in battle is not ignored. An African bent is given to Infadoos' exortation, as the history of service to the rightful king is recounted to give the Kukuanas a sense of their place in history. The single combat between Twala and Sir Henry again parallels The Iliad's confrontation between Hector and Achilles. Although he has threatened Twala directly in battle, Ignosi is not free to enter into single combat with Twala once the fighting ends. The conflict has become ceremonial, a last choice on the part of the clearly defeated Twala, but is nonetheless significant as it is Twala's search for vengeance against the murderer of his son. That the others seek to dissuade Sir Henry from entering combat with Twala shows how fearful an opponent the deposed Kukuana king is; that Sir Henry enters into the battle anyway shows both his courage and his pride. Quatermain is shown to be human, still, in his confession at his own anxiety in contrast to the others' courage. He is not a soldier or warrior--he is a hunter, trader, and sometime adventurer who did not sign up to fight in a foreign king's war. Nonetheless, Quatermain supports Ignosi despite his fears, and will show that support through service unto death if necessary. For all his protestations of cowardice, Quatermain is indeed a brave man, and Quatermain's self-assessment of cowardice may in fact be Haggard's clever way of pointing out the follies of bloodshed and violent ideals of \"manliness.\" Quatermain has already stated how he regrets having killed a man merely to defend his pride; now Sir Henry engages in a fight he is not guaranteed to win in order to do the same. Through Quatermain, Haggard seems to be suggesting that the motives of even good men may not always be as selfless and honorable as we would like. While Sir Henry is clearly the heroic champion in this incident, the fact remains that it is wounded pride that goads him into accepting Twala's challenge. Much is made of the chainmail armor worn by the white men. Twala's gift to them upon their arrival has proven his undoing. Good is saved from a mortal wound by the chainmail, and Sir Henry's armor deflects Twala's last desperate strike. The irony is clear: Twala's gifts come from a civilization older than and superior to the Kukuanas; it is these gifts which aid the next civilization in destroying Twala's version of Kukuanaland. The dominance of the white culture is symbolized in Quatermain's act of taking the crown from Twala and placing it upon Ignosi's brow--Ignosi is the rightful king, but in part this is because he is recognized as such by a European power."}

Slowly, and without the slightest appearance of haste or excitement, the three columns crept on. When within about five hundred yards of us, the main or centre column halted at the root of a tongue of open plain which ran up into the hill, to give time to the other divisions to circumvent our position, which was shaped more or less in the form of a horse-shoe, with its two points facing towards the town of Loo. The object of this manoeuvre was that the threefold assault should be delivered simultaneously. "Oh, for a gatling!" groaned Good, as he contemplated the serried phalanxes beneath us. "I would clear that plain in twenty minutes." "We have not got one, so it is no use yearning for it; but suppose you try a shot, Quatermain," said Sir Henry. "See how near you can go to that tall fellow who appears to be in command. Two to one you miss him, and an even sovereign, to be honestly paid if ever we get out of this, that you don't drop the bullet within five yards." This piqued me, so, loading the express with solid ball, I waited till my friend walked some ten yards out from his force, in order to get a better view of our position, accompanied only by an orderly; then, lying down and resting the express on a rock, I covered him. The rifle, like all expresses, was only sighted to three hundred and fifty yards, so to allow for the drop in trajectory I took him half-way down the neck, which ought, I calculated, to find him in the chest. He stood quite still and gave me every opportunity, but whether it was the excitement or the wind, or the fact of the man being a long shot, I don't know, but this was what happened. Getting dead on, as I thought, a fine sight, I pressed, and when the puff of smoke had cleared away, to my disgust, I saw my man standing there unharmed, whilst his orderly, who was at least three paces to the left, was stretched upon the ground apparently dead. Turning swiftly, the officer I had aimed at began to run towards his men in evident alarm. "Bravo, Quatermain!" sang out Good; "you've frightened him." This made me very angry, for, if possible to avoid it, I hate to miss in public. When a man is master of only one art he likes to keep up his reputation in that art. Moved quite out of myself at my failure, I did a rash thing. Rapidly covering the general as he ran, I let drive with the second barrel. Instantly the poor man threw up his arms, and fell forward on to his face. This time I had made no mistake; and--I say it as a proof of how little we think of others when our own safety, pride, or reputation is in question--I was brute enough to feel delighted at the sight. The regiments who had seen the feat cheered wildly at this exhibition of the white man's magic, which they took as an omen of success, while the force the general had belonged to--which, indeed, as we ascertained afterwards, he had commanded--fell back in confusion. Sir Henry and Good now took up their rifles and began to fire, the latter industriously "browning" the dense mass before him with another Winchester repeater, and I also had another shot or two, with the result, so far as we could judge, that we put some six or eight men _hors de combat_ before they were out of range. Just as we stopped firing there came an ominous roar from our far right, then a similar roar rose on our left. The two other divisions were engaging us. At the sound, the mass of men before us opened out a little, and advanced towards the hill and up the spit of bare grass land at a slow trot, singing a deep-throated song as they ran. We kept up a steady fire from our rifles as they came, Ignosi joining in occasionally, and accounted for several men, but of course we produced no more effect upon that mighty rush of armed humanity than he who throws pebbles does on the breaking wave. On they came, with a shout and the clashing of spears; now they were driving in the pickets we had placed among the rocks at the foot of the hill. After that the advance was a little slower, for though as yet we had offered no serious opposition, the attacking forces must climb up hill, and they came slowly to save their breath. Our first line of defence was about half-way down the side of the slope, our second fifty yards further back, while our third occupied the edge of the plateau. On they stormed, shouting their war-cry, "_Twala! Twala! Chiele! Chiele!_" (Twala! Twala! Smite! Smite!) "_Ignosi! Ignosi! Chiele! Chiele!_" answered our people. They were quite close now, and the _tollas_, or throwing-knives, began to flash backwards and forwards, and now with an awful yell the battle closed in. To and fro swayed the mass of struggling warriors, men falling fast as leaves in an autumn wind; but before long the superior weight of the attacking force began to tell, and our first line of defence was slowly pressed back till it merged into the second. Here the struggle was very fierce, but again our people were driven back and up, till at length, within twenty minutes of the commencement of the fight, our third line came into action. But by this time the assailants were much exhausted, and besides had lost many men killed and wounded, and to break through that third impenetrable hedge of spears proved beyond their powers. For a while the seething lines of savages swung backwards and forwards, in the fierce ebb and flow of battle, and the issue was doubtful. Sir Henry watched the desperate struggle with a kindling eye, and then without a word he rushed off, followed by Good, and flung himself into the hottest of the fray. As for myself, I stopped where I was. The soldiers caught sight of his tall form as he plunged into battle, and there rose a cry of-- "_Nanzia Incubu! Nanzia Unkungunklovo!_" (Here is the Elephant!) "_Chiele! Chiele!_" From that moment the end was no longer in doubt. Inch by inch, fighting with splendid gallantry, the attacking force was pressed back down the hillside, till at last it retreated upon its reserves in something like confusion. At that instant, too, a messenger arrived to say that the left attack had been repulsed; and I was just beginning to congratulate myself, believing that the affair was over for the present, when, to our horror, we perceived our men who had been engaged in the right defence being driven towards us across the plain, followed by swarms of the enemy, who had evidently succeeded at this point. Ignosi, who was standing by me, took in the situation at a glance, and issued a rapid order. Instantly the reserve regiment around us, the Greys, extended itself. Again Ignosi gave a word of command, which was taken up and repeated by the captains, and in another second, to my intense disgust, I found myself involved in a furious onslaught upon the advancing foe. Getting as much as I could behind Ignosi's huge frame, I made the best of a bad job, and toddled along to be killed as though I liked it. In a minute or two--we were plunging through the flying groups of our men, who at once began to re-form behind us, and then I am sure I do not know what happened. All I can remember is a dreadful rolling noise of the meeting of shields, and the sudden apparition of a huge ruffian, whose eyes seemed literally to be starting out of his head, making straight at me with a bloody spear. But--I say it with pride--I rose--or rather sank--to the occasion. It was one before which most people would have collapsed once and for all. Seeing that if I stood where I was I must be killed, as the horrid apparition came I flung myself down in front of him so cleverly that, being unable to stop himself, he took a header right over my prostrate form. Before he could rise again, _I_ had risen and settled the matter from behind with my revolver. Shortly after this somebody knocked me down, and I remember no more of that charge. When I came to I found myself back at the koppie, with Good bending over me holding some water in a gourd. "How do you feel, old fellow?" he asked anxiously. I got up and shook myself before replying. "Pretty well, thank you," I answered. "Thank Heaven! When I saw them carry you in, I felt quite sick; I thought you were done for." "Not this time, my boy. I fancy I only got a rap on the head, which knocked me stupid. How has it ended?" "They are repulsed at every point for a while. The loss is dreadfully heavy; we have quite two thousand killed and wounded, and they must have lost three. Look, there's a sight!" and he pointed to long lines of men advancing by fours. In the centre of every group of four, and being borne by it, was a kind of hide tray, of which a Kukuana force always carries a quantity, with a loop for a handle at each corner. On these trays--and their number seemed endless--lay wounded men, who as they arrived were hastily examined by the medicine men, of whom ten were attached to a regiment. If the wound was not of a fatal character the sufferer was taken away and attended to as carefully as circumstances would allow. But if, on the other hand, the injured man's condition proved hopeless, what followed was very dreadful, though doubtless it may have been the truest mercy. One of the doctors, under pretence of carrying out an examination, swiftly opened an artery with a sharp knife, and in a minute or two the sufferer expired painlessly. There were many cases that day in which this was done. In fact, it was done in the majority of cases when the wound was in the body, for the gash made by the entry of the enormously broad spears used by the Kukuanas generally rendered recovery impossible. In most instances the poor sufferers were already unconscious, and in others the fatal "nick" of the artery was inflicted so swiftly and painlessly that they did not seem to notice it. Still it was a ghastly sight, and one from which we were glad to escape; indeed, I never remember anything of the kind that affected me more than seeing those gallant soldiers thus put out of pain by the red-handed medicine men, except, indeed, on one occasion when, after an attack, I saw a force of Swazis burying their hopelessly wounded _alive_. Hurrying from this dreadful scene to the further side of the koppie, we found Sir Henry, who still held a battle-axe in his hand, Ignosi, Infadoos, and one or two of the chiefs in deep consultation. "Thank Heaven, here you are, Quatermain! I can't quite make out what Ignosi wants to do. It seems that though we have beaten off the attack, Twala is now receiving large reinforcements, and is showing a disposition to invest us, with the view of starving us out." "That's awkward." "Yes; especially as Infadoos says that the water supply has given out." "My lord, that is so," said Infadoos; "the spring cannot supply the wants of so great a multitude, and it is failing rapidly. Before night we shall all be thirsty. Listen, Macumazahn. Thou art wise, and hast doubtless seen many wars in the lands from whence thou camest--that is if indeed they make wars in the Stars. Now tell us, what shall we do? Twala has brought up many fresh men to take the place of those who have fallen. Yet Twala has learnt his lesson; the hawk did not think to find the heron ready; but our beak has pierced his breast; he fears to strike at us again. We too are wounded, and he will wait for us to die; he will wind himself round us like a snake round a buck, and fight the fight of 'sit down.'" "I hear thee," I said. "So, Macumazahn, thou seest we have no water here, and but a little food, and we must choose between these three things--to languish like a starving lion in his den, or to strive to break away towards the north, or"--and here he rose and pointed towards the dense mass of our foes--"to launch ourselves straight at Twala's throat. Incubu, the great warrior--for to-day he fought like a buffalo in a net, and Twala's soldiers went down before his axe like young corn before the hail; with these eyes I saw it--Incubu says 'Charge'; but the Elephant is ever prone to charge. Now what says Macumazahn, the wily old fox, who has seen much, and loves to bite his enemy from behind? The last word is in Ignosi the king, for it is a king's right to speak of war; but let us hear thy voice, O Macumazahn, who watchest by night, and the voice too of him of the transparent eye." "What sayest thou, Ignosi," I asked. "Nay, my father," answered our quondam servant, who now, clad as he was in the full panoply of savage war, looked every inch a warrior king, "do thou speak, and let me, who am but a child in wisdom beside thee, hearken to thy words." Thus adjured, after taking hasty counsel with Good and Sir Henry, I delivered my opinion briefly to the effect that, being trapped, our best chance, especially in view of the failure of our water supply, was to initiate an attack upon Twala's forces. Then I recommended that the attack should be delivered at once, "before our wounds grew stiff," and also before the sight of Twala's overpowering force caused the hearts of our soldiers "to wax small like fat before a fire." Otherwise, I pointed out, some of the captains might change their minds, and, making peace with Twala, desert to him, or even betray us into his hands. This expression of opinion seemed, on the whole, to be favourably received; indeed, among the Kukuanas my utterances met with a respect which has never been accorded to them before or since. But the real decision as to our plans lay with Ignosi, who, since he had been recognised as rightful king, could exercise the almost unbounded rights of sovereignty, including, of course, the final decision on matters of generalship, and it was to him that all eyes were now turned. At length, after a pause, during which he appeared to be thinking deeply, he spoke. "Incubu, Macumazahn, and Bougwan, brave white men, and my friends; Infadoos, my uncle, and chiefs; my heart is fixed. I will strike at Twala this day, and set my fortunes on the blow, ay, and my life--my life and your lives also. Listen; thus will I strike. Ye see how the hill curves round like the half-moon, and how the plain runs like a green tongue towards us within the curve?" "We see," I answered. "Good; it is now mid-day, and the men eat and rest after the toil of battle. When the sun has turned and travelled a little way towards the darkness, let thy regiment, my uncle, advance with one other down to the green tongue, and it shall be that when Twala sees it he will hurl his force at it to crush it. But the spot is narrow, and the regiments can come against thee one at a time only; so may they be destroyed one by one, and the eyes of all Twala's army shall be fixed upon a struggle the like of which has not been seen by living man. And with thee, my uncle, shall go Incubu my friend, that when Twala sees his battle-axe flashing in the first rank of the Greys his heart may grow faint. And I will come with the second regiment, that which follows thee, so that if ye are destroyed, as it might happen, there may yet be a king left to fight for; and with me shall come Macumazahn the wise." "It is well, O king," said Infadoos, apparently contemplating the certainty of the complete annihilation of his regiment with perfect calmness. Truly, these Kukuanas are a wonderful people. Death has no terrors for them when it is incurred in the course of duty. "And whilst the eyes of the multitude of Twala's soldiers are thus fixed upon the fight," went on Ignosi, "behold, one-third of the men who are left alive to us (i.e. about 6,000) shall creep along the right horn of the hill and fall upon the left flank of Twala's force, and one-third shall creep along the left horn and fall upon Twala's right flank. And when I see that the horns are ready to toss Twala, then will I, with the men who remain to me, charge home in Twala's face, and if fortune goes with us the day will be ours, and before Night drives her black oxen from the mountains to the mountains we shall sit in peace at Loo. And now let us eat and make ready; and, Infadoos, do thou prepare, that the plan be carried out without fail; and stay, let my white father Bougwan go with the right horn, that his shining eye may give courage to the captains." The arrangements for attack thus briefly indicated were set in motion with a rapidity that spoke well for the perfection of the Kukuana military system. Within little more than an hour rations had been served out and devoured, the divisions were formed, the scheme of onslaught was explained to the leaders, and the whole force, numbering about 18,000 men, was ready to move, with the exception of a guard left in charge of the wounded. Presently Good came up to Sir Henry and myself. "Good-bye, you fellows," he said; "I am off with the right wing according to orders; and so I have come to shake hands, in case we should not meet again, you know," he added significantly. We shook hands in silence, and not without the exhibition of as much emotion as Anglo-Saxons are wont to show. "It is a queer business," said Sir Henry, his deep voice shaking a little, "and I confess I never expect to see to-morrow's sun. So far as I can make out, the Greys, with whom I am to go, are to fight until they are wiped out in order to enable the wings to slip round unawares and outflank Twala. Well, so be it; at any rate, it will be a man's death. Good-bye, old fellow. God bless you! I hope you will pull through and live to collar the diamonds; but if you do, take my advice and don't have anything more to do with Pretenders!" In another second Good had wrung us both by the hand and gone; and then Infadoos came up and led off Sir Henry to his place in the forefront of the Greys, whilst, with many misgivings, I departed with Ignosi to my station in the second attacking regiment. In a few more minutes the regiments destined to carry out the flanking movements had tramped off in silence, keeping carefully to the lee of the rising ground in order to conceal their advance from the keen eyes of Twala's scouts. Half an hour or more was allowed to elapse between the setting out of the horns or wings of the army before any stir was made by the Greys and their supporting regiment, known as the Buffaloes, which formed its chest, and were destined to bear the brunt of the battle. Both of these regiments were almost perfectly fresh, and of full strength, the Greys having been in reserve in the morning, and having lost but a small number of men in sweeping back that part of the attack which had proved successful in breaking the line of defence, on the occasion when I charged with them and was stunned for my pains. As for the Buffaloes, they had formed the third line of defence on the left, and since the attacking force at that point had not succeeded in breaking through the second, they had scarcely come into action at all. Infadoos, who was a wary old general, and knew the absolute importance of keeping up the spirits of his men on the eve of such a desperate encounter, employed the pause in addressing his own regiment, the Greys, in poetical language: explaining to them the honour that they were receiving in being put thus in the forefront of the battle, and in having the great white warrior from the Stars to fight with them in their ranks; and promising large rewards of cattle and promotion to all who survived in the event of Ignosi's arms being successful. I looked down the long lines of waving black plumes and stern faces beneath them, and sighed to think that within one short hour most, if not all, of those magnificent veteran warriors, not a man of whom was under forty years of age, would be laid dead or dying in the dust. It could not be otherwise; they were being condemned, with that wise recklessness of human life which marks the great general, and often saves his forces and attains his ends, to certain slaughter, in order to give their cause and the remainder of the army a chance of success. They were foredoomed to die, and they knew the truth. It was to be their task to engage regiment after regiment of Twala's army on the narrow strip of green beneath us, till they were exterminated or till the wings found a favourable opportunity for their onslaught. And yet they never hesitated, nor could I detect a sign of fear upon the face of a single warrior. There they were--going to certain death, about to quit the blessed light of day for ever, and yet able to contemplate their doom without a tremor. Even at that moment I could not help contrasting their state of mind with my own, which was far from comfortable, and breathing a sigh of envy and admiration. Never before had I seen such an absolute devotion to the idea of duty, and such a complete indifference to its bitter fruits. "Behold your king!" ended old Infadoos, pointing to Ignosi; "go fight and fall for him, as is the duty of brave men, and cursed and shameful for ever be the name of him who shrinks from death for his king, or who turns his back to the foe. Behold your king, chiefs, captains, and soldiers! Now do your homage to the sacred Snake, and then follow on, that Incubu and I may show you a road to the heart of Twala's host." There was a moment's pause, then suddenly a murmur arose from the serried phalanxes before us, a sound like the distant whisper of the sea, caused by the gentle tapping of the handles of six thousand spears against their holders' shields. Slowly it swelled, till its growing volume deepened and widened into a roar of rolling noise, that echoed like thunder against the mountains, and filled the air with heavy waves of sound. Then it decreased, and by faint degrees died away into nothing, and suddenly out crashed the royal salute. Ignosi, I thought to myself, might well be a proud man that day, for no Roman emperor ever had such a salutation from gladiators "about to die." Ignosi acknowledged this magnificent act of homage by lifting his battle-axe, and then the Greys filed off in a triple-line formation, each line containing about one thousand fighting men, exclusive of officers. When the last companies had advanced some five hundred yards, Ignosi put himself at the head of the Buffaloes, which regiment was drawn up in a similar three-fold formation, and gave the word to march, and off we went, I, needless to say, uttering the most heartfelt prayers that I might emerge from that entertainment with a whole skin. Many a queer position have I found myself in, but never before in one quite so unpleasant as the present, or one in which my chance of coming off safe was smaller. By the time that we reached the edge of the plateau the Greys were already half-way down the slope ending in the tongue of grass land that ran up into the bend of the mountain, something as the frog of a horse's foot runs up into the shoe. The excitement in Twala's camp on the plain beyond was very great, and regiment after regiment was starting forward at a long swinging trot in order to reach the root of the tongue of land before the attacking force could emerge into the plain of Loo. This tongue, which was some four hundred yards in depth, even at its root or widest part was not more than six hundred and fifty paces across, while at its tip it scarcely measured ninety. The Greys, who, in passing down the side of the hill and on to the tip of the tongue, had formed into a column, on reaching the spot where it broadened out again, reassumed their triple-line formation, and halted dead. Then we--that is, the Buffaloes--moved down the tip of the tongue and took our stand in reserve, about one hundred yards behind the last line of the Greys, and on slightly higher ground. Meanwhile we had leisure to observe Twala's entire force, which evidently had been reinforced since the morning attack, and could not now, notwithstanding their losses, number less than forty thousand, moving swiftly up towards us. But as they drew near the root of the tongue they hesitated, having discovered that only one regiment could advance into the gorge at a time, and that there, some seventy yards from the mouth of it, unassailable except in front, on account of the high walls of boulder-strewn ground on each side, stood the famous regiment of Greys, the pride and glory of the Kukuana army, ready to hold the way against their power as the three Romans once held the bridge against thousands. They hesitated, and finally stopped their advance; there was no eagerness to cross spears with these three grim ranks of warriors who stood so firm and ready. Presently, however, a tall general, wearing the customary head-dress of nodding ostrich plumes, appeared, attended by a group of chiefs and orderlies, being, I thought, none other than Twala himself. He gave an order, and the first regiment, raising a shout, charged up towards the Greys, who remained perfectly still and silent till the attacking troops were within forty yards, and a volley of _tollas_, or throwing-knives, came rattling among their ranks. Then suddenly with a bound and a roar, they sprang forward with uplifted spears, and the regiment met in deadly strife. Next second the roll of the meeting shields came to our ears like the sound of thunder, and the plain seemed to be alive with flashes of light reflected from the shimmering spears. To and fro swung the surging mass of struggling, stabbing humanity, but not for long. Suddenly the attacking lines began to grow thinner, and then with a slow, long heave the Greys passed over them, just as a great wave heaves up its bulk and passes over a sunken ridge. It was done; that regiment was completely destroyed, but the Greys had but two lines left now; a third of their number were dead. Closing up shoulder to shoulder, once more they halted in silence and awaited attack; and I was rejoiced to catch sight of Sir Henry's yellow beard as he moved to and fro arranging the ranks. So he was yet alive! Meanwhile we moved on to the ground of the encounter, which was cumbered by about four thousand prostrate human beings, dead, dying, and wounded, and literally stained red with blood. Ignosi issued an order, which was rapidly passed down the ranks, to the effect that none of the enemy's wounded were to be killed, and so far as we could see this command was scrupulously carried out. It would have been a shocking sight, if we had found time to think of such things. But now a second regiment, distinguished by white plumes, kilts, and shields, was moving to the attack of the two thousand remaining Greys, who stood waiting in the same ominous silence as before, till the foe was within forty yards or so, when they hurled themselves with irresistible force upon them. Again there came the awful roll of the meeting shields, and as we watched the tragedy repeated itself. But this time the issue was left longer in doubt; indeed, it seemed for awhile almost impossible that the Greys should again prevail. The attacking regiment, which was formed of young men, fought with the utmost fury, and at first seemed by sheer weight to be driving the veterans back. The slaughter was truly awful, hundreds falling every minute; and from among the shouts of the warriors and the groans of the dying, set to the music of clashing spears, came a continuous hissing undertone of "_S'gee, s'gee_," the note of triumph of each victor as he passed his assegai through and through the body of his fallen foe. But perfect discipline and steady and unchanging valour can do wonders, and one veteran soldier is worth two young ones, as soon became apparent in the present case. For just when we thought that it was all over with the Greys, and were preparing to take their place so soon as they made room by being destroyed, I heard Sir Henry's deep voice ringing out through the din, and caught a glimpse of his circling battle-axe as he waved it high above his plumes. Then came a change; the Greys ceased to give; they stood still as a rock, against which the furious waves of spearmen broke again and again, only to recoil. Presently they began to move once more--forward this time; as they had no firearms there was no smoke, so we could see it all. Another minute and the onslaught grew fainter. "Ah, these are _men_, indeed; they will conquer again," called out Ignosi, who was grinding his teeth with excitement at my side. "See, it is done!" Suddenly, like puffs of smoke from the mouth of a cannon, the attacking regiment broke away in flying groups, their white head-dresses streaming behind them in the wind, and left their opponents victors, indeed, but, alas! no more a regiment. Of the gallant triple line, which forty minutes before had gone into action three thousand strong, there remained at most some six hundred blood-spattered men; the rest were under foot. And yet they cheered and waved their spears in triumph, and then, instead of falling back upon us as we expected, they ran forward, for a hundred yards or so, after the flying groups of foemen, took possession of a rising knoll of ground, and, resuming their triple formation, formed a threefold ring around its base. And there, thanks be to Heaven, standing on the top of the mound for a minute, I saw Sir Henry, apparently unharmed, and with him our old friend Infadoos. Then Twala's regiments rolled down upon the doomed band, and once more the battle closed in. As those who read this history will probably long ago have gathered, I am, to be honest, a bit of a coward, and certainly in no way given to fighting, though somehow it has often been my lot to get into unpleasant positions, and to be obliged to shed man's blood. But I have always hated it, and kept my own blood as undiminished in quantity as possible, sometimes by a judicious use of my heels. At this moment, however, for the first time in my life, I felt my bosom burn with martial ardour. Warlike fragments from the "Ingoldsby Legends," together with numbers of sanguinary verses in the Old Testament, sprang up in my brain like mushrooms in the dark; my blood, which hitherto had been half-frozen with horror, went beating through my veins, and there came upon me a savage desire to kill and spare not. I glanced round at the serried ranks of warriors behind us, and somehow, all in an instant, I began to wonder if my face looked like theirs. There they stood, the hands twitching, the lips apart, the fierce features instinct with the hungry lust of battle, and in the eyes a look like the glare of a bloodhound when after long pursuit he sights his quarry. Only Ignosi's heart, to judge from his comparative self-possession, seemed, to all appearances, to beat as calmly as ever beneath his leopard-skin cloak, though even _he_ still ground his teeth. I could bear it no longer. "Are we to stand here till we put out roots, Umbopa--Ignosi, I mean--while Twala swallows our brothers yonder?" I asked. "Nay, Macumazahn," was the answer; "see, now is the ripe moment: let us pluck it." As he spoke a fresh regiment rushed past the ring upon the little mound, and wheeling round, attacked it from the hither side. Then, lifting his battle-axe, Ignosi gave the signal to advance, and, screaming the wild Kukuana war-cry, the Buffaloes charged home with a rush like the rush of the sea. What followed immediately on this it is out of my power to tell. All I can remember is an irregular yet ordered advance, that seemed to shake the ground; a sudden change of front and forming up on the part of the regiment against which the charge was directed; then an awful shock, a dull roar of voices, and a continuous flashing of spears, seen through a red mist of blood. When my mind cleared I found myself standing inside the remnant of the Greys near the top of the mound, and just behind no less a person than Sir Henry himself. How I got there I had at the moment no idea, but Sir Henry afterwards told me that I was borne up by the first furious charge of the Buffaloes almost to his feet, and then left, as they in turn were pressed back. Thereon he dashed out of the circle and dragged me into shelter. As for the fight that followed, who can describe it? Again and again the multitudes surged against our momentarily lessening circle, and again and again we beat them back. "The stubborn spearmen still made good The dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood The instant that he fell," as someone or other beautifully says. It was a splendid thing to see those brave battalions come on time after time over the barriers of their dead, sometimes lifting corpses before them to receive our spear-thrusts, only to leave their own corpses to swell the rising piles. It was a gallant sight to see that old warrior, Infadoos, as cool as though he were on parade, shouting out orders, taunts, and even jests, to keep up the spirit of his few remaining men, and then, as each charge rolled on, stepping forward to wherever the fighting was thickest, to bear his share in its repulse. And yet more gallant was the vision of Sir Henry, whose ostrich plumes had been shorn off by a spear thrust, so that his long yellow hair streamed out in the breeze behind him. There he stood, the great Dane, for he was nothing else, his hands, his axe, and his armour all red with blood, and none could live before his stroke. Time after time I saw it sweeping down, as some great warrior ventured to give him battle, and as he struck he shouted "_O-hoy! O-hoy!_" like his Berserkir forefathers, and the blow went crashing through shield and spear, through head-dress, hair, and skull, till at last none would of their own will come near the great white "_umtagati_," the wizard, who killed and failed not. But suddenly there rose a cry of "_Twala, y' Twala_," and out of the press sprang forward none other than the gigantic one-eyed king himself, also armed with battle-axe and shield, and clad in chain armour. "Where art thou, Incubu, thou white man, who slewest Scragga my son--see if thou canst slay me!" he shouted, and at the same time hurled a _tolla_ straight at Sir Henry, who fortunately saw it coming, and caught it on his shield, which it transfixed, remaining wedged in the iron plate behind the hide. Then, with a cry, Twala sprang forward straight at him, and with his battle-axe struck him such a blow upon the shield that the mere force and shock of it brought Sir Henry, strong man as he is, down upon his knees. But at this time the matter went no further, for that instant there rose from the regiments pressing round us something like a shout of dismay, and on looking up I saw the cause. To the right and to the left the plain was alive with the plumes of charging warriors. The outflanking squadrons had come to our relief. The time could not have been better chosen. All Twala's army, as Ignosi predicted would be the case, had fixed their attention on the bloody struggle which was raging round the remnant of the Greys and that of the Buffaloes, who were now carrying on a battle of their own at a little distance, which two regiments had formed the chest of our army. It was not until our horns were about to close upon them that they had dreamed of their approach, for they believed these forces to be hidden in reserve upon the crest of the moon-shaped hill. And now, before they could even assume a proper formation for defence, the outflanking _Impis_ had leapt, like greyhounds, on their flanks. In five minutes the fate of the battle was decided. Taken on both flanks, and dismayed at the awful slaughter inflicted upon them by the Greys and Buffaloes, Twala's regiments broke into flight, and soon the whole plain between us and Loo was scattered with groups of running soldiers making good their retreat. As for the hosts that had so recently surrounded us and the Buffaloes, they melted away as though by magic, and presently we were left standing there like a rock from which the sea has retreated. But what a sight it was! Around us the dead and dying lay in heaped-up masses, and of the gallant Greys there remained but ninety-five men upon their feet. More than three thousand four hundred had fallen in this one regiment, most of them never to rise again. "Men," said Infadoos calmly, as between the intervals of binding a wound on his arm he surveyed what remained to him of his corps, "ye have kept up the reputation of your regiment, and this day's fighting will be well spoken of by your children's children." Then he turned round and shook Sir Henry Curtis by the hand. "Thou art a great captain, Incubu," he said simply; "I have lived a long life among warriors, and have known many a brave one, yet have I never seen a man like unto thee." At this moment the Buffaloes began to march past our position on the road to Loo, and as they went a message was brought to us from Ignosi requesting Infadoos, Sir Henry, and myself to join them. Accordingly, orders having been issued to the remaining ninety men of the Greys to employ themselves in collecting the wounded, we joined Ignosi, who informed us that he was pressing on to Loo to complete the victory by capturing Twala, if that should be possible. Before we had gone far, suddenly we discovered the figure of Good sitting on an ant-heap about one hundred paces from us. Close beside him was the body of a Kukuana. "He must be wounded," said Sir Henry anxiously. As he made the remark, an untoward thing happened. The dead body of the Kukuana soldier, or rather what had appeared to be his dead body, suddenly sprang up, knocked Good head over heels off the ant-heap, and began to spear him. We rushed forward in terror, and as we drew near we saw the brawny warrior making dig after dig at the prostrate Good, who at each prod jerked all his limbs into the air. Seeing us coming, the Kukuana gave one final and most vicious dig, and with a shout of "Take that, wizard!" bolted away. Good did not move, and we concluded that our poor comrade was done for. Sadly we came towards him, and were astonished to find him pale and faint indeed, but with a serene smile upon his face, and his eyeglass still fixed in his eye. "Capital armour this," he murmured, on catching sight of our faces bending over him. "How sold that beggar must have been," and then he fainted. On examination we discovered that he had been seriously wounded in the leg by a _tolla_ in the course of the pursuit, but that the chain armour had prevented his last assailant's spear from doing anything more than bruise him badly. It was a merciful escape. As nothing could be done for him at the moment, he was placed on one of the wicker shields used for the wounded, and carried along with us. On arriving before the nearest gate of Loo we found one of our regiments watching it in obedience to orders received from Ignosi. The other regiments were in the same way guarding the different exits to the town. The officer in command of this regiment saluted Ignosi as king, and informed him that Twala's army had taken refuge in the town, whither Twala himself had also escaped, but he thought that they were thoroughly demoralised, and would surrender. Thereupon Ignosi, after taking counsel with us, sent forward heralds to each gate ordering the defenders to open, and promising on his royal word life and forgiveness to every soldier who laid down his arms, but saying that if they did not do so before nightfall he would certainly burn the town and all within its gates. This message was not without its effect. Half an hour later, amid the shouts and cheers of the Buffaloes, the bridge was dropped across the fosse, and the gates upon the further side were flung open. Taking due precautions against treachery, we marched on into the town. All along the roadways stood thousands of dejected warriors, their heads drooping, and their shields and spears at their feet, who, headed by their officers, saluted Ignosi as king as he passed. On we marched, straight to Twala's kraal. When we reached the great space, where a day or two previously we had seen the review and the witch hunt, we found it deserted. No, not quite deserted, for there, on the further side, in front of his hut, sat Twala himself, with but one attendant--Gagool. It was a melancholy sight to see him seated, his battle-axe and shield by his side, his chin upon his mailed breast, with but one old crone for companion, and notwithstanding his crimes and misdeeds, a pang of compassion shot through me as I looked upon Twala thus "fallen from his high estate." Not a soldier of all his armies, not a courtier out of the hundreds who had cringed round him, not even a solitary wife, remained to share his fate or halve the bitterness of his fall. Poor savage! he was learning the lesson which Fate teaches to most of us who live long enough, that the eyes of mankind are blind to the discredited, and that he who is defenceless and fallen finds few friends and little mercy. Nor, indeed, in this case did he deserve any. Filing through the kraal gate, we marched across the open space to where the ex-king sat. When within about fifty yards of him the regiment was halted, and accompanied only by a small guard we advanced towards him, Gagool reviling us bitterly as we came. As we drew near, Twala, for the first time, lifted his plumed head, and fixed his one eye, which seemed to flash with suppressed fury almost as brightly as the great diamond bound round his forehead, upon his successful rival--Ignosi. "Hail, O king!" he said, with bitter mockery; "thou who hast eaten of my bread, and now by the aid of the white man's magic hast seduced my regiments and defeated mine army, hail! What fate hast thou in store for me, O king?" "The fate thou gavest to my father, whose throne thou hast sat on these many years!" was the stern answer. "It is good. I will show thee how to die, that thou mayest remember it against thine own time. See, the sun sinks in blood," and he pointed with his battle-axe towards the setting orb; "it is well that my sun should go down in its company. And now, O king! I am ready to die, but I crave the boon of the Kukuana royal House[1] to die fighting. Thou canst not refuse it, or even those cowards who fled to-day will hold thee shamed." "It is granted. Choose--with whom wilt thou fight? Myself I cannot fight with thee, for the king fights not except in war." Twala's sombre eye ran up and down our ranks, and I felt, as for a moment it rested on myself, that the position had developed a new horror. What if he chose to begin by fighting _me_? What chance should I have against a desperate savage six feet five high, and broad in proportion? I might as well commit suicide at once. Hastily I made up my mind to decline the combat, even if I were hooted out of Kukuanaland as a consequence. It is, I think, better to be hooted than to be quartered with a battle-axe. Presently Twala spoke. "Incubu, what sayest thou, shall we end what we began to-day, or shall I call thee coward, white--even to the liver?" "Nay," interposed Ignosi hastily; "thou shalt not fight with Incubu." "Not if he is afraid," said Twala. Unfortunately Sir Henry understood this remark, and the blood flamed up into his cheeks. "I will fight him," he said; "he shall see if I am afraid." "For Heaven's sake," I entreated, "don't risk your life against that of a desperate man. Anybody who saw you to-day will know that you are brave enough." "I will fight him," was the sullen answer. "No living man shall call me a coward. I am ready now!" and he stepped forward and lifted his axe. I wrung my hands over this absurd piece of Quixotism; but if he was determined on this deed, of course I could not stop him. "Fight not, my white brother," said Ignosi, laying his hand affectionately on Sir Henry's arm; "thou hast fought enough, and if aught befell thee at his hands it would cut my heart in twain." "I will fight, Ignosi," was Sir Henry's answer. "It is well, Incubu; thou art a brave man. It will be a good fray. Behold, Twala, the Elephant is ready for thee." The ex-king laughed savagely, and stepping forward faced Curtis. For a moment they stood thus, and the light of the sinking sun caught their stalwart frames and clothed them both in fire. They were a well-matched pair. Then they began to circle round each other, their battle-axes raised. Suddenly Sir Henry sprang forward and struck a fearful blow at Twala, who stepped to one side. So heavy was the stroke that the striker half overbalanced himself, a circumstance of which his antagonist took a prompt advantage. Circling his massive battle-axe round his head, he brought it down with tremendous force. My heart jumped into my mouth; I thought that the affair was already finished. But no; with a quick upward movement of the left arm Sir Henry interposed his shield between himself and the axe, with the result that its outer edge was shorn away, the axe falling on his left shoulder, but not heavily enough to do any serious damage. In another moment Sir Henry got in a second blow, which was also received by Twala upon his shield. Then followed blow upon blow, that were, in turn, either received upon the shields or avoided. The excitement grew intense; the regiment which was watching the encounter forgot its discipline, and, drawing near, shouted and groaned at every stroke. Just at this time, too, Good, who had been laid upon the ground by me, recovered from his faint, and, sitting up, perceived what was going on. In an instant he was up, and catching hold of my arm, hopped about from place to place on one leg, dragging me after him, and yelling encouragements to Sir Henry-- "Go it, old fellow!" he hallooed. "That was a good one! Give it him amidships," and so on. Presently Sir Henry, having caught a fresh stroke upon his shield, hit out with all his force. The blow cut through Twala's shield and through the tough chain armour behind it, gashing him in the shoulder. With a yell of pain and fury Twala returned the blow with interest, and, such was his strength, shore right through the rhinoceros' horn handle of his antagonists battle-axe, strengthened as it was with bands of steel, wounding Curtis in the face. A cry of dismay rose from the Buffaloes as our hero's broad axe-head fell to the ground; and Twala, again raising his weapon, flew at him with a shout. I shut my eyes. When I opened them again it was to see Sir Henry's shield lying on the ground, and Sir Henry himself with his great arms twined round Twala's middle. To and fro they swung, hugging each other like bears, straining with all their mighty muscles for dear life, and dearer honour. With a supreme effort Twala swung the Englishman clean off his feet, and down they came together, rolling over and over on the lime paving, Twala striking out at Curtis' head with the battle-axe, and Sir Henry trying to drive the _tolla_ he had drawn from his belt through Twala's armour. It was a mighty struggle, and an awful thing to see. "Get his axe!" yelled Good; and perhaps our champion heard him. At any rate, dropping the _tolla_, he snatched at the axe, which was fastened to Twala's wrist by a strip of buffalo hide, and still rolling over and over, they fought for it like wild cats, drawing their breath in heavy gasps. Suddenly the hide string burst, and then, with a great effort, Sir Henry freed himself, the weapon remaining in his hand. Another second and he was upon his feet, the red blood streaming from the wound in his face, and so was Twala. Drawing the heavy _tolla_ from his belt, he reeled straight at Curtis and struck him in the breast. The stab came home true and strong, but whoever it was who made that chain armour, he understood his art, for it withstood the steel. Again Twala struck out with a savage yell, and again the sharp knife rebounded, and Sir Henry went staggering back. Once more Twala came on, and as he came our great Englishman gathered himself together, and swinging the big axe round his head with both hands, hit at him with all his force. There was a shriek of excitement from a thousand throats, and, behold! Twala's head seemed to spring from his shoulders: then it fell and came rolling and bounding along the ground towards Ignosi, stopping just at his feet. For a second the corpse stood upright; then with a dull crash it came to the earth, and the gold torque from its neck rolled away across the pavement. As it did so Sir Henry, overpowered by faintness and loss of blood, fell heavily across the body of the dead king. In a second he was lifted up, and eager hands were pouring water on his face. Another minute, and the grey eyes opened wide. He was not dead. Then I, just as the sun sank, stepping to where Twala's head lay in the dust, unloosed the diamond from the dead brows, and handed it to Ignosi. "Take it," I said, "lawful king of the Kukuanas--king by birth and victory." Ignosi bound the diadem upon his brows. Then advancing, he placed his foot upon the broad chest of his headless foe and broke out into a chant, or rather a paean of triumph, so beautiful, and yet so utterly savage, that I despair of being able to give an adequate version of his words. Once I heard a scholar with a fine voice read aloud from the Greek poet Homer, and I remember that the sound of the rolling lines seemed to make my blood stand still. Ignosi's chant, uttered as it was in a language as beautiful and sonorous as the old Greek, produced exactly the same effect on me, although I was exhausted with toil and many emotions. "Now," he began, "now our rebellion is swallowed up in victory, and our evil-doing is justified by strength. "In the morning the oppressors arose and stretched themselves; they bound on their harness and made them ready to war. "They rose up and tossed their spears: the soldiers called to the captains, 'Come, lead us'--and the captains cried to the king, 'Direct thou the battle.' "They laughed in their pride, twenty thousand men, and yet a twenty thousand. "Their plumes covered the valleys as the plumes of a bird cover her nest; they shook their shields and shouted, yea, they shook their shields in the sunlight; they lusted for battle and were glad. "They came up against me; their strong ones ran swiftly to slay me; they cried, 'Ha! ha! he is as one already dead.' "Then breathed I on them, and my breath was as the breath of a wind, and lo! they were not. "My lightnings pierced them; I licked up their strength with the lightning of my spears; I shook them to the ground with the thunder of my shoutings. "They broke--they scattered--they were gone as the mists of the morning. "They are food for the kites and the foxes, and the place of battle is fat with their blood. "Where are the mighty ones who rose up in the morning? "Where are the proud ones who tossed their spears and cried, 'He is as a man already dead'? "They bow their heads, but not in sleep; they are stretched out, but not in sleep. "They are forgotten; they have gone into the blackness; they dwell in the dead moons; yea, others shall lead away their wives, and their children shall remember them no more. "And I--! the king--like an eagle I have found my eyrie. "Behold! far have I flown in the night season, yet have I returned to my young at the daybreak. "Shelter ye under the shadow of my wings, O people, and I will comfort you, and ye shall not be dismayed. "Now is the good time, the time of spoil. "Mine are the cattle on the mountains, mine are the virgins in the kraals. "The winter is overpast with storms, the summer is come with flowers. "Now Evil shall cover up her face, now Mercy and Gladness shall dwell in the land. "Rejoice, rejoice, my people! "Let all the stars rejoice in that this tyranny is trodden down, in that I am the king." Ignosi ceased his song, and out of the gathering gloom came back the deep reply-- "_Thou art the king!_" Thus was my prophecy to the herald fulfilled, and within the forty-eight hours Twala's headless corpse was stiffening at Twala's gate. [1] It is a law amongst the Kukuanas that no man of the direct royal blood can be put to death, unless by his own consent, which is, however, never refused. He is allowed to choose a succession of antagonists, to be approved by the king, with whom he fights, till one of them kills him.--A.Q.

Chapters 13 and 14

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As the threefold forces of Twala approach their location, Good expresses a wish for a Gatling gun to mow them down. He then taunts Quatermain into taking a long shot at the apparent general of the middle forces, wagering a sovereign against Quatermain's success. Irked at this challenge to his marksmanship, Quatermain takes aim with his Winchester and fires on the Kukuana leader. He misses, but strikes the leader's orderly dead, frightening his target. Good delivers a backhanded compliment to Quatermain for frightening the general, so Quatermain takes up his rifle again and shoots the general. He realizes after the fact how strong his pride was in his marksmanship, since he took delight in the death of another human being upon his success. With two of their number being mysteriously struck down by the white magic, the middle forces pull back in disarray. Good and Sir Henry fire into the regiment as well, and all told the men take down from eight to ten of their enemies before they get out of range. Delighted to have routed Twala's men, they are surprised when they hear sounds of the left and right flanks attacking. Twala's men shout Twala! Twala! Chiele! Cheile! while Ignosi's army answers with Ignosi! Ignosi! Chiele! Chiele! Before long the first and second lines of defense are broken, leaving Ignosi's third line in the fray. Sir Henry, Good, Quatermain, and Ignosi himself join in direct combat. The fighting is furious, with Sir Henry especially making a name for himself on the battlefield with his battle-axe. Ignosi's right line of defense manage to drive Twala's attack back, but Twala's left flank brekas through and drives Ignosi's forces toward the center. Eventually Quatermain comes face-to-face with an enemy Kukuana, whom he dispatches, but then he is struck from behind and rendered unconscious. A short time later, Quatermain awakens to find Good kneeling over him. He has only been dazed by the attack. Good informs him that Twala's forces have been repulsed for the time being. Ignosi's men begin to take stock of their dead and wounded, with their witch -doctors doing triage to determine which men's wounds are fatal. Quatermain observes the witch doctor's surreptitiously euthanizing the mortally wounded men so that their deaths are painless; Quatermain admits that this that, although he finds this distasteful, it is probably the most humane thing that can be done at the time. Sir Henry, Ignosi, and Infadoos confer on their next strategy. Twala has decided to lay siege to Ignosi's camp to starve them out; this situation is made worse by the fact that their water has already run out. Infadoos asks Quatermain to give his counsel. Infadoos outlines three options: remain on the hill and starve to death, attempt to break through to the north, or attack Twala's forces head-on. Sir Henry has already counseled a direct attack. Quatermain mulls it over, and then concludes that the direct assault is the best option. Though he thinks it a doomed effort, he believes an immediate charge on Twala's forces will help them take advantage of Twala's wounded forces, and will provide less time for the forces of Ignosi to become disheartened and change sides. Ignosi considers his counselors' words, and then declares his intention to attack Twala that same day. He proposes a strategy whereby Infadoos and Sir Henry take a body of men directly toward Twala's forces, down the hill between two arms of the crescent-shaped formation. Twala's forces will become occupied with this attack, but will also be more vulnerable as they can only approach the enemy in small numbers. While this fighting ensues, Captain Good will take a third of the men behind the right horn of the crescent, while Ignosi and Quatermain will take the remaining third behind the left horn. At the optimal moment, both sides will strike and Ignosi will head directly for Twala, to kill him and end this civil war immediately. Although the plan means likely death for Ignosi, Sir Henry, and their men, they face it with stoicism and bravery. Sir Henry declares that although he does not expect to survive, at least It will be "a man's death!" Quatermain, ever the pessimist, has misgivings but does not voice them in the interest of maintaining morale. The army of Ignosi separates into the assigned regiments, one on each flank of the curved bluff, and two--the eminent Greys and their backup, the Buffaloes, heading down the center. Infadoos commands the Greys; as they wait for the moment of battle, he keeps their morale up by emphasizing the honor of their service to Ignosi and the importance of their probably mortal office. Quatermain, taking his place with Ignosi among the Buffaloes, cannot help but contrast their stalwart bravery with his own mounting anxiety. Infadoos ends his exhortation by indicating Ignosi as their rightful ruler; he is met with the honor-bearing beating of the soldiers' spears upon their shields. Following this grand homage, the Greys make three lines and march toward the center of the crescent to draw Twala's forces in for the finishing assault. As the Buffaloes follow the Greys, Quatermain ponders the Greys' suicidal loyalty. He attempts to assuage his fears by reminding himself of an account wherein three Romans held a bridge against thousands, but it is little use--he knows the Greys, and probably most of the Buffaloes as well, are destined to die this day. The Greys await the approach of Twala's forces at the opening in the crescent bluff. When Twala's army gets within charging distance, the Greys rush into them and attack. They repulse Twala's army at first, but it costs them a third of their forces. As they await Twala's second wave, Quatermain is relieved to see the blonde head of Sir Henry among the Greys, still alive despite the bloodshed. Meanwhile, Ignosi gives the order that none of Twala's wounded are to be killed, an act of kindness that mostly goes unseen in the throes of battle. Twala's forces again advance, and the Greys still hold the line. This time, however, the battle lasts longer with the outcome in doubt. The Greys manage to yet again drive back Twala's forces, but are left with less than a third of their original number alive. Twala's forces regroup and advance, but at this moment Ignosi gives his battle cry and heads into the fray, making straight for Twala. Twala, meanwhile, has sought out Sir Henry, to kill him as the white man killed his own son. Twala drives Sir Henry to his knees with a crushing blow, but suddenly the fresh regiments from either side of the crescent arrive to entrap Twala's forces The battle is bloody and fierce, but the forces of Ignosi are victorious. However, Ignosi is unable to face Twala in direct combat before the enemy leader escapes back to his city. En route to Loo, Quatermain and the others espy Captain Good sitting atop an ant-heap near the body of one of Twala's Kukuana soldiers. Before anyone can cry out, the seemingly dead Kukuana arises and strikes Good, knocking him to the ground. The enemy warrior then strikes repeatedly at Good with his spear, apparently killing the white man, before running off to join his own army. When Quatermain and the others reach Good, he is working his way back to his feet, eyeglass still in place. He credits the chain mail armor he is wearing with saving his life from the Kukuana's vicious spear-thrusts. When his forces reach Loo, Ignosi promises the inhabitants full pardon to any warrior who lays down his arms. The city surrenders to Ignosi and the gates are opened. Ignosi and his retinue head to the central enclosure, where Twala sits brooding, alone save for Gagool. Twala acknowledges Ignosi's victory and recognizes Ignosi's right to kill him as Twala killed Ignosi's father, but he asks a royal boon--his death shall be trial by combat. Ignosi hesitantly agrees, but reminds Twala that the king is forbidden to enter into single combat by law. Twala has his eyes on another target--he wishes to battle Sir Henry to the death. Although Quatermain and others attempt to dissuade him, Sir Henry readily agrees to battle Twala. The two men fight viciously, with no one gaining the upper hand, but then Twala is able to knock Sir Henry's battle-axe from his hands. Sir Henry draws his tolla to attempt a stab at Twala, but is unable to penetrate the Kukuana's armor. Twala and Sir Henry struggle over Twala's axe, with Sir Henry managing at the last instant to pull it from Twala's grasp. Even as Twala draws his own tolla and stabs at Sir Henry , Sir Henry swings the axe and decapitates Twala on the spot. Quatermain removes the diamond crown from Twala's head and gives it to Ignosi, proclaiming him "lawful King of the Kukuanas." There is a victory celebration and songs of epic proportions as the night falls.

Quatermain reveals more of his character in the incident of the long-range shooting. His rivalry with Captain Good has remained below the surface since the "lucky" shot at the giraffe, but Quatermain has made it clear to the reader that he sees Good as his inferior in matters of firearms. This internal rivalry drives Quatermain to thoughtlessly take the life of another human being in order to prove his superiority--an act which Quatermain immediately regrets: "This time I had made no mistake; and--I say it as proof of how little we think of others when our own pride or reputation are in question--I was brute enough to feel delighted at the sight" . This moment of human sympathies rounds out Quatermain's character, giving us a glimpse of a very real man who lives a life of bloodshed, but not by choice or out of sadistic pleasure. To get this moment of insight into Quatermain just prior to the bloodiest incident in the novel serves to make the battle not merely an exercise in heroism, but a sorrowful necessity when evil men oppose those who are in the right. The Greys are introduced more fully here. They are the eldest and most able of the Kukuana warriors. That they have sided with Ignosi is a sign to other Kukuanas that Ignosi is the rightful king; their presence in Ignosi's army will also serve to put fear into the hearts of those loyal to Twala. They are brave men, but also doomed ; their position in the battle is to hold a small pass against innumerable enemies for as long as possible--meaning until they are all dead. Quatermain also demonstrates his ability to think strategically, despite his fatalism. When asked his thoughts on their attack strategy, given their dire circumstances, he tells Ignosi: "Being trapped, our best chance, especially in view of the failure of our water supply, was to initiate an attack upon Twala's forces, and then I recommended that the attack should be delivered at once" . Ignosi considers and heeds his words, and Quatermain notes that "among the Kukuanas my utterances met with a respect which has never been accorded to them before or since" . Clearly, despite his self-deprecation as a coward and his pessimism, Quatermain has a brave heart ready to follow the dictates of wise combat over self-preservation. Meanwhile, Ignosi proves to be a brilliant strategist; he seeks counsel from those with differing experiences from himself, then settled on a plan which has the greatest chance of success. A born leader, he does not hesitate to place his men or himself in great peril for the greater good. His insistence that Quatermain accompany his part in the maneuvers is interesting; Haggard does not make it clear whether Ignosi includes Quatermain there because he does not fully trust the man, because he wants Quatermain to see Ignosi's military prowess, or because Quatermain really can best serve here, if only in his capacity as a natural survivor. The reader is again treated to echoes of The Iliad as Infadoos encourages the soldiers through oratory just prior to their battle. The virtues of giving one's life for a worthy cause are extolled, while the likelihood of death in battle is not ignored. An African bent is given to Infadoos' exortation, as the history of service to the rightful king is recounted to give the Kukuanas a sense of their place in history. The single combat between Twala and Sir Henry again parallels The Iliad's confrontation between Hector and Achilles. Although he has threatened Twala directly in battle, Ignosi is not free to enter into single combat with Twala once the fighting ends. The conflict has become ceremonial, a last choice on the part of the clearly defeated Twala, but is nonetheless significant as it is Twala's search for vengeance against the murderer of his son. That the others seek to dissuade Sir Henry from entering combat with Twala shows how fearful an opponent the deposed Kukuana king is; that Sir Henry enters into the battle anyway shows both his courage and his pride. Quatermain is shown to be human, still, in his confession at his own anxiety in contrast to the others' courage. He is not a soldier or warrior--he is a hunter, trader, and sometime adventurer who did not sign up to fight in a foreign king's war. Nonetheless, Quatermain supports Ignosi despite his fears, and will show that support through service unto death if necessary. For all his protestations of cowardice, Quatermain is indeed a brave man, and Quatermain's self-assessment of cowardice may in fact be Haggard's clever way of pointing out the follies of bloodshed and violent ideals of "manliness." Quatermain has already stated how he regrets having killed a man merely to defend his pride; now Sir Henry engages in a fight he is not guaranteed to win in order to do the same. Through Quatermain, Haggard seems to be suggesting that the motives of even good men may not always be as selfless and honorable as we would like. While Sir Henry is clearly the heroic champion in this incident, the fact remains that it is wounded pride that goads him into accepting Twala's challenge. Much is made of the chainmail armor worn by the white men. Twala's gift to them upon their arrival has proven his undoing. Good is saved from a mortal wound by the chainmail, and Sir Henry's armor deflects Twala's last desperate strike. The irony is clear: Twala's gifts come from a civilization older than and superior to the Kukuanas; it is these gifts which aid the next civilization in destroying Twala's version of Kukuanaland. The dominance of the white culture is symbolized in Quatermain's act of taking the crown from Twala and placing it upon Ignosi's brow--Ignosi is the rightful king, but in part this is because he is recognized as such by a European power.