feat_bid
int64 107
44.7k
| feat_is_aggregate
bool 2
classes | feat_source
stringclasses 6
values | feat_chapter_path
stringlengths 40
78
| feat_summary_path
stringlengths 55
89
| feat_book_id
stringlengths 17
55
| feat_summary_id
stringlengths 5
36
| feat_content
null | feat_summary
stringlengths 310
38.2k
| text
stringlengths 328
513k
| feat_chapter_length
float64 108
89.2k
| feat_summary_name
stringlengths 5
53
⌀ | feat_summary_url
stringlengths 91
176
| target
stringlengths 131
30.2k
| feat_summary_analysis
stringlengths 98
14.1k
⌀ | feat_summary_length
float64 23
5.22k
| feat_analysis_length
float64 1
2.47k
| evaluation_predictions
sequence |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
5,658 | true | cliffnotes | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_36_to_37.txt | finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Lord Jim/section_21_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 36-37 | chapters 36-37 | null | {"name": "Chapters 36-37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219145744/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/l/lord-jim/summary-and-analysis/chapters-3637", "summary": "Marlow ends his story. The men drift off the verandah quietly, without queries or comments about Marlow's incomplete story of a white man who chose to go into a dark, savage jungle in order to regain his self-worth. The question, however, remains: what was the ultimate fate of someone who was \"one of them,\" and yet who was someone who chose to achieve greatness in an alien world, and yet in a world of his own making, a world in which he had accepted enormous responsibility for peace, and for life and death. Only one man of those on the verandah is ever to hear the last of the story. More than two years later, this man received a thick packet, addressed in Marlow's handwriting. It arrived in the midst of a driving rainstorm on a winter's evening. Inside the packet were four separate enclosures: several pages of close handwriting, pinned together; a loose sheet of paper with a few words in handwriting that the man was not familiar with; a letter from Marlow; and another letter, yellow and frayed. The man turned first to Marlow's letter. Marlow tells the man who is reading the letter that he was always reluctant to admit that Jim had indeed \"mastered his fate.\" Moreover, Marlow says, you prophesied that one day Jim would feel disgust with the honor which he had acquired in his \"new world.\" According to Marlow, this man said long ago that Jim had, in effect, sold his soul for a clean, pure slate that was granted to him by some \"brutes\" -- meaning the brown, and yellow, and black Malay natives. Marlow writes that Jim himself said two years ago that he had no message for \"home\"; however, it is clear that Jim did make an attempt to send a \"message.\" It is Jim's writing, Marlow says, on the gray sheet of \"foolscap\" paper. Marlow says that one of the first things that Jim did after he, Marlow, left Patusan was to carry out a plan of defense for \"his people.\" He had a deep ditch dug and surrounded it with a strong, spiked fence, with Doramin's cannons positioned at its four corners. This fortress was a place of safety, a place where \"every faithful partisan could rally in case of some sudden danger.\" Jim called this structure \"The Fort, Patusan.\" Those words are on the sheet of foolscap, along with fragments of two messages that Jim had attempted to write: \"An awful thing has happened\" and \"I must now at once . . .\" And then there is a blotch, as if Jim's pen sputtered. In the packet, there is also a letter to Jim from his father, the parson, who writes about what each member of the family is doing. It is a comfortable letter, the father talking easily about faith and virtue and cautioning his son \"not to give way to temptation.\" At the moment of \"giving way,\" his father says, one succumbs to \"total depravity and everlasting ruin.\" He admonishes Jim never \"to do anything which you believe to be wrong.\" The letter arrived just before Jim sailed aboard the Patna. The last document is another letter from Marlow; it is the story of Jim's last days, pieced together from fragments which Marlow learned. It reveals what happened to Jim after Marlow left him on the beach. There is pain in Marlow's words as he writes about Jim's fate. He says that he can scarcely believe that he will never again hear Jim's voice, never see \"his smooth tan-and-pink face . . . the youthful eyes darkened by excitement to a profound, unfathomable blue.\" The key figure in Jim's tragic end was named Brown, \"Gentleman Brown,\" as he called himself, even though he had a fierce reputation as an immoral and dangerous buccaneer. Marlow listened to Brown's story as Brown lay dying of asthma in a shack in Bangkok. Jim, Brown said, was nothing more than a \"hollow sham,\" adding that Jim didn't have \"enough devil in him\" to fight like a man. Brown bragged about having made an end of Lord Jim. Later that night, Brown died. Marlow says that he learned even more about Jim when he returned some eight months earlier to see his old friend Stein. At Stein's, he saw a Malay native, one from Patusan. It was Jim's \"morose shadow of darkness,\" his bodyguard, Tamb' Itam. Startled at seeing Marlow, Tamb' Itam. hung his head, and then he blurted out, \"He would not fight. He would not fight.\" Marlow found Stein studying his butterfly collection, and Stein asked Marlow to come and talk to Jewel. In particular, he asked Marlow to ask her to forgive Jim. Jewel was sitting in Stein's big reception room, dressed in white. The crystals of Stein's chandelier above her twinkled like icicles. Marlow sensed Jewel's remote, icy despair. Seemingly, she was \"frozen\" with unforgiving anger toward Jim. Despite Jim's promises, he did leave her. He could have fought for his life; he could have fled. But he did neither. He chose, deliberately, to die. Thus, according to Jewel's logic, Jim chose to leave her. \"He was like the others. He was false,\" she says. At this point, Marlow's letter ends, and the story continues on the sheets of paper that Marlow included, piecing together information which he gathered from Brown, from Jewel, and from Tamb' Itam.", "analysis": "This chapter presents a type of transition from the earlier narration by Marlow to a type of narration presented through documents and letters, \"pieced together by\" Marlow and sent to one of the men on the verandah who listened to Marlow's story. The time of the receipt of the packet is some two years after the events of the last chapter. Conrad's use of these narrative devices and the introduction of an anonymous recipient of this material is perhaps the most awkward and unaesthetic aspect of the novel. This method of bringing the novel to a climax is, for the modern reader, terribly distracting and unjustified as a narrative technique, and the introduction of the anonymous recipient of the letter is totally unwarranted -- we simply don't care about this person. The whole chapter is out of place. In Chapter 37, as is typical of this novel, Conrad jumps forward in his narration, and we hear about the death of Jim before we hear about the events surrounding Jim's death. We are also introduced to Gentleman Brown, the instrument of Jim's death. In Gentleman Brown, we meet the epitome of Jim's nemesis -- a person who reeks of pure evil. At this point, we are not prepared for someone who thoroughly and irrationally hates Jim for no other reason than the fact that Jim is a good and honorable man. Had Jim screamed at Brown, \"Hands off my plunder,\" Brown would have respected him as another pirate or as another mercenary, but Brown has never before encountered so perfect and so honorable a gentleman. Thus, Brown can only respond to Jim with disgust. On his deathbed, Brown is ultimately pleased that he \"paid out the fellow\" and that finally he did \"make an end of him after all.\" Conrad gives us this information before we see the encounter between Jim and Brown in order to let us know that Jim should have handled Brown in an entirely different manner. In other words, the reader thoroughly dislikes Brown after this introduction to him, and he wishes futilely that Jim would have followed the advice of his associates who wanted him to destroy Brown. This chapter also confirms Jewel's earlier fear that Jim eventually would, like all the other white men, finally leave Patusan. But note that before meeting Jewel at Stein's house, Marlow meets Tamb' Itam, who cries out to Marlow that Jim \"would not fight. He would not fight.\" To the incredibly loyal native, Jim's refusal to fight was totally incomprehensible and therefore unforgivable. The same is also true for Jewel: upon seeing Marlow, she immediately cries out that \"He has left me . . . you always leave us -- for your own ends.\" She also feels that \"It would have been easy to die with him.\" Jim's death confirms her earlier statements and fears. She could have accepted anything that Jim might have decided to do -- if his decision had been made with survival being uppermost in his mind. Jewel wanted Jim to save his own life, to fight for survival. She could have forgiven Jim anything -- except one unalterable fact: Jim deliberately chose death over a life with her. Because of this decision, she can never forgive him. The shock and horror of Jim's choice of death and honor over life and love is unfathomable to Jewel. Not surprisingly, it has changed her nature. Jewel has changed from \"passion into stone.\" She has been betrayed by Jim, and she will never understand or ever recover from his betrayal of her."} |
With these words Marlow had ended his narrative, and his audience had
broken up forthwith, under his abstract, pensive gaze. Men drifted off
the verandah in pairs or alone without loss of time, without offering
a remark, as if the last image of that incomplete story, its
incompleteness itself, and the very tone of the speaker, had made
discussion in vain and comment impossible. Each of them seemed to carry
away his own impression, to carry it away with him like a secret; but
there was only one man of all these listeners who was ever to hear the
last word of the story. It came to him at home, more than two years
later, and it came contained in a thick packet addressed in Marlow's
upright and angular handwriting.
The privileged man opened the packet, looked in, then, laying it down,
went to the window. His rooms were in the highest flat of a lofty
building, and his glance could travel afar beyond the clear panes of
glass, as though he were looking out of the lantern of a lighthouse.
The slopes of the roofs glistened, the dark broken ridges succeeded each
other without end like sombre, uncrested waves, and from the depths of
the town under his feet ascended a confused and unceasing mutter. The
spires of churches, numerous, scattered haphazard, uprose like beacons
on a maze of shoals without a channel; the driving rain mingled with the
falling dusk of a winter's evening; and the booming of a big clock on a
tower, striking the hour, rolled past in voluminous, austere bursts
of sound, with a shrill vibrating cry at the core. He drew the heavy
curtains.
The light of his shaded reading-lamp slept like a sheltered pool, his
footfalls made no sound on the carpet, his wandering days were over. No
more horizons as boundless as hope, no more twilights within the forests
as solemn as temples, in the hot quest for the Ever-undiscovered
Country over the hill, across the stream, beyond the wave. The hour
was striking! No more! No more!--but the opened packet under the lamp
brought back the sounds, the visions, the very savour of the past--a
multitude of fading faces, a tumult of low voices, dying away upon the
shores of distant seas under a passionate and unconsoling sunshine. He
sighed and sat down to read.
At first he saw three distinct enclosures. A good many pages closely
blackened and pinned together; a loose square sheet of greyish paper
with a few words traced in a handwriting he had never seen before, and
an explanatory letter from Marlow. From this last fell another letter,
yellowed by time and frayed on the folds. He picked it up and, laying it
aside, turned to Marlow's message, ran swiftly over the opening lines,
and, checking himself, thereafter read on deliberately, like one
approaching with slow feet and alert eyes the glimpse of an undiscovered
country.
'. . . I don't suppose you've forgotten,' went on the letter. 'You alone
have showed an interest in him that survived the telling of his story,
though I remember well you would not admit he had mastered his fate.
You prophesied for him the disaster of weariness and of disgust with
acquired honour, with the self-appointed task, with the love sprung from
pity and youth. You had said you knew so well "that kind of thing," its
illusory satisfaction, its unavoidable deception. You said also--I call
to mind--that "giving your life up to them" (them meaning all of mankind
with skins brown, yellow, or black in colour) "was like selling your
soul to a brute." You contended that "that kind of thing" was only
endurable and enduring when based on a firm conviction in the truth of
ideas racially our own, in whose name are established the order, the
morality of an ethical progress. "We want its strength at our backs,"
you had said. "We want a belief in its necessity and its justice, to
make a worthy and conscious sacrifice of our lives. Without it the
sacrifice is only forgetfulness, the way of offering is no better than
the way to perdition." In other words, you maintained that we must fight
in the ranks or our lives don't count. Possibly! You ought to know--be
it said without malice--you who have rushed into one or two places
single-handed and came out cleverly, without singeing your wings. The
point, however, is that of all mankind Jim had no dealings but with
himself, and the question is whether at the last he had not confessed to
a faith mightier than the laws of order and progress.
'I affirm nothing. Perhaps you may pronounce--after you've read. There
is much truth--after all--in the common expression "under a cloud." It
is impossible to see him clearly--especially as it is through the eyes
of others that we take our last look at him. I have no hesitation in
imparting to you all I know of the last episode that, as he used to say,
had "come to him." One wonders whether this was perhaps that supreme
opportunity, that last and satisfying test for which I had always
suspected him to be waiting, before he could frame a message to the
impeccable world. You remember that when I was leaving him for the last
time he had asked whether I would be going home soon, and suddenly cried
after me, "Tell them . . ." I had waited--curious I'll own, and hopeful
too--only to hear him shout, "No--nothing." That was all then--and there
will be nothing more; there will be no message, unless such as each of
us can interpret for himself from the language of facts, that are so
often more enigmatic than the craftiest arrangement of words. He made,
it is true, one more attempt to deliver himself; but that too failed, as
you may perceive if you look at the sheet of greyish foolscap enclosed
here. He had tried to write; do you notice the commonplace hand? It is
headed "The Fort, Patusan." I suppose he had carried out his intention
of making out of his house a place of defence. It was an excellent plan:
a deep ditch, an earth wall topped by a palisade, and at the angles
guns mounted on platforms to sweep each side of the square. Doramin had
agreed to furnish him the guns; and so each man of his party would know
there was a place of safety, upon which every faithful partisan could
rally in case of some sudden danger. All this showed his judicious
foresight, his faith in the future. What he called "my own people"--the
liberated captives of the Sherif--were to make a distinct quarter of
Patusan, with their huts and little plots of ground under the walls of
the stronghold. Within he would be an invincible host in himself "The
Fort, Patusan." No date, as you observe. What is a number and a name to
a day of days? It is also impossible to say whom he had in his mind when
he seized the pen: Stein--myself--the world at large--or was this only
the aimless startled cry of a solitary man confronted by his fate? "An
awful thing has happened," he wrote before he flung the pen down for the
first time; look at the ink blot resembling the head of an arrow under
these words. After a while he had tried again, scrawling heavily, as if
with a hand of lead, another line. "I must now at once . . ." The pen
had spluttered, and that time he gave it up. There's nothing more;
he had seen a broad gulf that neither eye nor voice could span. I
can understand this. He was overwhelmed by the inexplicable; he was
overwhelmed by his own personality--the gift of that destiny which he
had done his best to master.
'I send you also an old letter--a very old letter. It was found
carefully preserved in his writing-case. It is from his father, and
by the date you can see he must have received it a few days before he
joined the Patna. Thus it must be the last letter he ever had from home.
He had treasured it all these years. The good old parson fancied his
sailor son. I've looked in at a sentence here and there. There is
nothing in it except just affection. He tells his "dear James" that the
last long letter from him was very "honest and entertaining." He would
not have him "judge men harshly or hastily." There are four pages of it,
easy morality and family news. Tom had "taken orders." Carrie's husband
had "money losses." The old chap goes on equably trusting Providence and
the established order of the universe, but alive to its small dangers
and its small mercies. One can almost see him, grey-haired and serene in
the inviolable shelter of his book-lined, faded, and comfortable study,
where for forty years he had conscientiously gone over and over again
the round of his little thoughts about faith and virtue, about the
conduct of life and the only proper manner of dying; where he had
written so many sermons, where he sits talking to his boy, over there,
on the other side of the earth. But what of the distance? Virtue is one
all over the world, and there is only one faith, one conceivable conduct
of life, one manner of dying. He hopes his "dear James" will never
forget that "who once gives way to temptation, in the very instant
hazards his total depravity and everlasting ruin. Therefore resolve
fixedly never, through any possible motives, to do anything which you
believe to be wrong." There is also some news of a favourite dog; and a
pony, "which all you boys used to ride," had gone blind from old age and
had to be shot. The old chap invokes Heaven's blessing; the mother and
all the girls then at home send their love. . . . No, there is nothing
much in that yellow frayed letter fluttering out of his cherishing
grasp after so many years. It was never answered, but who can say what
converse he may have held with all these placid, colourless forms of men
and women peopling that quiet corner of the world as free of danger
or strife as a tomb, and breathing equably the air of undisturbed
rectitude. It seems amazing that he should belong to it, he to whom so
many things "had come." Nothing ever came to them; they would never be
taken unawares, and never be called upon to grapple with fate. Here they
all are, evoked by the mild gossip of the father, all these brothers
and sisters, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, gazing with clear
unconscious eyes, while I seem to see him, returned at last, no longer
a mere white speck at the heart of an immense mystery, but of full
stature, standing disregarded amongst their untroubled shapes, with a
stern and romantic aspect, but always mute, dark--under a cloud.
'The story of the last events you will find in the few pages enclosed
here. You must admit that it is romantic beyond the wildest dreams
of his boyhood, and yet there is to my mind a sort of profound and
terrifying logic in it, as if it were our imagination alone that could
set loose upon us the might of an overwhelming destiny. The imprudence
of our thoughts recoils upon our heads; who toys with the sword shall
perish by the sword. This astounding adventure, of which the most
astounding part is that it is true, comes on as an unavoidable
consequence. Something of the sort had to happen. You repeat this to
yourself while you marvel that such a thing could happen in the year of
grace before last. But it has happened--and there is no disputing its
logic.
'I put it down here for you as though I had been an eyewitness. My
information was fragmentary, but I've fitted the pieces together, and
there is enough of them to make an intelligible picture. I wonder how
he would have related it himself. He has confided so much in me that at
times it seems as though he must come in presently and tell the story
in his own words, in his careless yet feeling voice, with his offhand
manner, a little puzzled, a little bothered, a little hurt, but now and
then by a word or a phrase giving one of these glimpses of his very
own self that were never any good for purposes of orientation. It's
difficult to believe he will never come. I shall never hear his voice
again, nor shall I see his smooth tan-and-pink face with a white line
on the forehead, and the youthful eyes darkened by excitement to a
profound, unfathomable blue.'
'It all begins with a remarkable exploit of a man called Brown, who
stole with complete success a Spanish schooner out of a small bay near
Zamboanga. Till I discovered the fellow my information was incomplete,
but most unexpectedly I did come upon him a few hours before he gave up
his arrogant ghost. Fortunately he was willing and able to talk between
the choking fits of asthma, and his racked body writhed with malicious
exultation at the bare thought of Jim. He exulted thus at the idea that
he had "paid out the stuck-up beggar after all." He gloated over his
action. I had to bear the sunken glare of his fierce crow-footed eyes if
I wanted to know; and so I bore it, reflecting how much certain forms
of evil are akin to madness, derived from intense egoism, inflamed by
resistance, tearing the soul to pieces, and giving factitious vigour to
the body. The story also reveals unsuspected depths of cunning in the
wretched Cornelius, whose abject and intense hate acts like a subtle
inspiration, pointing out an unerring way towards revenge.
'"I could see directly I set my eyes on him what sort of a fool he was,"
gasped the dying Brown. "He a man! Hell! He was a hollow sham. As if he
couldn't have said straight out, 'Hands off my plunder!' blast him! That
would have been like a man! Rot his superior soul! He had me there--but
he hadn't devil enough in him to make an end of me. Not he! A thing like
that letting me off as if I wasn't worth a kick! . . ." Brown struggled
desperately for breath. . . . "Fraud. . . . Letting me off. . . . And
so I did make an end of him after all. . . ." He choked again. . . . "I
expect this thing'll kill me, but I shall die easy now. You . . . you
here . . . I don't know your name--I would give you a five-pound note
if--if I had it--for the news--or my name's not Brown. . . ." He grinned
horribly. . . . "Gentleman Brown."
'He said all these things in profound gasps, staring at me with his
yellow eyes out of a long, ravaged, brown face; he jerked his left arm;
a pepper-and-salt matted beard hung almost into his lap; a dirty ragged
blanket covered his legs. I had found him out in Bankok through that
busybody Schomberg, the hotel-keeper, who had, confidentially, directed
me where to look. It appears that a sort of loafing, fuddled vagabond--a
white man living amongst the natives with a Siamese woman--had
considered it a great privilege to give a shelter to the last days of
the famous Gentleman Brown. While he was talking to me in the wretched
hovel, and, as it were, fighting for every minute of his life, the
Siamese woman, with big bare legs and a stupid coarse face, sat in a
dark corner chewing betel stolidly. Now and then she would get up for
the purpose of shooing a chicken away from the door. The whole hut shook
when she walked. An ugly yellow child, naked and pot-bellied like a
little heathen god, stood at the foot of the couch, finger in mouth,
lost in a profound and calm contemplation of the dying man.
'He talked feverishly; but in the middle of a word, perhaps, an
invisible hand would take him by the throat, and he would look at me
dumbly with an expression of doubt and anguish. He seemed to fear that
I would get tired of waiting and go away, leaving him with his tale
untold, with his exultation unexpressed. He died during the night, I
believe, but by that time I had nothing more to learn.
'So much as to Brown, for the present.
'Eight months before this, coming into Samarang, I went as usual to see
Stein. On the garden side of the house a Malay on the verandah greeted
me shyly, and I remembered that I had seen him in Patusan, in Jim's
house, amongst other Bugis men who used to come in the evening to talk
interminably over their war reminiscences and to discuss State affairs.
Jim had pointed him out to me once as a respectable petty trader owning
a small seagoing native craft, who had showed himself "one of the best
at the taking of the stockade." I was not very surprised to see him,
since any Patusan trader venturing as far as Samarang would naturally
find his way to Stein's house. I returned his greeting and passed on. At
the door of Stein's room I came upon another Malay in whom I recognised
Tamb' Itam.
'I asked him at once what he was doing there; it occurred to me that
Jim might have come on a visit. I own I was pleased and excited at the
thought. Tamb' Itam looked as if he did not know what to say. "Is Tuan
Jim inside?" I asked impatiently. "No," he mumbled, hanging his head
for a moment, and then with sudden earnestness, "He would not fight. He
would not fight," he repeated twice. As he seemed unable to say anything
else, I pushed him aside and went in.
'Stein, tall and stooping, stood alone in the middle of the room between
the rows of butterfly cases. "Ach! is it you, my friend?" he said
sadly, peering through his glasses. A drab sack-coat of alpaca hung,
unbuttoned, down to his knees. He had a Panama hat on his head, and
there were deep furrows on his pale cheeks. "What's the matter now?"
I asked nervously. "There's Tamb' Itam there. . . ." "Come and see the
girl. Come and see the girl. She is here," he said, with a half-hearted
show of activity. I tried to detain him, but with gentle obstinacy he
would take no notice of my eager questions. "She is here, she is here,"
he repeated, in great perturbation. "They came here two days ago. An old
man like me, a stranger--sehen Sie--cannot do much. . . . Come this way.
. . . Young hearts are unforgiving. . . ." I could see he was in utmost
distress. . . . "The strength of life in them, the cruel strength of
life. . . ." He mumbled, leading me round the house; I followed him,
lost in dismal and angry conjectures. At the door of the drawing-room he
barred my way. "He loved her very much," he said interrogatively, and
I only nodded, feeling so bitterly disappointed that I would not trust
myself to speak. "Very frightful," he murmured. "She can't understand
me. I am only a strange old man. Perhaps you . . . she knows you. Talk
to her. We can't leave it like this. Tell her to forgive him. It was
very frightful." "No doubt," I said, exasperated at being in the dark;
"but have you forgiven him?" He looked at me queerly. "You shall hear,"
he said, and opening the door, absolutely pushed me in.
'You know Stein's big house and the two immense reception-rooms,
uninhabited and uninhabitable, clean, full of solitude and of shining
things that look as if never beheld by the eye of man? They are cool
on the hottest days, and you enter them as you would a scrubbed cave
underground. I passed through one, and in the other I saw the girl
sitting at the end of a big mahogany table, on which she rested her
head, the face hidden in her arms. The waxed floor reflected her dimly
as though it had been a sheet of frozen water. The rattan screens were
down, and through the strange greenish gloom made by the foliage of the
trees outside a strong wind blew in gusts, swaying the long draperies
of windows and doorways. Her white figure seemed shaped in snow; the
pendent crystals of a great chandelier clicked above her head like
glittering icicles. She looked up and watched my approach. I was chilled
as if these vast apartments had been the cold abode of despair.
'She recognised me at once, and as soon as I had stopped, looking down
at her: "He has left me," she said quietly; "you always leave us--for
your own ends." Her face was set. All the heat of life seemed withdrawn
within some inaccessible spot in her breast. "It would have been easy to
die with him," she went on, and made a slight weary gesture as if giving
up the incomprehensible. "He would not! It was like a blindness--and yet
it was I who was speaking to him; it was I who stood before his eyes;
it was at me that he looked all the time! Ah! you are hard, treacherous,
without truth, without compassion. What makes you so wicked? Or is it
that you are all mad?"
'I took her hand; it did not respond, and when I dropped it, it hung
down to the floor. That indifference, more awful than tears, cries, and
reproaches, seemed to defy time and consolation. You felt that nothing
you could say would reach the seat of the still and benumbing pain.
'Stein had said, "You shall hear." I did hear. I heard it all, listening
with amazement, with awe, to the tones of her inflexible weariness.
She could not grasp the real sense of what she was telling me, and her
resentment filled me with pity for her--for him too. I stood rooted to
the spot after she had finished. Leaning on her arm, she stared with
hard eyes, and the wind passed in gusts, the crystals kept on clicking
in the greenish gloom. She went on whispering to herself: "And yet he
was looking at me! He could see my face, hear my voice, hear my grief!
When I used to sit at his feet, with my cheek against his knee and his
hand on my head, the curse of cruelty and madness was already within
him, waiting for the day. The day came! . . . and before the sun had
set he could not see me any more--he was made blind and deaf and without
pity, as you all are. He shall have no tears from me. Never, never. Not
one tear. I will not! He went away from me as if I had been worse than
death. He fled as if driven by some accursed thing he had heard or seen
in his sleep. . . ."
'Her steady eyes seemed to strain after the shape of a man torn out of
her arms by the strength of a dream. She made no sign to my silent bow.
I was glad to escape.
'I saw her once again, the same afternoon. On leaving her I had gone
in search of Stein, whom I could not find indoors; and I wandered out,
pursued by distressful thoughts, into the gardens, those famous gardens
of Stein, in which you can find every plant and tree of tropical
lowlands. I followed the course of the canalised stream, and sat for
a long time on a shaded bench near the ornamental pond, where some
waterfowl with clipped wings were diving and splashing noisily. The
branches of casuarina trees behind me swayed lightly, incessantly,
reminding me of the soughing of fir trees at home.
'This mournful and restless sound was a fit accompaniment to my
meditations. She had said he had been driven away from her by a
dream,--and there was no answer one could make her--there seemed to be
no forgiveness for such a transgression. And yet is not mankind itself,
pushing on its blind way, driven by a dream of its greatness and
its power upon the dark paths of excessive cruelty and of excessive
devotion? And what is the pursuit of truth, after all?
'When I rose to get back to the house I caught sight of Stein's drab
coat through a gap in the foliage, and very soon at a turn of the path
I came upon him walking with the girl. Her little hand rested on his
forearm, and under the broad, flat rim of his Panama hat he bent over
her, grey-haired, paternal, with compassionate and chivalrous deference.
I stood aside, but they stopped, facing me. His gaze was bent on the
ground at his feet; the girl, erect and slight on his arm, stared
sombrely beyond my shoulder with black, clear, motionless eyes.
"Schrecklich," he murmured. "Terrible! Terrible! What can one do?" He
seemed to be appealing to me, but her youth, the length of the days
suspended over her head, appealed to me more; and suddenly, even as I
realised that nothing could be said, I found myself pleading his cause
for her sake. "You must forgive him," I concluded, and my own voice
seemed to me muffled, lost in un irresponsive deaf immensity. "We all
want to be forgiven," I added after a while.
'"What have I done?" she asked with her lips only.
'"You always mistrusted him," I said.
'"He was like the others," she pronounced slowly.
'"Not like the others," I protested, but she continued evenly, without
any feeling--
'"He was false." And suddenly Stein broke in. "No! no! no! My poor
child! . . ." He patted her hand lying passively on his sleeve. "No! no!
Not false! True! True! True!" He tried to look into her stony face. "You
don't understand. Ach! Why you do not understand? . . . Terrible," he
said to me. "Some day she _shall_ understand."
'"Will you explain?" I asked, looking hard at him. They moved on.
'I watched them. Her gown trailed on the path, her black hair fell
loose. She walked upright and light by the side of the tall man, whose
long shapeless coat hung in perpendicular folds from the stooping
shoulders, whose feet moved slowly. They disappeared beyond that
spinney (you may remember) where sixteen different kinds of bamboo grow
together, all distinguishable to the learned eye. For my part, I was
fascinated by the exquisite grace and beauty of that fluted grove,
crowned with pointed leaves and feathery heads, the lightness, the
vigour, the charm as distinct as a voice of that unperplexed luxuriating
life. I remember staying to look at it for a long time, as one would
linger within reach of a consoling whisper. The sky was pearly grey. It
was one of those overcast days so rare in the tropics, in which memories
crowd upon one, memories of other shores, of other faces.
'I drove back to town the same afternoon, taking with me Tamb' Itam
and the other Malay, in whose seagoing craft they had escaped in the
bewilderment, fear, and gloom of the disaster. The shock of it seemed to
have changed their natures. It had turned her passion into stone, and
it made the surly taciturn Tamb' Itam almost loquacious. His surliness,
too, was subdued into puzzled humility, as though he had seen the
failure of a potent charm in a supreme moment. The Bugis trader, a shy
hesitating man, was very clear in the little he had to say. Both were
evidently over-awed by a sense of deep inexpressible wonder, by the
touch of an inscrutable mystery.'
There with Marlow's signature the letter proper ended. The privileged
reader screwed up his lamp, and solitary above the billowy roofs of the
town, like a lighthouse-keeper above the sea, he turned to the pages of
the story.
| 4,368 | Chapters 36-37 | https://web.archive.org/web/20201219145744/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/l/lord-jim/summary-and-analysis/chapters-3637 | Marlow ends his story. The men drift off the verandah quietly, without queries or comments about Marlow's incomplete story of a white man who chose to go into a dark, savage jungle in order to regain his self-worth. The question, however, remains: what was the ultimate fate of someone who was "one of them," and yet who was someone who chose to achieve greatness in an alien world, and yet in a world of his own making, a world in which he had accepted enormous responsibility for peace, and for life and death. Only one man of those on the verandah is ever to hear the last of the story. More than two years later, this man received a thick packet, addressed in Marlow's handwriting. It arrived in the midst of a driving rainstorm on a winter's evening. Inside the packet were four separate enclosures: several pages of close handwriting, pinned together; a loose sheet of paper with a few words in handwriting that the man was not familiar with; a letter from Marlow; and another letter, yellow and frayed. The man turned first to Marlow's letter. Marlow tells the man who is reading the letter that he was always reluctant to admit that Jim had indeed "mastered his fate." Moreover, Marlow says, you prophesied that one day Jim would feel disgust with the honor which he had acquired in his "new world." According to Marlow, this man said long ago that Jim had, in effect, sold his soul for a clean, pure slate that was granted to him by some "brutes" -- meaning the brown, and yellow, and black Malay natives. Marlow writes that Jim himself said two years ago that he had no message for "home"; however, it is clear that Jim did make an attempt to send a "message." It is Jim's writing, Marlow says, on the gray sheet of "foolscap" paper. Marlow says that one of the first things that Jim did after he, Marlow, left Patusan was to carry out a plan of defense for "his people." He had a deep ditch dug and surrounded it with a strong, spiked fence, with Doramin's cannons positioned at its four corners. This fortress was a place of safety, a place where "every faithful partisan could rally in case of some sudden danger." Jim called this structure "The Fort, Patusan." Those words are on the sheet of foolscap, along with fragments of two messages that Jim had attempted to write: "An awful thing has happened" and "I must now at once . . ." And then there is a blotch, as if Jim's pen sputtered. In the packet, there is also a letter to Jim from his father, the parson, who writes about what each member of the family is doing. It is a comfortable letter, the father talking easily about faith and virtue and cautioning his son "not to give way to temptation." At the moment of "giving way," his father says, one succumbs to "total depravity and everlasting ruin." He admonishes Jim never "to do anything which you believe to be wrong." The letter arrived just before Jim sailed aboard the Patna. The last document is another letter from Marlow; it is the story of Jim's last days, pieced together from fragments which Marlow learned. It reveals what happened to Jim after Marlow left him on the beach. There is pain in Marlow's words as he writes about Jim's fate. He says that he can scarcely believe that he will never again hear Jim's voice, never see "his smooth tan-and-pink face . . . the youthful eyes darkened by excitement to a profound, unfathomable blue." The key figure in Jim's tragic end was named Brown, "Gentleman Brown," as he called himself, even though he had a fierce reputation as an immoral and dangerous buccaneer. Marlow listened to Brown's story as Brown lay dying of asthma in a shack in Bangkok. Jim, Brown said, was nothing more than a "hollow sham," adding that Jim didn't have "enough devil in him" to fight like a man. Brown bragged about having made an end of Lord Jim. Later that night, Brown died. Marlow says that he learned even more about Jim when he returned some eight months earlier to see his old friend Stein. At Stein's, he saw a Malay native, one from Patusan. It was Jim's "morose shadow of darkness," his bodyguard, Tamb' Itam. Startled at seeing Marlow, Tamb' Itam. hung his head, and then he blurted out, "He would not fight. He would not fight." Marlow found Stein studying his butterfly collection, and Stein asked Marlow to come and talk to Jewel. In particular, he asked Marlow to ask her to forgive Jim. Jewel was sitting in Stein's big reception room, dressed in white. The crystals of Stein's chandelier above her twinkled like icicles. Marlow sensed Jewel's remote, icy despair. Seemingly, she was "frozen" with unforgiving anger toward Jim. Despite Jim's promises, he did leave her. He could have fought for his life; he could have fled. But he did neither. He chose, deliberately, to die. Thus, according to Jewel's logic, Jim chose to leave her. "He was like the others. He was false," she says. At this point, Marlow's letter ends, and the story continues on the sheets of paper that Marlow included, piecing together information which he gathered from Brown, from Jewel, and from Tamb' Itam. | This chapter presents a type of transition from the earlier narration by Marlow to a type of narration presented through documents and letters, "pieced together by" Marlow and sent to one of the men on the verandah who listened to Marlow's story. The time of the receipt of the packet is some two years after the events of the last chapter. Conrad's use of these narrative devices and the introduction of an anonymous recipient of this material is perhaps the most awkward and unaesthetic aspect of the novel. This method of bringing the novel to a climax is, for the modern reader, terribly distracting and unjustified as a narrative technique, and the introduction of the anonymous recipient of the letter is totally unwarranted -- we simply don't care about this person. The whole chapter is out of place. In Chapter 37, as is typical of this novel, Conrad jumps forward in his narration, and we hear about the death of Jim before we hear about the events surrounding Jim's death. We are also introduced to Gentleman Brown, the instrument of Jim's death. In Gentleman Brown, we meet the epitome of Jim's nemesis -- a person who reeks of pure evil. At this point, we are not prepared for someone who thoroughly and irrationally hates Jim for no other reason than the fact that Jim is a good and honorable man. Had Jim screamed at Brown, "Hands off my plunder," Brown would have respected him as another pirate or as another mercenary, but Brown has never before encountered so perfect and so honorable a gentleman. Thus, Brown can only respond to Jim with disgust. On his deathbed, Brown is ultimately pleased that he "paid out the fellow" and that finally he did "make an end of him after all." Conrad gives us this information before we see the encounter between Jim and Brown in order to let us know that Jim should have handled Brown in an entirely different manner. In other words, the reader thoroughly dislikes Brown after this introduction to him, and he wishes futilely that Jim would have followed the advice of his associates who wanted him to destroy Brown. This chapter also confirms Jewel's earlier fear that Jim eventually would, like all the other white men, finally leave Patusan. But note that before meeting Jewel at Stein's house, Marlow meets Tamb' Itam, who cries out to Marlow that Jim "would not fight. He would not fight." To the incredibly loyal native, Jim's refusal to fight was totally incomprehensible and therefore unforgivable. The same is also true for Jewel: upon seeing Marlow, she immediately cries out that "He has left me . . . you always leave us -- for your own ends." She also feels that "It would have been easy to die with him." Jim's death confirms her earlier statements and fears. She could have accepted anything that Jim might have decided to do -- if his decision had been made with survival being uppermost in his mind. Jewel wanted Jim to save his own life, to fight for survival. She could have forgiven Jim anything -- except one unalterable fact: Jim deliberately chose death over a life with her. Because of this decision, she can never forgive him. The shock and horror of Jim's choice of death and honor over life and love is unfathomable to Jewel. Not surprisingly, it has changed her nature. Jewel has changed from "passion into stone." She has been betrayed by Jim, and she will never understand or ever recover from his betrayal of her. | 901 | 595 | [
0,
37,
416,
1379,
6,
8,
3,
29,
291,
52,
1016,
817,
7,
178,
24,
34,
31,
7,
97,
21,
376,
12,
281,
223,
12,
496,
5,
216,
31,
7,
59,
417,
125,
25,
317,
81,
58,
11475,
6,
62,
31,
60,
352,
12,
129,
95,
11,
1350,
81,
149,
231,
79,
31,
60,
2508,
81,
5,
299,
258,
132,
31,
7,
150,
80,
1307,
16,
8,
296,
5,
94,
31,
195,
36,
394,
145,
1321,
1307,
5,
275,
230,
48,
744,
31,
17,
310,
241,
12,
214,
572,
151,
278,
31,
17,
43,
136,
269,
12,
103,
959,
7595,
5,
328,
66,
2204,
12,
240,
326,
70,
293,
540,
30,
112,
293,
5,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0
] |
110 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/04.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_1_part_1.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 4 | chapter 4 | null | {"name": "CHAPTER 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD14.asp", "summary": "Joan refers to the \"complete fortune teller\" and is delighted to discover that Tess's future lies with nobility. She reveals this information to her husband when she joins him at Rolliver's Inn. She also tells him of her eagerness to send Tess to Trantridge, where their distant relations stay. Joan believes that Tess will be accepted into their family, a situation, which would brighten her matrimonial prospects. Abraham, Tess's younger brother, overhears his parent's conversation and reveals it to his sister. Little Abraham, who is fascinated with stars, feels that if Tess marries and becomes rich, he may some day own a spy-glass to draw the stars nearer. Since her father is in ill health and not doing well after his drinking at Rolliver's, Tess and Abraham leave early the next day to deliver the beehives to Casterbridge. On the way, their wagon is involved in an accident, and Prince, their horse, is killed. Tess blames herself for the terrible loss. A farmer takes the children on to the market and then delivers the dead Prince to Marlott. John refuses to sell the dead horse and works harder in burying him than he has worked in months.", "analysis": "Notes In this chapter, Tess is again pictured as the responsible member of the Durbeyfield family. Knowing that her father does not feel like delivering the beehives, she volunteers to go herself. Since she is leaving very early in the morning in order to accomplish her task, she wisely and responsibly takes Abraham with her for company. When Prince is killed in the accident, she blames herself much more harshly than her parents blame her; but she is really the only one who understands that the loss of the horse means a great interruption to the family and a loss of future income. Tess is also the only one who is not intrigued with the idea of her marrying a wealthy gentleman. Her parents view it as a way to end their poverty and misery. To Abraham, a wealthy marriage for Tess might mean a spyglass for him, a way to draw the stars nearer. But Tess is not a dreamer; instead, she is firmly rooted in the realities and concerns of the present. She knows her mother lives in an imaginary world of fortune-telling and her father drinks too much, works too little, and makes irrational decisions like the one to rent a carriage to take him home in Chapter 1 and the one to bury Prince rather than selling his body for cash that is much needed by the family. If the family is to survive the present, Tess must not dream about her future, but take care of the family's current needs"} |
Rolliver's inn, the single alehouse at this end of the long and
broken village, could only boast of an off-licence; hence, as
nobody could legally drink on the premises, the amount of overt
accommodation for consumers was strictly limited to a little board
about six inches wide and two yards long, fixed to the garden palings
by pieces of wire, so as to form a ledge. On this board thirsty
strangers deposited their cups as they stood in the road and drank,
and threw the dregs on the dusty ground to the pattern of Polynesia,
and wished they could have a restful seat inside.
Thus the strangers. But there were also local customers who felt the
same wish; and where there's a will there's a way.
In a large bedroom upstairs, the window of which was thickly
curtained with a great woollen shawl lately discarded by the
landlady, Mrs Rolliver, were gathered on this evening nearly a dozen
persons, all seeking beatitude; all old inhabitants of the nearer
end of Marlott, and frequenters of this retreat. Not only did the
distance to the The Pure Drop, the fully-licensed tavern at the
further part of the dispersed village, render its accommodation
practically unavailable for dwellers at this end; but the far more
serious question, the quality of the liquor, confirmed the prevalent
opinion that it was better to drink with Rolliver in a corner of the
housetop than with the other landlord in a wide house.
A gaunt four-post bedstead which stood in the room afforded
sitting-space for several persons gathered round three of its sides;
a couple more men had elevated themselves on a chest of drawers;
another rested on the oak-carved "cwoffer"; two on the wash-stand;
another on the stool; and thus all were, somehow, seated at their
ease. The stage of mental comfort to which they had arrived at this
hour was one wherein their souls expanded beyond their skins, and
spread their personalities warmly through the room. In this process
the chamber and its furniture grew more and more dignified and
luxurious; the shawl hanging at the window took upon itself the
richness of tapestry; the brass handles of the chest of drawers were
as golden knockers; and the carved bedposts seemed to have some
kinship with the magnificent pillars of Solomon's temple.
Mrs Durbeyfield, having quickly walked hitherward after parting from
Tess, opened the front door, crossed the downstairs room, which was
in deep gloom, and then unfastened the stair-door like one whose
fingers knew the tricks of the latches well. Her ascent of the
crooked staircase was a slower process, and her face, as it rose into
the light above the last stair, encountered the gaze of all the party
assembled in the bedroom.
"--Being a few private friends I've asked in to keep up club-walking
at my own expense," the landlady exclaimed at the sound of footsteps,
as glibly as a child repeating the Catechism, while she peered over
the stairs. "Oh, 'tis you, Mrs Durbeyfield--Lard--how you frightened
me!--I thought it might be some gaffer sent by Gover'ment."
Mrs Durbeyfield was welcomed with glances and nods by the remainder
of the conclave, and turned to where her husband sat. He was humming
absently to himself, in a low tone: "I be as good as some folks here
and there! I've got a great family vault at Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill,
and finer skillentons than any man in Wessex!"
"I've something to tell 'ee that's come into my head about that--a
grand projick!" whispered his cheerful wife. "Here, John, don't 'ee
see me?" She nudged him, while he, looking through her as through a
window-pane, went on with his recitative.
"Hush! Don't 'ee sing so loud, my good man," said the landlady; "in
case any member of the Gover'ment should be passing, and take away my
licends."
"He's told 'ee what's happened to us, I suppose?" asked Mrs
Durbeyfield.
"Yes--in a way. D'ye think there's any money hanging by it?"
"Ah, that's the secret," said Joan Durbeyfield sagely. "However,
'tis well to be kin to a coach, even if you don't ride in 'en." She
dropped her public voice, and continued in a low tone to her husband:
"I've been thinking since you brought the news that there's a great
rich lady out by Trantridge, on the edge o' The Chase, of the name of
d'Urberville."
"Hey--what's that?" said Sir John.
She repeated the information. "That lady must be our relation," she
said. "And my projick is to send Tess to claim kin."
"There IS a lady of the name, now you mention it," said Durbeyfield.
"Pa'son Tringham didn't think of that. But she's nothing beside
we--a junior branch of us, no doubt, hailing long since King Norman's
day."
While this question was being discussed neither of the pair noticed,
in their preoccupation, that little Abraham had crept into the room,
and was awaiting an opportunity of asking them to return.
"She is rich, and she'd be sure to take notice o' the maid,"
continued Mrs Durbeyfield; "and 'twill be a very good thing. I don't
see why two branches o' one family should not be on visiting terms."
"Yes; and we'll all claim kin!" said Abraham brightly from under the
bedstead. "And we'll all go and see her when Tess has gone to live
with her; and we'll ride in her coach and wear black clothes!"
"How do you come here, child? What nonsense be ye talking! Go away,
and play on the stairs till father and mother be ready! ... Well,
Tess ought to go to this other member of our family. She'd be sure
to win the lady--Tess would; and likely enough 'twould lead to some
noble gentleman marrying her. In short, I know it."
"How?"
"I tried her fate in the _Fortune-Teller_, and it brought out that
very thing! ... You should ha' seen how pretty she looked to-day;
her skin is as sumple as a duchess'."
"What says the maid herself to going?"
"I've not asked her. She don't know there is any such lady-relation
yet. But it would certainly put her in the way of a grand marriage,
and she won't say nay to going."
"Tess is queer."
"But she's tractable at bottom. Leave her to me."
Though this conversation had been private, sufficient of its import
reached the understandings of those around to suggest to them that
the Durbeyfields had weightier concerns to talk of now than common
folks had, and that Tess, their pretty eldest daughter, had fine
prospects in store.
"Tess is a fine figure o' fun, as I said to myself to-day when I zeed
her vamping round parish with the rest," observed one of the elderly
boozers in an undertone. "But Joan Durbeyfield must mind that she
don't get green malt in floor." It was a local phrase which had a
peculiar meaning, and there was no reply.
The conversation became inclusive, and presently other footsteps were
heard crossing the room below.
"--Being a few private friends asked in to-night to keep up
club-walking at my own expense." The landlady had rapidly re-used
the formula she kept on hand for intruders before she recognized that
the newcomer was Tess.
Even to her mother's gaze the girl's young features looked sadly
out of place amid the alcoholic vapours which floated here as
no unsuitable medium for wrinkled middle-age; and hardly was a
reproachful flash from Tess's dark eyes needed to make her father
and mother rise from their seats, hastily finish their ale, and
descend the stairs behind her, Mrs Rolliver's caution following
their footsteps.
"No noise, please, if ye'll be so good, my dears; or I mid lose my
licends, and be summons'd, and I don't know what all! 'Night t'ye!"
They went home together, Tess holding one arm of her father, and Mrs
Durbeyfield the other. He had, in truth, drunk very little--not a
fourth of the quantity which a systematic tippler could carry to
church on a Sunday afternoon without a hitch in his eastings or
genuflections; but the weakness of Sir John's constitution made
mountains of his petty sins in this kind. On reaching the fresh
air he was sufficiently unsteady to incline the row of three at one
moment as if they were marching to London, and at another as if they
were marching to Bath--which produced a comical effect, frequent
enough in families on nocturnal homegoings; and, like most comical
effects, not quite so comic after all. The two women valiantly
disguised these forced excursions and countermarches as well as they
could from Durbeyfield, their cause, and from Abraham, and from
themselves; and so they approached by degrees their own door, the
head of the family bursting suddenly into his former refrain as he
drew near, as if to fortify his soul at sight of the smallness of
his present residence--
"I've got a fam--ily vault at Kingsbere!"
"Hush--don't be so silly, Jacky," said his wife. "Yours is not the
only family that was of 'count in wold days. Look at the Anktells,
and Horseys, and the Tringhams themselves--gone to seed a'most as
much as you--though you was bigger folks than they, that's true.
Thank God, I was never of no family, and have nothing to be ashamed
of in that way!"
"Don't you be so sure o' that. From you nater 'tis my belief you've
disgraced yourselves more than any o' us, and was kings and queens
outright at one time."
Tess turned the subject by saying what was far more prominent in her
own mind at the moment than thoughts of her ancestry--"I am afraid
father won't be able to take the journey with the beehives to-morrow
so early."
"I? I shall be all right in an hour or two," said Durbeyfield.
It was eleven o'clock before the family were all in bed, and
two o'clock next morning was the latest hour for starting with
the beehives if they were to be delivered to the retailers in
Casterbridge before the Saturday market began, the way thither lying
by bad roads over a distance of between twenty and thirty miles, and
the horse and waggon being of the slowest. At half-past one Mrs
Durbeyfield came into the large bedroom where Tess and all her
little brothers and sisters slept.
"The poor man can't go," she said to her eldest daughter, whose great
eyes had opened the moment her mother's hand touched the door.
Tess sat up in bed, lost in a vague interspace between a dream and
this information.
"But somebody must go," she replied. "It is late for the hives
already. Swarming will soon be over for the year; and it we put off
taking 'em till next week's market the call for 'em will be past, and
they'll be thrown on our hands."
Mrs Durbeyfield looked unequal to the emergency. "Some young feller,
perhaps, would go? One of them who were so much after dancing with
'ee yesterday," she presently suggested.
"O no--I wouldn't have it for the world!" declared Tess proudly.
"And letting everybody know the reason--such a thing to be ashamed
of! I think _I_ could go if Abraham could go with me to kip me
company."
Her mother at length agreed to this arrangement. Little Abraham was
aroused from his deep sleep in a corner of the same apartment, and
made to put on his clothes while still mentally in the other world.
Meanwhile Tess had hastily dressed herself; and the twain, lighting
a lantern, went out to the stable. The rickety little waggon was
already laden, and the girl led out the horse, Prince, only a degree
less rickety than the vehicle.
The poor creature looked wonderingly round at the night, at the
lantern, at their two figures, as if he could not believe that at
that hour, when every living thing was intended to be in shelter and
at rest, he was called upon to go out and labour. They put a stock
of candle-ends into the lantern, hung the latter to the off-side of
the load, and directed the horse onward, walking at his shoulder at
first during the uphill parts of the way, in order not to overload
an animal of so little vigour. To cheer themselves as well as they
could, they made an artificial morning with the lantern, some bread
and butter, and their own conversation, the real morning being far
from come. Abraham, as he more fully awoke (for he had moved in a
sort of trance so far), began to talk of the strange shapes assumed
by the various dark objects against the sky; of this tree that looked
like a raging tiger springing from a lair; of that which resembled a
giant's head.
When they had passed the little town of Stourcastle, dumbly somnolent
under its thick brown thatch, they reached higher ground. Still
higher, on their left, the elevation called Bulbarrow, or Bealbarrow,
well-nigh the highest in South Wessex, swelled into the sky,
engirdled by its earthen trenches. From hereabout the long road was
fairly level for some distance onward. They mounted in front of the
waggon, and Abraham grew reflective.
"Tess!" he said in a preparatory tone, after a silence.
"Yes, Abraham."
"Bain't you glad that we've become gentlefolk?"
"Not particular glad."
"But you be glad that you 'm going to marry a gentleman?"
"What?" said Tess, lifting her face.
"That our great relation will help 'ee to marry a gentleman."
"I? Our great relation? We have no such relation. What has put
that into your head?"
"I heard 'em talking about it up at Rolliver's when I went to find
father. There's a rich lady of our family out at Trantridge, and
mother said that if you claimed kin with the lady, she'd put 'ee in
the way of marrying a gentleman."
His sister became abruptly still, and lapsed into a pondering
silence. Abraham talked on, rather for the pleasure of utterance
than for audition, so that his sister's abstraction was of no
account. He leant back against the hives, and with upturned face
made observations on the stars, whose cold pulses were beating
amid the black hollows above, in serene dissociation from these two
wisps of human life. He asked how far away those twinklers were,
and whether God was on the other side of them. But ever and anon
his childish prattle recurred to what impressed his imagination
even more deeply than the wonders of creation. If Tess were made
rich by marrying a gentleman, would she have money enough to buy a
spyglass so large that it would draw the stars as near to her as
Nettlecombe-Tout?
The renewed subject, which seemed to have impregnated the whole
family, filled Tess with impatience.
"Never mind that now!" she exclaimed.
"Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?"
"Yes."
"All like ours?"
"I don't know; but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the
apples on our stubbard-tree. Most of them splendid and sound--a few
blighted."
"Which do we live on--a splendid one or a blighted one?"
"A blighted one."
"'Tis very unlucky that we didn't pitch on a sound one, when there
were so many more of 'em!"
"Yes."
"Is it like that REALLY, Tess?" said Abraham, turning to her much
impressed, on reconsideration of this rare information. "How would
it have been if we had pitched on a sound one?"
"Well, father wouldn't have coughed and creeped about as he does,
and wouldn't have got too tipsy to go on this journey; and mother
wouldn't have been always washing, and never getting finished."
"And you would have been a rich lady ready-made, and not have had to
be made rich by marrying a gentleman?"
"O Aby, don't--don't talk of that any more!"
Left to his reflections Abraham soon grew drowsy. Tess was not
skilful in the management of a horse, but she thought that she could
take upon herself the entire conduct of the load for the present and
allow Abraham to go to sleep if he wished to do so. She made him a
sort of nest in front of the hives, in such a manner that he could
not fall, and, taking the reins into her own hands, jogged on as
before.
Prince required but slight attention, lacking energy for superfluous
movements of any sort. With no longer a companion to distract her,
Tess fell more deeply into reverie than ever, her back leaning
against the hives. The mute procession past her shoulders of trees
and hedges became attached to fantastic scenes outside reality, and
the occasional heave of the wind became the sigh of some immense sad
soul, conterminous with the universe in space, and with history in
time.
Then, examining the mesh of events in her own life, she seemed to see
the vanity of her father's pride; the gentlemanly suitor awaiting
herself in her mother's fancy; to see him as a grimacing personage,
laughing at her poverty and her shrouded knightly ancestry.
Everything grew more and more extravagant, and she no longer knew how
time passed. A sudden jerk shook her in her seat, and Tess awoke
from the sleep into which she, too, had fallen.
They were a long way further on than when she had lost consciousness,
and the waggon had stopped. A hollow groan, unlike anything she had
ever heard in her life, came from the front, followed by a shout of
"Hoi there!"
The lantern hanging at her waggon had gone out, but another was
shining in her face--much brighter than her own had been. Something
terrible had happened. The harness was entangled with an object
which blocked the way.
In consternation Tess jumped down, and discovered the dreadful truth.
The groan had proceeded from her father's poor horse Prince. The
morning mail-cart, with its two noiseless wheels, speeding along
these lanes like an arrow, as it always did, had driven into her slow
and unlighted equipage. The pointed shaft of the cart had entered
the breast of the unhappy Prince like a sword, and from the wound his
life's blood was spouting in a stream, and falling with a hiss into
the road.
In her despair Tess sprang forward and put her hand upon the hole,
with the only result that she became splashed from face to skirt with
the crimson drops. Then she stood helplessly looking on. Prince
also stood firm and motionless as long as he could; till he suddenly
sank down in a heap.
By this time the mail-cart man had joined her, and began dragging and
unharnessing the hot form of Prince. But he was already dead, and,
seeing that nothing more could be done immediately, the mail-cart man
returned to his own animal, which was uninjured.
"You was on the wrong side," he said. "I am bound to go on with the
mail-bags, so that the best thing for you to do is bide here with
your load. I'll send somebody to help you as soon as I can. It is
getting daylight, and you have nothing to fear."
He mounted and sped on his way; while Tess stood and waited. The
atmosphere turned pale, the birds shook themselves in the hedges,
arose, and twittered; the lane showed all its white features, and
Tess showed hers, still whiter. The huge pool of blood in front of
her was already assuming the iridescence of coagulation; and when the
sun rose a hundred prismatic hues were reflected from it. Prince lay
alongside, still and stark; his eyes half open, the hole in his chest
looking scarcely large enough to have let out all that had animated
him.
"'Tis all my doing--all mine!" the girl cried, gazing at the
spectacle. "No excuse for me--none. What will mother and father
live on now? Aby, Aby!" She shook the child, who had slept soundly
through the whole disaster. "We can't go on with our load--Prince
is killed!"
When Abraham realized all, the furrows of fifty years were
extemporized on his young face.
"Why, I danced and laughed only yesterday!" she went on to herself.
"To think that I was such a fool!"
"'Tis because we be on a blighted star, and not a sound one, isn't
it, Tess?" murmured Abraham through his tears.
In silence they waited through an interval which seemed endless. At
length a sound, and an approaching object, proved to them that the
driver of the mail-car had been as good as his word. A farmer's
man from near Stourcastle came up, leading a strong cob. He was
harnessed to the waggon of beehives in the place of Prince, and the
load taken on towards Casterbridge.
The evening of the same day saw the empty waggon reach again the
spot of the accident. Prince had lain there in the ditch since the
morning; but the place of the blood-pool was still visible in the
middle of the road, though scratched and scraped over by passing
vehicles. All that was left of Prince was now hoisted into the
waggon he had formerly hauled, and with his hoofs in the air, and his
shoes shining in the setting sunlight, he retraced the eight or nine
miles to Marlott.
Tess had gone back earlier. How to break the news was more than she
could think. It was a relief to her tongue to find from the faces of
her parents that they already knew of their loss, though this did not
lessen the self-reproach which she continued to heap upon herself for
her negligence.
But the very shiftlessness of the household rendered the misfortune
a less terrifying one to them than it would have been to a thriving
family, though in the present case it meant ruin, and in the other it
would only have meant inconvenience. In the Durbeyfield countenances
there was nothing of the red wrath that would have burnt upon the
girl from parents more ambitious for her welfare. Nobody blamed Tess
as she blamed herself.
When it was discovered that the knacker and tanner would give only a
very few shillings for Prince's carcase because of his decrepitude,
Durbeyfield rose to the occasion.
"No," said he stoically, "I won't sell his old body. When we
d'Urbervilles was knights in the land, we didn't sell our chargers
for cat's meat. Let 'em keep their shillings! He've served me well
in his lifetime, and I won't part from him now."
He worked harder the next day in digging a grave for Prince in the
garden than he had worked for months to grow a crop for his family.
When the hole was ready, Durbeyfield and his wife tied a rope round
the horse and dragged him up the path towards it, the children
following in funeral train. Abraham and 'Liza-Lu sobbed, Hope and
Modesty discharged their griefs in loud blares which echoed from the
walls; and when Prince was tumbled in they gathered round the grave.
The bread-winner had been taken away from them; what would they do?
"Is he gone to heaven?" asked Abraham, between the sobs.
Then Durbeyfield began to shovel in the earth, and the children cried
anew. All except Tess. Her face was dry and pale, as though she
regarded herself in the light of a murderess.
| 3,615 | CHAPTER 4 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD14.asp | Joan refers to the "complete fortune teller" and is delighted to discover that Tess's future lies with nobility. She reveals this information to her husband when she joins him at Rolliver's Inn. She also tells him of her eagerness to send Tess to Trantridge, where their distant relations stay. Joan believes that Tess will be accepted into their family, a situation, which would brighten her matrimonial prospects. Abraham, Tess's younger brother, overhears his parent's conversation and reveals it to his sister. Little Abraham, who is fascinated with stars, feels that if Tess marries and becomes rich, he may some day own a spy-glass to draw the stars nearer. Since her father is in ill health and not doing well after his drinking at Rolliver's, Tess and Abraham leave early the next day to deliver the beehives to Casterbridge. On the way, their wagon is involved in an accident, and Prince, their horse, is killed. Tess blames herself for the terrible loss. A farmer takes the children on to the market and then delivers the dead Prince to Marlott. John refuses to sell the dead horse and works harder in burying him than he has worked in months. | Notes In this chapter, Tess is again pictured as the responsible member of the Durbeyfield family. Knowing that her father does not feel like delivering the beehives, she volunteers to go herself. Since she is leaving very early in the morning in order to accomplish her task, she wisely and responsibly takes Abraham with her for company. When Prince is killed in the accident, she blames herself much more harshly than her parents blame her; but she is really the only one who understands that the loss of the horse means a great interruption to the family and a loss of future income. Tess is also the only one who is not intrigued with the idea of her marrying a wealthy gentleman. Her parents view it as a way to end their poverty and misery. To Abraham, a wealthy marriage for Tess might mean a spyglass for him, a way to draw the stars nearer. But Tess is not a dreamer; instead, she is firmly rooted in the realities and concerns of the present. She knows her mother lives in an imaginary world of fortune-telling and her father drinks too much, works too little, and makes irrational decisions like the one to rent a carriage to take him home in Chapter 1 and the one to bury Prince rather than selling his body for cash that is much needed by the family. If the family is to survive the present, Tess must not dream about her future, but take care of the family's current needs | 197 | 255 | [
0,
37,
416,
1379,
6,
8,
3,
29,
291,
52,
1016,
817,
7,
178,
24,
34,
31,
7,
97,
21,
376,
12,
281,
223,
12,
1524,
5,
216,
987,
7,
572,
3,
88,
31,
7,
352,
12,
36,
4464,
11,
258,
1550,
30,
12,
1350,
81,
125,
2817,
28,
112,
2512,
5,
299,
132,
31,
7,
150,
1053,
572,
79,
278,
31,
17,
241,
12,
20111,
1321,
1307,
5,
94,
744,
31,
17,
1727,
114,
48,
19,
250,
151,
33,
310,
1095,
44,
66,
5,
11475,
6,
17945,
6,
62,
31,
60,
131,
1119,
12,
129,
91,
13,
70,
194,
5,
275,
230,
25,
214,
58,
11475,
233,
11475,
11475,
55,
27,
31,
195,
43,
136,
72,
145,
959,
1307,
5,
101,
54,
31,
17,
317,
10,
96,
196,
737,
31,
17,
857,
25,
4609,
264,
78,
18,
18,
4188,
31,
60,
59,
417,
125,
25,
31,
162,
530,
535,
1142,
258,
6,
921,
2347,
95,
16,
8,
2214,
13,
8,
706,
5,
3359,
17945,
6,
2087,
255,
31,
7,
118,
2508,
81,
149,
231,
540,
255,
2746,
12,
805,
160,
7595,
5,
451,
845,
4273,
6,
713,
6,
437,
255,
31,
26,
1066,
103,
424,
207,
631,
12,
143,
378,
4131,
5,
852,
270,
31,
7,
128,
10088,
10088,
10088,
2005,
5,
3836,
80,
239,
6,
1363,
5,
10024,
346,
639,
234,
45,
496,
5,
8667,
5,
16354,
28854,
65,
369,
12,
217,
135,
541,
5,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0
] |
161 | false | pinkmonkey | all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/12.txt | finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_11_part_0.txt | Sense and Sensibility.chapter 12 | chapter 12 | null | {"name": "Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility27.asp", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters are busy attending parties and balls. Marianne is in her element. She is overjoyed in the company of Willoughby, who showers much affection and attention on her. Elinor even feels left out at times. Deprived of friends of her own age, she is often thrown in the company of Mrs. Jennings and Lady Middleton. At such times she welcomes the presence of Colonel Brandon. Brandon often talks of Marianne and asks Elinor about her sister's preferences.", "analysis": "Notes Jane Austen paints the picture of an eighteenth-century upper middle-class society. The Dashwoods and Middletons are shown to be busy attending parties and balls. Their main occupation is socializing, and they take pleasure in entertaining people. Every young girl waits for a respectable young man to woo her, and her parents hope for a match between them. They lead a leisurely life, perhaps unusual to the modern reader. Marianne is exhilarated by the looks and manners of her lover. She does not care to understand his essential nature. Obsessed with Willoughby, she ignores Colonel Brandon and unconsciously hurts him. Blinded by her infatuation for Willoughby, she is not able to realize the worth of the Colonel or detect the intensity of his feelings. This chapter again emphasizes the difference in attitudes between Willoughby and Colonel Brandon. Both men are attracted to Marianne. Willoughby displays his affection by wooing Marianne, like a dashing hero would, while Colonel Brandon admires his lady love from a distance and silently hopes to win her favor. Willoughby is interested only in flirting with Marianne, but the Colonel, like a sincere person, looks forward to a lasting relationship. CHAPTER 12 Summary Marianne gets carried away by Willoughby's showy gestures. When he offers her a horse, she accepts it readily and talks about it to her sister. Elinor is shocked to learn this and asks Marianne to decline the offer, as it would prove too costly for them. Elinor observes Willoughby's behavior towards her sister and detects a note of intimacy in it. Margaret tells Elinor about her suspicion of an engagement between Marianne and Willoughby. Later, at Mrs. Jennings' insistence, Margaret gives a hint about Elinor's attachment to Edward, much to Elinor's embarrassment. Notes The chapter hints at the extent of the involvement of Marianne with Willoughby. Willoughby tries to impress Marianne by offering her a horse as a gift, and Marianne foolishly accepts the offer without giving a thought to the expenditure involved. Willoughby's superficiality and Marianne's gullibility are exposed in this episode. Chapter 12 also reveals the character of the youngest of the Dashwood girls. Margaret, one of the minor characters in the novel, is otherwise ignored by Austen. Only a few chapters give a glimpse into her personality. Margaret, like a typical teenager, gets excited over little things and jumps to conclusions easily. She derives pleasure from revealing secrets. She informs Elinor about the impending marriage between Marianne and Willoughby because she saw the young man taking a lock of hair from her sister . At the Park, she gives hints about the relationship between Elinor and Edward to Mrs. Jennings, much to the embarrassment of her sister. Like a reckless teenager, she is always in a hurry to impart information not meant to be disclosed publicly. CHAPTER 13 Summary Everyone is eagerly looking forward to their picnic at Whitewell. However, on the morning of the outing, a letter arrives for Colonel Brandon and alters the situation. The letter disturbs Brandon, and he informs the others about his decision to leave immediately for the town. The picnic is canceled, much to the disappointment of all, since it is not possible to proceed to Whitewell without the assistance of the Colonel. Sir John Middleton suggests that they should go for a ride in the carriage around the countryside. Marianne and Willoughby take a separate carriage. They visit Allenham on the sly. When Elinor learns about their visit, she is angry with Marianne for not observing the rules of propriety. Marianne justifies her action. Notes An element of suspense is introduced in this chapter. After the Colonel reads the letter, he turns grave and decides to leave for the town immediately. He evades the questions of Mrs. Jennings and declines to postpone his visit. After he leaves, Mrs. Jennings hints at the possibility of his visiting his illegitimate daughter, Miss Williams. Through this bit of information, Austen arouses the curiosity of the reader regarding the mysterious past of Colonel Brandon. Marianne and Willoughby are insensitive to the feelings of the Colonel and fail to sympathize with his plight. They criticize Brandon for spoiling the afternoon. Colonel Brandon comes across as a man in control of his emotions. Even though he is disturbed by the contents of the letter, he does not reveal his misery to others. Like a gentleman, he excuses himself from the party and bows to Marianne before taking his leave. His silence speaks volumes. The chapter relates one more incident which creates a clash between the good sense of Elinor and the sensibility of Marianne. Marianne makes a secret visit to Allenham with Willoughby but does not feel guilty about what she has done. Elinor's sense of decorum causes her to condemn her sister's actions, as she does not approve of Marianne's visiting a stranger's house with a man to whom she is not even engaged, at least not openly."} |
As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the
latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of
all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,
surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,
with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one
that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was
exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was
not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter
her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the
servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable
to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and
told her sister of it in raptures.
"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,"
she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall
share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the
delight of a gallop on some of these downs."
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for
some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,
the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to
it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the
park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then
ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a
man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much.
"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very
little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the
world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is
to determine intimacy;--it is disposition alone. Seven years would be
insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven
days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of
greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from
Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together
for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed."
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her
sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach
her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for
her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent
mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she
consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly
subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent
kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
him next, that it must be declined.
She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the
cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to
him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his
present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time
related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side
impossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after
expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,--"But,
Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I
shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to
form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall
receive you."
This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the
sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her
sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between
them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each
other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or
any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover
it by accident.
Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this
matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding
evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour
with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,
which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest
sister, when they were next by themselves.
"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about
Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."
"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first
met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I
believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round
her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great
uncle."
"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be
married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."
"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of
HIS."
"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I
saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out
of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could
be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took
up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all
tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of
white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."
For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not
withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance
was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.
Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory
to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the
park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular
favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,
Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not
tell, may I, Elinor?"
This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed
on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a
standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good
to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to
Margaret,
"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
repeat them."
"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you
who told me of it yourself."
This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly
pressed to say something more.
"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs.
Jennings. "What is the gentleman's name?"
"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know
where he is too."
"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be
sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."
"No, THAT he is not. He is of no profession at all."
"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is
an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
existence."
"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such
a man once, and his name begins with an F."
Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this
moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the
interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her
ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as
delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was
immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion
mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of
rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked
Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of
different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so
easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.
A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a
very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a
brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not
be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders
on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and
Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed
to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at
least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a
noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the
morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages
only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a
complete party of pleasure.
To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,
considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the
last fortnight;--and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was
persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.
| 1,559 | Chapter 12 | https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility27.asp | Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters are busy attending parties and balls. Marianne is in her element. She is overjoyed in the company of Willoughby, who showers much affection and attention on her. Elinor even feels left out at times. Deprived of friends of her own age, she is often thrown in the company of Mrs. Jennings and Lady Middleton. At such times she welcomes the presence of Colonel Brandon. Brandon often talks of Marianne and asks Elinor about her sister's preferences. | Notes Jane Austen paints the picture of an eighteenth-century upper middle-class society. The Dashwoods and Middletons are shown to be busy attending parties and balls. Their main occupation is socializing, and they take pleasure in entertaining people. Every young girl waits for a respectable young man to woo her, and her parents hope for a match between them. They lead a leisurely life, perhaps unusual to the modern reader. Marianne is exhilarated by the looks and manners of her lover. She does not care to understand his essential nature. Obsessed with Willoughby, she ignores Colonel Brandon and unconsciously hurts him. Blinded by her infatuation for Willoughby, she is not able to realize the worth of the Colonel or detect the intensity of his feelings. This chapter again emphasizes the difference in attitudes between Willoughby and Colonel Brandon. Both men are attracted to Marianne. Willoughby displays his affection by wooing Marianne, like a dashing hero would, while Colonel Brandon admires his lady love from a distance and silently hopes to win her favor. Willoughby is interested only in flirting with Marianne, but the Colonel, like a sincere person, looks forward to a lasting relationship. CHAPTER 12 Summary Marianne gets carried away by Willoughby's showy gestures. When he offers her a horse, she accepts it readily and talks about it to her sister. Elinor is shocked to learn this and asks Marianne to decline the offer, as it would prove too costly for them. Elinor observes Willoughby's behavior towards her sister and detects a note of intimacy in it. Margaret tells Elinor about her suspicion of an engagement between Marianne and Willoughby. Later, at Mrs. Jennings' insistence, Margaret gives a hint about Elinor's attachment to Edward, much to Elinor's embarrassment. Notes The chapter hints at the extent of the involvement of Marianne with Willoughby. Willoughby tries to impress Marianne by offering her a horse as a gift, and Marianne foolishly accepts the offer without giving a thought to the expenditure involved. Willoughby's superficiality and Marianne's gullibility are exposed in this episode. Chapter 12 also reveals the character of the youngest of the Dashwood girls. Margaret, one of the minor characters in the novel, is otherwise ignored by Austen. Only a few chapters give a glimpse into her personality. Margaret, like a typical teenager, gets excited over little things and jumps to conclusions easily. She derives pleasure from revealing secrets. She informs Elinor about the impending marriage between Marianne and Willoughby because she saw the young man taking a lock of hair from her sister . At the Park, she gives hints about the relationship between Elinor and Edward to Mrs. Jennings, much to the embarrassment of her sister. Like a reckless teenager, she is always in a hurry to impart information not meant to be disclosed publicly. CHAPTER 13 Summary Everyone is eagerly looking forward to their picnic at Whitewell. However, on the morning of the outing, a letter arrives for Colonel Brandon and alters the situation. The letter disturbs Brandon, and he informs the others about his decision to leave immediately for the town. The picnic is canceled, much to the disappointment of all, since it is not possible to proceed to Whitewell without the assistance of the Colonel. Sir John Middleton suggests that they should go for a ride in the carriage around the countryside. Marianne and Willoughby take a separate carriage. They visit Allenham on the sly. When Elinor learns about their visit, she is angry with Marianne for not observing the rules of propriety. Marianne justifies her action. Notes An element of suspense is introduced in this chapter. After the Colonel reads the letter, he turns grave and decides to leave for the town immediately. He evades the questions of Mrs. Jennings and declines to postpone his visit. After he leaves, Mrs. Jennings hints at the possibility of his visiting his illegitimate daughter, Miss Williams. Through this bit of information, Austen arouses the curiosity of the reader regarding the mysterious past of Colonel Brandon. Marianne and Willoughby are insensitive to the feelings of the Colonel and fail to sympathize with his plight. They criticize Brandon for spoiling the afternoon. Colonel Brandon comes across as a man in control of his emotions. Even though he is disturbed by the contents of the letter, he does not reveal his misery to others. Like a gentleman, he excuses himself from the party and bows to Marianne before taking his leave. His silence speaks volumes. The chapter relates one more incident which creates a clash between the good sense of Elinor and the sensibility of Marianne. Marianne makes a secret visit to Allenham with Willoughby but does not feel guilty about what she has done. Elinor's sense of decorum causes her to condemn her sister's actions, as she does not approve of Marianne's visiting a stranger's house with a man to whom she is not even engaged, at least not openly. | 81 | 819 | [
0,
37,
3,
29,
291,
52,
1016,
817,
7,
178,
24,
34,
31,
7,
8,
166,
589,
12,
103,
28,
8,
8540,
509,
226,
15,
7,
6,
68,
79,
31,
60,
352,
12,
36,
16,
333,
28,
1321,
1307,
5,
94,
31,
7,
131,
114,
48,
6,
713,
6,
11,
62,
31,
60,
59,
417,
125,
25,
317,
81,
58,
11475,
6,
17945,
6,
27,
31,
195,
129,
223,
44,
66,
5,
101,
278,
31,
17,
310,
241,
12,
281,
91,
30,
70,
194,
234,
5,
328,
31,
60,
2508,
81,
149,
231,
540,
255,
2746,
12,
20111,
376,
5,
451,
744,
31,
17,
214,
213,
160,
2553,
19,
6,
78,
255,
2347,
95,
21,
3,
9,
1482,
5,
6656,
1550,
326,
139,
8,
629,
13,
8,
19461,
1803,
7,
18,
18,
232,
258,
132,
31,
7,
150,
1053,
572,
151,
33,
692,
959,
1786,
5,
1142,
258,
6,
1363,
5,
8540,
509,
4,
639,
323,
45,
112,
562,
11,
987,
7,
823,
3,
88,
31,
7,
652,
4464,
5,
216,
2204,
7,
12,
240,
124,
13,
135,
38,
307,
38,
487,
5,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0
] |
2,166 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/2166-chapters/04.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/King Solomon's Mines/section_2_part_0.txt | King Solomon's Mines.chapter 4 | chapter 4 | null | {"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200804024551/https://www.gradesaver.com/king-solomons-mines/study-guide/summary-chapter-4", "summary": "Quatermain relates how the newly formed party journeys from Durban to Sitanda's Kraal, a trek of over a thousand miles. The journey takes nearly four months, during which they encounter events common to such an expedition. By the time they reach Inyata, they are forced to leave their wagon since eight of the twenty oxen have perished or been lost. The wagon is left in the care of the two Zulu servants, Goza and Tom, who are instructed to seek out a Scottish missionary in the area to take care of the wagon. The hunting party of Quatermain, Sir Henry, Captain Good, Umbopa, Khiva and Ventvogel--along with several bearers carrying their belongings--continue their trip. Along the way, Umbopa further proves his value by chanting an upbeat Zulu song promising a good end to the journey. About two weeks' march from Inyata, the party enters a beautiful area full of wild giraffes. As the giraffes gallop away, Captain Good tries for a shot at them on a whim; to his surprise, he manages to hit a distant giraffe in the spine and kill it with his single shot. Although Quatermain declares the shot lucky and not characteristic of Good's usual hunting prowess in his narrative, he nonetheless relates how this amazing shot gives Good a reputation for accuracy among the rest of the hunting party. The men camp that night and, prior to sleep, hear the low growl of a lion nearby. They also hear an elephant; this leads Sir Henry to consider pausing in their quest for his lost brother long enough to hunt for a day or two. During the night they are awakened by a fearful noise and splashing from the nearby river--they discover it to be the lion and his would-be prey, an antelope, locked in the throes of their death-struggle. Both animals die, killed by the ferocity or fear of each other, and Quatermain's party reaps the benefit of their animosity by skinning both animals and filleting the antelope for food. The next day the party encounters a herd of elephants, which they fire upon. Sir Henry fells his elephant in one shot. Quatermain's target runs away after being struck, forcing the hunter to pursue it to take it down. Captain Good hits the bull elephant, but instead of fleeing it turns on its attacker and charges Good. Once the bull has passed, the party chooses to follow the herd rather than the wounded bull elephant. In all, Quatermain's party collects eight elephants. In the meantime, Captain Good has run afoul of the wounded bull elephant. Quatermain and his fellows hear the enraged elephant, then see it crashing through the greenery in hot pursuit of Captain Good and Khiva. Good falls--slipping on his over-\"civilized\" polished boots--and is nearly done for, but Khiva draws the bull's attention by throwing his spear at it. The bull elephant turns its ire on Khiva, crushing him under one foot while pulling him in half with its trunk. Captain Good is moved to anguish by Khiva's sacrifice, and Quatermain almost weeps, but the implacable Umbopa stares thoughtfully at Khiva's remains and states \"he is dead, but he died like a man.\"", "analysis": "The mixed European attitude toward Africans is again expressed through Quatermain's account, particularly touching on the actions of Umbopa. When Umpoba begins the chant which keeps the weary travelers' moral high, Quatermain says of him, \"He was a cheerful savage, was Umpoba, in a dignified sort of way, when he had not got one of his fits of brooding, and had wonderful knack of keeping one's spirits up. We all got very fond of him\" . This combination of dignity, cheer, and brooding continues to mystify Quatermain throughout the rest of the journey. By connecting the word \"dignity\" to Umbopa again , Haggard sets the reader up for the future reveal of Umbopa's true heritage. The incident of the elephant hunt establishes the danger of Quatermain's usual line of work, thus giving credence to his motivations for taking the money offered by Sir Henry to establish his son's medical practice. Quatermain attempts to live his life knowing that he will one day die--but cannot prevent it--and so he lives it to its fullest, doing what he knows how to do well. The problem of Colonialism may be symbolized in the seemingly random incident of the lion and the antelope. Quatermain and the others see: On the grass there lay a sable antelope bull--the most beautiful of all the African antelopes--quite dead, and transfixed by its great curved horns was a magnificent black-maned lion, also dead. what had happened evidently was this. The sable antelope had come down to drink at the pool where the lion--no doubt the same we had heard--had been lying in wait. While the antelope was drinking the lion had sprung upon him, but was received upon the sharp curved horns and transfixed. I once saw the same thing happen before. The lion, unable to free himself, had torn and bitten at the back and neck of the bull, which, maddened with fear and pain, had rushed on till it dropped dead. While easily counted as merely an interesting detail pulled from Haggard's own life, it is telling that the lion is one of the symbols associated with England, while the antelope--a prominent species in Africa--is sable . The one has attacked the other to get what it wants from it, but in the process has let itself become entangled with the would-be prey and killed along with it. The similarities to George Orwell's later work \"Shooting an Elephant\" are striking. Quatermain's seeming jealousy at Captain Good's \"lucky\" shot further contrasts the two men: Quatermain is a rugged, world-worn hunter of many years' hard experience, while Good is a fastidious Naval officer who has no business making expert shots in Quatermain's demesne. Quatermain notes specifically how \"Good fell a victim to his passion for civilized dress\" when attempting to evade the charging bull elephant, pointing out how seriously out of his element the Captain truly is. However, Good's medical skills are brought to the fore, giving the over-dignified Briton a more practical function on the journey, particularly in Quatermain's eyes."} | Now I do not propose to narrate at full length all the incidents of our
long travel up to Sitanda's Kraal, near the junction of the Lukanga and
Kalukwe Rivers. It was a journey of more than a thousand miles from
Durban, the last three hundred or so of which we had to make on foot,
owing to the frequent presence of the dreadful "tsetse" fly, whose bite
is fatal to all animals except donkeys and men.
We left Durban at the end of January, and it was in the second week of
May that we camped near Sitanda's Kraal. Our adventures on the way were
many and various, but as they are of the sort which befall every
African hunter--with one exception to be presently detailed--I shall
not set them down here, lest I should render this history too wearisome.
At Inyati, the outlying trading station in the Matabele country, of
which Lobengula (a great and cruel scoundrel) is king, with many
regrets we parted from our comfortable wagon. Only twelve oxen remained
to us out of the beautiful span of twenty which I had bought at Durban.
One we lost from the bite of a cobra, three had perished from "poverty"
and the want of water, one strayed, and the other three died from
eating the poisonous herb called "tulip." Five more sickened from this
cause, but we managed to cure them with doses of an infusion made by
boiling down the tulip leaves. If administered in time this is a very
effective antidote.
The wagon and the oxen we left in the immediate charge of Goza and Tom,
our driver and leader, both trustworthy boys, requesting a worthy
Scotch missionary who lived in this distant place to keep an eye on
them. Then, accompanied by Umbopa, Khiva, Ventvoegel, and half a dozen
bearers whom we hired on the spot, we started off on foot upon our wild
quest. I remember we were all a little silent on the occasion of this
departure, and I think that each of us was wondering if we should ever
see our wagon again; for my part I never expected to do so. For a while
we tramped on in silence, till Umbopa, who was marching in front, broke
into a Zulu chant about how some brave men, tired of life and the
tameness of things, started off into a vast wilderness to find new
things or die, and how, lo and behold! when they had travelled far into
the wilderness they found that it was not a wilderness at all, but a
beautiful place full of young wives and fat cattle, of game to hunt and
enemies to kill.
Then we all laughed and took it for a good omen. Umbopa was a cheerful
savage, in a dignified sort of way, when he was not suffering from one
of his fits of brooding, and he had a wonderful knack of keeping up our
spirits. We all grew very fond of him.
And now for the one adventure to which I am going to treat myself, for
I do dearly love a hunting yarn.
About a fortnight's march from Inyati we came across a peculiarly
beautiful bit of well-watered woodland country. The kloofs in the hills
were covered with dense bush, "idoro" bush as the natives call it, and
in some places, with the "wacht-een-beche," or "wait-a-little thorn,"
and there were great quantities of the lovely "machabell" tree, laden
with refreshing yellow fruit having enormous stones. This tree is the
elephant's favourite food, and there were not wanting signs that the
great brutes had been about, for not only was their spoor frequent, but
in many places the trees were broken down and even uprooted. The
elephant is a destructive feeder.
One evening, after a long day's march, we came to a spot of great
loveliness. At the foot of a bush-clad hill lay a dry river-bed, in
which, however, were to be found pools of crystal water all trodden
round with the hoof-prints of game. Facing this hill was a park-like
plain, where grew clumps of flat-topped mimosa, varied with occasional
glossy-leaved machabells, and all round stretched the sea of pathless,
silent bush.
As we emerged into this river-bed path suddenly we started a troop of
tall giraffes, who galloped, or rather sailed off, in their strange
gait, their tails screwed up over their backs, and their hoofs rattling
like castanets. They were about three hundred yards from us, and
therefore practically out of shot, but Good, who was walking ahead, and
who had an express loaded with solid ball in his hand, could not resist
temptation. Lifting his gun, he let drive at the last, a young cow. By
some extraordinary chance the ball struck it full on the back of the
neck, shattering the spinal column, and that giraffe went rolling head
over heels just like a rabbit. I never saw a more curious thing.
"Curse it!" said Good--for I am sorry to say he had a habit of using
strong language when excited--contracted, no doubt, in the course of
his nautical career; "curse it! I've killed him."
"_Ou_, Bougwan," ejaculated the Kafirs; "_ou! ou!_"
They called Good "Bougwan," or Glass Eye, because of his eye-glass.
"Oh, 'Bougwan!'" re-echoed Sir Henry and I, and from that day Good's
reputation as a marvellous shot was established, at any rate among the
Kafirs. Really he was a bad one, but whenever he missed we overlooked
it for the sake of that giraffe.
Having set some of the "boys" to cut off the best of the giraffe's
meat, we went to work to build a "scherm" near one of the pools and
about a hundred yards to its right. This is done by cutting a quantity
of thorn bushes and piling them in the shape of a circular hedge. Then
the space enclosed is smoothed, and dry tambouki grass, if obtainable,
is made into a bed in the centre, and a fire or fires lighted.
By the time the "scherm" was finished the moon peeped up, and our
dinners of giraffe steaks and roasted marrow-bones were ready. How we
enjoyed those marrow-bones, though it was rather a job to crack them! I
know of no greater luxury than giraffe marrow, unless it is elephant's
heart, and we had that on the morrow. We ate our simple meal by the
light of the moon, pausing at times to thank Good for his wonderful
shot; then we began to smoke and yarn, and a curious picture we must
have made squatting there round the fire. I, with my short grizzled
hair sticking up straight, and Sir Henry with his yellow locks, which
were getting rather long, were rather a contrast, especially as I am
thin, and short, and dark, weighing only nine stone and a half, and Sir
Henry is tall, and broad, and fair, and weighs fifteen. But perhaps the
most curious-looking of the three, taking all the circumstances of the
case into consideration, was Captain John Good, R.N. There he sat upon
a leather bag, looking just as though he had come in from a comfortable
day's shooting in a civilised country, absolutely clean, tidy, and well
dressed. He wore a shooting suit of brown tweed, with a hat to match,
and neat gaiters. As usual, he was beautifully shaved, his eye-glass
and his false teeth appeared to be in perfect order, and altogether he
looked the neatest man I ever had to do with in the wilderness. He even
sported a collar, of which he had a supply, made of white gutta-percha.
"You see, they weigh so little," he said to me innocently, when I
expressed my astonishment at the fact; "and I always like to turn out
like a gentleman." Ah! if he could have foreseen the future and the
raiment prepared for him.
Well, there we three sat yarning away in the beautiful moonlight, and
watching the Kafirs a few yards off sucking their intoxicating "daccha"
from a pipe of which the mouthpiece was made of the horn of an eland,
till one by one they rolled themselves up in their blankets and went to
sleep by the fire, that is, all except Umbopa, who was a little apart,
his chin resting on his hand, and thinking deeply. I noticed that he
never mixed much with the other Kafirs.
Presently, from the depths of the bush behind us, came a loud "_woof_,
_woof_!" "That's a lion," said I, and we all started up to listen.
Hardly had we done so, when from the pool, about a hundred yards off,
we heard the strident trumpeting of an elephant. "_Unkungunklovo_!
_Indlovu_!" "Elephant! Elephant!" whispered the Kafirs, and a few
minutes afterwards we saw a succession of vast shadowy forms moving
slowly from the direction of the water towards the bush.
Up jumped Good, burning for slaughter, and thinking, perhaps, that it
was as easy to kill elephant as he had found it to shoot giraffe, but I
caught him by the arm and pulled him down.
"It's no good," I whispered, "let them go."
"It seems that we are in a paradise of game. I vote we stop here a day
or two, and have a go at them," said Sir Henry, presently.
I was rather surprised, for hitherto Sir Henry had always been for
pushing forward as fast as possible, more especially since we
ascertained at Inyati that about two years ago an Englishman of the
name of Neville _had_ sold his wagon there, and gone on up country. But
I suppose his hunter instincts got the better of him for a while.
Good jumped at the idea, for he was longing to have a shot at those
elephants; and so, to speak the truth, did I, for it went against my
conscience to let such a herd as that escape without a pull at them.
"All right, my hearties," said I. "I think we want a little recreation.
And now let's turn in, for we ought to be off by dawn, and then perhaps
we may catch them feeding before they move on."
The others agreed, and we proceeded to make our preparations. Good took
off his clothes, shook them, put his eye-glass and his false teeth into
his trousers pocket, and folding each article neatly, placed it out of
the dew under a corner of his mackintosh sheet. Sir Henry and I
contented ourselves with rougher arrangements, and soon were curled up
in our blankets, and dropping off into the dreamless sleep that rewards
the traveller.
Going, going, go--What was that?
Suddenly, from the direction of the water came sounds of violent
scuffling, and next instant there broke upon our ears a succession of
the most awful roars. There was no mistaking their origin; only a lion
could make such a noise as that. We all jumped up and looked towards
the water, in the direction of which we saw a confused mass, yellow and
black in colour, staggering and struggling towards us. We seized our
rifles, and slipping on our veldtschoons, that is shoes made of
untanned hide, ran out of the scherm. By this time the mass had fallen,
and was rolling over and over on the ground, and when we reached the
spot it struggled no longer, but lay quite still.
Now we saw what it was. On the grass there lay a sable antelope
bull--the most beautiful of all the African antelopes--quite dead, and
transfixed by its great curved horns was a magnificent black-maned
lion, also dead. Evidently what had happened was this: The sable
antelope had come down to drink at the pool where the lion--no doubt
the same which we had heard--was lying in wait. While the antelope
drank, the lion had sprung upon him, only to be received upon the sharp
curved horns and transfixed. Once before I saw a similar thing happen.
Then the lion, unable to free himself, had torn and bitten at the back
and neck of the bull, which, maddened with fear and pain, had rushed on
until it dropped dead.
As soon as we had examined the beasts sufficiently we called the
Kafirs, and between us managed to drag their carcases up to the scherm.
After that we went in and lay down, to wake no more till dawn.
With the first light we were up and making ready for the fray. We took
with us the three eight-bore rifles, a good supply of ammunition, and
our large water-bottles, filled with weak cold tea, which I have always
found the best stuff to shoot on. After swallowing a little breakfast
we started, Umbopa, Khiva, and Ventvoegel accompanying us. The other
Kafirs we left with instructions to skin the lion and the sable
antelope, and to cut up the latter.
We had no difficulty in finding the broad elephant trail, which
Ventvoegel, after examination, pronounced to have been made by between
twenty and thirty elephants, most of them full-grown bulls. But the
herd had moved on some way during the night, and it was nine o'clock,
and already very hot, before, by the broken trees, bruised leaves and
bark, and smoking droppings, we knew that we could not be far from them.
Presently we caught sight of the herd, which numbered, as Ventvoegel had
said, between twenty and thirty, standing in a hollow, having finished
their morning meal, and flapping their great ears. It was a splendid
sight, for they were only about two hundred yards from us. Taking a
handful of dry grass, I threw it into the air to see how the wind was;
for if once they winded us I knew they would be off before we could get
a shot. Finding that, if anything, it blew from the elephants to us, we
crept on stealthily, and thanks to the cover managed to get within
forty yards or so of the great brutes. Just in front of us, and
broadside on, stood three splendid bulls, one of them with enormous
tusks. I whispered to the others that I would take the middle one; Sir
Henry covering the elephant to the left, and Good the bull with the big
tusks.
"Now," I whispered.
Boom! boom! boom! went the three heavy rifles, and down came Sir
Henry's elephant dead as a hammer, shot right through the heart. Mine
fell on to its knees and I thought that he was going to die, but in
another moment he was up and off, tearing along straight past me. As he
went I gave him the second barrel in the ribs, and this brought him
down in good earnest. Hastily slipping in two fresh cartridges I ran
close up to him, and a ball through the brain put an end to the poor
brute's struggles. Then I turned to see how Good had fared with the big
bull, which I had heard screaming with rage and pain as I gave mine its
quietus. On reaching the captain I found him in a great state of
excitement. It appeared that on receiving the bullet the bull had
turned and come straight for his assailant, who had barely time to get
out of his way, and then charged on blindly past him, in the direction
of our encampment. Meanwhile the herd had crashed off in wild alarm in
the other direction.
For awhile we debated whether to go after the wounded bull or to follow
the herd, and finally deciding for the latter alternative, departed,
thinking that we had seen the last of those big tusks. I have often
wished since that we had. It was easy work to follow the elephants, for
they had left a trail like a carriage road behind them, crushing down
the thick bush in their furious flight as though it were tambouki grass.
But to come up with them was another matter, and we had struggled on
under the broiling sun for over two hours before we found them. With
the exception of one bull, they were standing together, and I could
see, from their unquiet way and the manner in which they kept lifting
their trunks to test the air, that they were on the look-out for
mischief. The solitary bull stood fifty yards or so to this side of the
herd, over which he was evidently keeping sentry, and about sixty yards
from us. Thinking that he would see or wind us, and that it would
probably start them off again if we tried to get nearer, especially as
the ground was rather open, we all aimed at this bull, and at my
whispered word, we fired. The three shots took effect, and down he went
dead. Again the herd started, but unfortunately for them about a
hundred yards further on was a nullah, or dried-out water track, with
steep banks, a place very much resembling the one where the Prince
Imperial was killed in Zululand. Into this the elephants plunged, and
when we reached the edge we found them struggling in wild confusion to
get up the other bank, filling the air with their screams, and
trumpeting as they pushed one another aside in their selfish panic,
just like so many human beings. Now was our opportunity, and firing
away as quickly as we could load, we killed five of the poor beasts,
and no doubt should have bagged the whole herd, had they not suddenly
given up their attempts to climb the bank and rushed headlong down the
nullah. We were too tired to follow them, and perhaps also a little
sick of slaughter, eight elephants being a pretty good bag for one day.
So after we were rested a little, and the Kafirs had cut out the hearts
of two of the dead elephants for supper, we started homewards, very
well pleased with our day's work, having made up our minds to send the
bearers on the morrow to chop away the tusks.
Shortly after we re-passed the spot where Good had wounded the
patriarchal bull we came across a herd of eland, but did not shoot at
them, as we had plenty of meat. They trotted past us, and then stopped
behind a little patch of bush about a hundred yards away, wheeling
round to look at us. As Good was anxious to get a near view of them,
never having seen an eland close, he handed his rifle to Umbopa, and,
followed by Khiva, strolled up to the patch of bush. We sat down and
waited for him, not sorry of the excuse for a little rest.
The sun was just going down in its reddest glory, and Sir Henry and I
were admiring the lovely scene, when suddenly we heard an elephant
scream, and saw its huge and rushing form with uplifted trunk and tail
silhouetted against the great fiery globe of the sun. Next second we
saw something else, and that was Good and Khiva tearing back towards us
with the wounded bull--for it was he--charging after them. For a moment
we did not dare to fire--though at that distance it would have been of
little use if we had done so--for fear of hitting one of them, and the
next a dreadful thing happened--Good fell a victim to his passion for
civilised dress. Had he consented to discard his trousers and gaiters
like the rest of us, and to hunt in a flannel shirt and a pair of
veldt-schoons, it would have been all right. But as it was, his
trousers cumbered him in that desperate race, and presently, when he
was about sixty yards from us, his boot, polished by the dry grass,
slipped, and down he went on his face right in front of the elephant.
We gave a gasp, for we knew that he must die, and ran as hard as we
could towards him. In three seconds it had ended, but not as we
thought. Khiva, the Zulu boy, saw his master fall, and brave lad as he
was, turned and flung his assegai straight into the elephant's face. It
stuck in his trunk.
With a scream of pain, the brute seized the poor Zulu, hurled him to
the earth, and placing one huge foot on to his body about the middle,
twined its trunk round his upper part and _tore him in two_.
We rushed up mad with horror, and fired again and again, till presently
the elephant fell upon the fragments of the Zulu.
As for Good, he rose and wrung his hands over the brave man who had
given his life to save him, and, though I am an old hand, I felt a lump
grow in my throat. Umbopa stood contemplating the huge dead elephant
and the mangled remains of poor Khiva.
"Ah, well," he said presently, "he is dead, but he died like a man!"
| 3,204 | Chapter 4 | https://web.archive.org/web/20200804024551/https://www.gradesaver.com/king-solomons-mines/study-guide/summary-chapter-4 | Quatermain relates how the newly formed party journeys from Durban to Sitanda's Kraal, a trek of over a thousand miles. The journey takes nearly four months, during which they encounter events common to such an expedition. By the time they reach Inyata, they are forced to leave their wagon since eight of the twenty oxen have perished or been lost. The wagon is left in the care of the two Zulu servants, Goza and Tom, who are instructed to seek out a Scottish missionary in the area to take care of the wagon. The hunting party of Quatermain, Sir Henry, Captain Good, Umbopa, Khiva and Ventvogel--along with several bearers carrying their belongings--continue their trip. Along the way, Umbopa further proves his value by chanting an upbeat Zulu song promising a good end to the journey. About two weeks' march from Inyata, the party enters a beautiful area full of wild giraffes. As the giraffes gallop away, Captain Good tries for a shot at them on a whim; to his surprise, he manages to hit a distant giraffe in the spine and kill it with his single shot. Although Quatermain declares the shot lucky and not characteristic of Good's usual hunting prowess in his narrative, he nonetheless relates how this amazing shot gives Good a reputation for accuracy among the rest of the hunting party. The men camp that night and, prior to sleep, hear the low growl of a lion nearby. They also hear an elephant; this leads Sir Henry to consider pausing in their quest for his lost brother long enough to hunt for a day or two. During the night they are awakened by a fearful noise and splashing from the nearby river--they discover it to be the lion and his would-be prey, an antelope, locked in the throes of their death-struggle. Both animals die, killed by the ferocity or fear of each other, and Quatermain's party reaps the benefit of their animosity by skinning both animals and filleting the antelope for food. The next day the party encounters a herd of elephants, which they fire upon. Sir Henry fells his elephant in one shot. Quatermain's target runs away after being struck, forcing the hunter to pursue it to take it down. Captain Good hits the bull elephant, but instead of fleeing it turns on its attacker and charges Good. Once the bull has passed, the party chooses to follow the herd rather than the wounded bull elephant. In all, Quatermain's party collects eight elephants. In the meantime, Captain Good has run afoul of the wounded bull elephant. Quatermain and his fellows hear the enraged elephant, then see it crashing through the greenery in hot pursuit of Captain Good and Khiva. Good falls--slipping on his over-"civilized" polished boots--and is nearly done for, but Khiva draws the bull's attention by throwing his spear at it. The bull elephant turns its ire on Khiva, crushing him under one foot while pulling him in half with its trunk. Captain Good is moved to anguish by Khiva's sacrifice, and Quatermain almost weeps, but the implacable Umbopa stares thoughtfully at Khiva's remains and states "he is dead, but he died like a man." | The mixed European attitude toward Africans is again expressed through Quatermain's account, particularly touching on the actions of Umbopa. When Umpoba begins the chant which keeps the weary travelers' moral high, Quatermain says of him, "He was a cheerful savage, was Umpoba, in a dignified sort of way, when he had not got one of his fits of brooding, and had wonderful knack of keeping one's spirits up. We all got very fond of him" . This combination of dignity, cheer, and brooding continues to mystify Quatermain throughout the rest of the journey. By connecting the word "dignity" to Umbopa again , Haggard sets the reader up for the future reveal of Umbopa's true heritage. The incident of the elephant hunt establishes the danger of Quatermain's usual line of work, thus giving credence to his motivations for taking the money offered by Sir Henry to establish his son's medical practice. Quatermain attempts to live his life knowing that he will one day die--but cannot prevent it--and so he lives it to its fullest, doing what he knows how to do well. The problem of Colonialism may be symbolized in the seemingly random incident of the lion and the antelope. Quatermain and the others see: On the grass there lay a sable antelope bull--the most beautiful of all the African antelopes--quite dead, and transfixed by its great curved horns was a magnificent black-maned lion, also dead. what had happened evidently was this. The sable antelope had come down to drink at the pool where the lion--no doubt the same we had heard--had been lying in wait. While the antelope was drinking the lion had sprung upon him, but was received upon the sharp curved horns and transfixed. I once saw the same thing happen before. The lion, unable to free himself, had torn and bitten at the back and neck of the bull, which, maddened with fear and pain, had rushed on till it dropped dead. While easily counted as merely an interesting detail pulled from Haggard's own life, it is telling that the lion is one of the symbols associated with England, while the antelope--a prominent species in Africa--is sable . The one has attacked the other to get what it wants from it, but in the process has let itself become entangled with the would-be prey and killed along with it. The similarities to George Orwell's later work "Shooting an Elephant" are striking. Quatermain's seeming jealousy at Captain Good's "lucky" shot further contrasts the two men: Quatermain is a rugged, world-worn hunter of many years' hard experience, while Good is a fastidious Naval officer who has no business making expert shots in Quatermain's demesne. Quatermain notes specifically how "Good fell a victim to his passion for civilized dress" when attempting to evade the charging bull elephant, pointing out how seriously out of his element the Captain truly is. However, Good's medical skills are brought to the fore, giving the over-dignified Briton a more practical function on the journey, particularly in Quatermain's eyes. | 530 | 520 | [
0,
37,
416,
239,
6,
8,
3,
29,
291,
52,
1016,
817,
7,
178,
24,
79,
33,
352,
12,
281,
223,
12,
1547,
5,
216,
845,
24,
132,
19,
150,
80,
16,
8,
5827,
11,
24,
34,
56,
36,
394,
21,
135,
12,
129,
5413,
13,
376,
5,
328,
2204,
12,
1049,
44,
234,
552,
79,
1535,
8,
3309,
213,
79,
54,
253,
70,
126,
629,
5,
555,
239,
6,
116,
79,
3658,
6,
79,
217,
46,
625,
388,
3823,
30,
8,
1373,
1084,
8,
4033,
5,
290,
31,
7,
424,
81,
149,
231,
540,
255,
65,
612,
10,
96,
196,
17,
47,
396,
307,
535,
100,
97,
6,
713,
6,
62,
669,
24,
48,
4024,
141,
118,
4792,
57,
112,
2353,
18,
77,
18,
4207,
6,
113,
3977,
45,
9569,
5,
94,
133,
43,
118,
4586,
12,
103,
78,
250,
25,
228,
59,
237,
619,
28,
136,
119,
3127,
5,
299,
258,
27,
737,
31,
17,
241,
12,
214,
572,
58,
1615,
3290,
31,
17,
1321,
1307,
317,
125,
2817,
121,
3,
5,
275,
270,
31,
7,
131,
38,
1282,
38,
487,
5,
71,
360,
477,
865,
6,
8,
192,
1076,
1482,
590,
8,
194,
190,
8,
1679,
7,
5,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0
] |
110 | false | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/20.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_2_part_5.txt | Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 20 | chapter 20 | null | {"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-3-chapters-16-24", "summary": "Tess had never in her recent life been so happy and would possibly never be so happy again. She and Tess stand between predilection and love. For Angel, Tess represents a visionary essence of woman, and calls her Artemis, Demeter, and other fanciful names, but she insists that he call her simply Tess. Tess seems to exhibit a dignified largeness of disposition and physique. The two are always the first to awake at the dairy house, where they feel an impressive isolation, as if they are Adam and Eve.", "analysis": "Hardy makes explicit that Tess's time at Talbothays dairy is an idyllic respite from her normal toil and hardship, yet states that this happiness will be short-lived, foreshadowing greater adversity for Tess Durbeyfield. Hardy compares Angel and Tess to Adam and Eve in the mornings, thus foreshadowing a later fall from perfection. It is the idealism and perfection that Tess finds at Talbothays that leads to this shaky foundation for her happiness; Angel Clare adores Tess as a representation of perfection. To Angel, Tess is a goddess such as Artemis or Demeter, a symbol of perfection rather than a person with obvious faults and foibles. There is a great irony in Angel's adoration for Tess; Angel exalts Tess as a goddess for her strength and disposition, yet this perfection comes from the adversity stemming from her greatest weakness"} |
The season developed and matured. Another year's instalment of
flowers, leaves, nightingales, thrushes, finches, and such ephemeral
creatures, took up their positions where only a year ago others had
stood in their place when these were nothing more than germs and
inorganic particles. Rays from the sunrise drew forth the buds and
stretched them into long stalks, lifted up sap in noiseless streams,
opened petals, and sucked out scents in invisible jets and
breathings.
Dairyman Crick's household of maids and men lived on comfortably,
placidly, even merrily. Their position was perhaps the happiest of
all positions in the social scale, being above the line at which
neediness ends, and below the line at which the _convenances_ begin
to cramp natural feelings, and the stress of threadbare modishness
makes too little of enough.
Thus passed the leafy time when arborescence seems to be the one
thing aimed at out of doors. Tess and Clare unconsciously studied
each other, ever balanced on the edge of a passion, yet apparently
keeping out of it. All the while they were converging, under an
irresistible law, as surely as two streams in one vale.
Tess had never in her recent life been so happy as she was now,
possibly never would be so happy again. She was, for one thing,
physically and mentally suited among these new surroundings. The
sapling which had rooted down to a poisonous stratum on the spot of
its sowing had been transplanted to a deeper soil. Moreover she, and
Clare also, stood as yet on the debatable land between predilection
and love; where no profundities have been reached; no reflections
have set in, awkwardly inquiring, "Whither does this new current tend
to carry me? What does it mean to my future? How does it stand
towards my past?"
Tess was the merest stray phenomenon to Angel Clare as yet--a rosy,
warming apparition which had only just acquired the attribute of
persistence in his consciousness. So he allowed his mind to be
occupied with her, deeming his preoccupation to be no more than a
philosopher's regard of an exceedingly novel, fresh, and interesting
specimen of womankind.
They met continually; they could not help it. They met daily in that
strange and solemn interval, the twilight of the morning, in the
violet or pink dawn; for it was necessary to rise early, so very
early, here. Milking was done betimes; and before the milking came
the skimming, which began at a little past three. It usually fell
to the lot of some one or other of them to wake the rest, the first
being aroused by an alarm-clock; and, as Tess was the latest arrival,
and they soon discovered that she could be depended upon not to sleep
though the alarm as others did, this task was thrust most frequently
upon her. No sooner had the hour of three struck and whizzed,
than she left her room and ran to the dairyman's door; then up the
ladder to Angel's, calling him in a loud whisper; then woke her
fellow-milkmaids. By the time that Tess was dressed Clare was
downstairs and out in the humid air. The remaining maids and the
dairyman usually gave themselves another turn on the pillow, and did
not appear till a quarter of an hour later.
The gray half-tones of daybreak are not the gray half-tones of the
day's close, though the degree of their shade may be the same. In
the twilight of the morning, light seems active, darkness passive;
in the twilight of evening it is the darkness which is active and
crescent, and the light which is the drowsy reverse.
Being so often--possibly not always by chance--the first two persons
to get up at the dairy-house, they seemed to themselves the first
persons up of all the world. In these early days of her residence
here Tess did not skim, but went out of doors at once after rising,
where he was generally awaiting her. The spectral, half-compounded,
aqueous light which pervaded the open mead impressed them with
a feeling of isolation, as if they were Adam and Eve. At this
dim inceptive stage of the day Tess seemed to Clare to exhibit a
dignified largeness both of disposition and physique, an almost
regnant power, possibly because he knew that at that preternatural
time hardly any woman so well endowed in person as she was likely to
be walking in the open air within the boundaries of his horizon; very
few in all England. Fair women are usually asleep at mid-summer
dawns. She was close at hand, and the rest were nowhere.
The mixed, singular, luminous gloom in which they walked along
together to the spot where the cows lay often made him think of the
Resurrection hour. He little thought that the Magdalen might be
at his side. Whilst all the landscape was in neutral shade his
companion's face, which was the focus of his eyes, rising above the
mist stratum, seemed to have a sort of phosphorescence upon it. She
looked ghostly, as if she were merely a soul at large. In reality
her face, without appearing to do so, had caught the cold gleam of
day from the north-east; his own face, though he did not think of
it, wore the same aspect to her.
It was then, as has been said, that she impressed him most deeply.
She was no longer the milkmaid, but a visionary essence of woman--a
whole sex condensed into one typical form. He called her Artemis,
Demeter, and other fanciful names half teasingly, which she did not
like because she did not understand them.
"Call me Tess," she would say askance; and he did.
Then it would grow lighter, and her features would become simply
feminine; they had changed from those of a divinity who could confer
bliss to those of a being who craved it.
At these non-human hours they could get quite close to the waterfowl.
Herons came, with a great bold noise as of opening doors and
shutters, out of the boughs of a plantation which they frequented at
the side of the mead; or, if already on the spot, hardily maintained
their standing in the water as the pair walked by, watching them by
moving their heads round in a slow, horizontal, passionless wheel,
like the turn of puppets by clockwork.
They could then see the faint summer fogs in layers, woolly, level,
and apparently no thicker than counterpanes, spread about the meadows
in detached remnants of small extent. On the gray moisture of the
grass were marks where the cows had lain through the night--dark-green
islands of dry herbage the size of their carcasses, in the general
sea of dew. From each island proceeded a serpentine trail, by which
the cow had rambled away to feed after getting up, at the end of
which trail they found her; the snoring puff from her nostrils, when
she recognized them, making an intenser little fog of her own amid
the prevailing one. Then they drove the animals back to the barton,
or sat down to milk them on the spot, as the case might require.
Or perhaps the summer fog was more general, and the meadows lay like
a white sea, out of which the scattered trees rose like dangerous
rocks. Birds would soar through it into the upper radiance, and
hang on the wing sunning themselves, or alight on the wet rails
subdividing the mead, which now shone like glass rods. Minute
diamonds of moisture from the mist hung, too, upon Tess's eyelashes,
and drops upon her hair, like seed pearls. When the day grew quite
strong and commonplace these dried off her; moreover, Tess then
lost her strange and ethereal beauty; her teeth, lips, and eyes
scintillated in the sunbeams and she was again the dazzlingly fair
dairymaid only, who had to hold her own against the other women of
the world.
About this time they would hear Dairyman Crick's voice, lecturing the
non-resident milkers for arriving late, and speaking sharply to old
Deborah Fyander for not washing her hands.
"For Heaven's sake, pop thy hands under the pump, Deb! Upon my soul,
if the London folk only knowed of thee and thy slovenly ways, they'd
swaller their milk and butter more mincing than they do a'ready; and
that's saying a good deal."
The milking progressed, till towards the end Tess and Clare, in
common with the rest, could hear the heavy breakfast table dragged
out from the wall in the kitchen by Mrs Crick, this being the
invariable preliminary to each meal; the same horrible scrape
accompanying its return journey when the table had been cleared.
| 1,349 | Chapter 20 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-3-chapters-16-24 | Tess had never in her recent life been so happy and would possibly never be so happy again. She and Tess stand between predilection and love. For Angel, Tess represents a visionary essence of woman, and calls her Artemis, Demeter, and other fanciful names, but she insists that he call her simply Tess. Tess seems to exhibit a dignified largeness of disposition and physique. The two are always the first to awake at the dairy house, where they feel an impressive isolation, as if they are Adam and Eve. | Hardy makes explicit that Tess's time at Talbothays dairy is an idyllic respite from her normal toil and hardship, yet states that this happiness will be short-lived, foreshadowing greater adversity for Tess Durbeyfield. Hardy compares Angel and Tess to Adam and Eve in the mornings, thus foreshadowing a later fall from perfection. It is the idealism and perfection that Tess finds at Talbothays that leads to this shaky foundation for her happiness; Angel Clare adores Tess as a representation of perfection. To Angel, Tess is a goddess such as Artemis or Demeter, a symbol of perfection rather than a person with obvious faults and foibles. There is a great irony in Angel's adoration for Tess; Angel exalts Tess as a goddess for her strength and disposition, yet this perfection comes from the adversity stemming from her greatest weakness | 89 | 138 | [
0,
37,
416,
1379,
6,
8,
3,
29,
291,
52,
1016,
817,
7,
178,
24,
34,
31,
7,
97,
21,
376,
12,
281,
223,
12,
368,
1060,
5,
216,
744,
31,
17,
241,
12,
214,
572,
79,
31,
60,
352,
12,
36,
4464,
11,
258,
1550,
30,
12,
1350,
81,
149,
231,
151,
33,
2508,
81,
135,
5,
299,
132,
31,
7,
150,
1053,
572,
62,
278,
31,
17,
114,
1321,
1307,
58,
11475,
6,
25,
31,
60,
310,
6139,
5,
94,
31,
7,
1134,
514,
10,
27,
317,
25,
54,
31,
17,
129,
959,
72,
145,
80,
13,
175,
378,
16,
48,
194,
5,
101,
669,
24,
921,
19,
131,
38,
1095,
38,
487,
250,
255,
31,
7,
59,
417,
125,
160,
280,
65,
2817,
5,
275,
230,
233,
196,
31,
195,
43,
12,
619,
28,
841,
1307,
5,
264,
78,
18,
18,
4188,
228,
103,
2891,
7595,
55,
1142,
258,
6,
62,
217,
66,
10549,
13,
10088,
2005,
300,
271,
96,
26,
32,
15,
7,
121,
91,
13,
1511,
5,
290,
31,
7,
128,
773,
13,
600,
4661,
45,
8,
296,
5,
1,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0,
0
] |
11,012 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/11012-chapters/chapters_10_to_11.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man/section_4_part_0.txt | The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man.chapters 10-11 | chapters 10-11 | null | "{\"name\": \"Chapters X-XI\", \"url\": \"https://web.archive.org/web/20180424054150/http://www.grad(...TRUNCATED) | "\n\nAmong the first of my fellow-passengers of whom I took any particular\nnotice was a tall, broad(...TRUNCATED) | 14,251 | Chapters X-XI | "https://web.archive.org/web/20180424054150/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-autobiography-of-an-excolo(...TRUNCATED) | "On the boat back to America, the narrator meets a large, dignified African American man, , a gradua(...TRUNCATED) | null | 1,963 | 1 | [0,86,48,5800,6,3,88,19,8,166,13,8,3714,31,7,733,5,216,12902,2448,16,112,6378,38,3,9,741,13,112,126,(...TRUNCATED) |
1,232 | false | shmoop | all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/09.txt | finished_summaries/shmoop/The Prince/section_9_part_0.txt | The Prince.chapter 9 | chapter 9 | null | "{\"name\": \"Chapter 9\", \"url\": \"https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.(...TRUNCATED) | "\nBut coming to the other point--where a leading citizen becomes the\nprince of his country, not by(...TRUNCATED) | 1,217 | Chapter 9 | "https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-ma(...TRUNCATED) | "Rulers that come to power because of the support of the people are the total opposite of bloody con(...TRUNCATED) | null | 414 | 1 | [0,86,48,5800,6,8,2671,11,5286,33,3,6955,21,3392,5,37,15090,13,1060,65,118,1026,5714,49,16,8,9102,12(...TRUNCATED) |
5,658 | true | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_1_to_2.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/Lord Jim/section_0_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 1-2 | chapters 1-2 | null | "{\"name\": \"Chapters 1 and 2\", \"url\": \"https://web.archive.org/web/20210126121516/https://www.(...TRUNCATED) | "He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he\nadvanced straight at you wit(...TRUNCATED) | 3,787 | Chapters 1 and 2 | https://web.archive.org/web/20210126121516/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/lordjim/section1/ | "Jim is a popular, if somewhat mysterious, young man working as a water-clerk in various Eastern s(...TRUNCATED) | "Commentary The opening chapters of Lord Jim make reference to three distinct moments in time: the a(...TRUNCATED) | 384 | 582 | [0,6006,19,3,9,385,9220,81,112,2353,31,7,1687,5,216,65,118,1622,12,8,2805,13303,6,11,79,33,341,16,51(...TRUNCATED) |
23,042 | false | sparknotes | all_chapterized_books/23042-chapters/4.txt | finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Tempest/section_4_part_0.txt | The Tempest.act ii.scene ii | act ii, scene ii | null | "{\"name\": \"Act II, scene ii\", \"url\": \"https://web.archive.org/web/20210131162607/https://www.(...TRUNCATED) | "SCENE II.\n\n_Another part of the island._\n\n _Enter CALIBAN with a burden of wood. A noise of th(...TRUNCATED) | 2,642 | Act II, scene ii | "https://web.archive.org/web/20210131162607/https://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/tempest/section5/(...TRUNCATED) | "Caliban enters with a load of wood, and thunder sounds in the background. Caliban curses and descri(...TRUNCATED) | "Analysis Trinculo and Stephano are the last new characters to be introduced in the play. They act a(...TRUNCATED) | 321 | 546 | [0,37,3112,4108,7,12,8,13243,6,213,3,88,217,7,112,2353,31,7,643,5,216,987,7,376,572,3,88,19,352,12,3(...TRUNCATED) |
5,658 | true | gradesaver | all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_19_to_22.txt | finished_summaries/gradesaver/Lord Jim/section_6_part_0.txt | Lord Jim.chapters 19-22 | chapters 19-22 | null | "{\"name\": \"Chapters 19-22\", \"url\": \"https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gr(...TRUNCATED) | "\n'I have told you these two episodes at length to show his manner of\ndealing with himself under t(...TRUNCATED) | 10,544 | Chapters 19-22 | "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422054542/https://www.gradesaver.com/lord-jim/study-guide/summary-(...TRUNCATED) | "Marlow notes that the irony of Jim's \"retreat\" is that he becomes famous for being an eccentric \(...TRUNCATED) | "When Marlow learns of Jim's barroom brawl, the implication is that Jim's obsession regarding his ow(...TRUNCATED) | 756 | 962 | [0,37,416,239,6,8,3,29,291,52,1016,817,7,178,24,34,31,7,97,21,376,12,281,223,12,368,1060,5,216,845,2(...TRUNCATED) |
End of preview. Expand
in Dataset Viewer.
Dataset Card for AutoTrain Evaluator
This repository contains model predictions generated by AutoTrain for the following task and dataset:
- Task: Summarization
- Model: pszemraj/tglobal-large-booksum-WIP4-r1
- Dataset: kmfoda/booksum
- Config: kmfoda--booksum
- Split: test
To run new evaluation jobs, visit Hugging Face's automatic model evaluator.
Contributions
Thanks to @pszemraj for evaluating this model.
- Downloads last month
- 31